A loveliness of ladybirds

 

A loveliness of ladybirds

Ladybird windmill

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,

Your house is on fire and your children are gone,

All except one and her name is Ann,

And she has crept under the frying pan.

Seven-spot ladybird (Coccinella septempunctata)

Look carefully and you can see a reflection of our house in the beetle's shiny wing case - apex of roof at middle spot!

Every summer, ladybirds (Coccinellidae) from Europe visit UK shores, to swell resident populations. This year there has been a veritable invasion. The last significant incursion was in 2009, when hot weather caused a glut in the numbers of aphids and a consequent rise in the ladybird populace.

However, the present invasion is akin to the astonishing 1976 influx, and even caused a pause in the cricket. ‘Ladybirds stopped play’ is not something we’re accustomed to hearing. The cricketers on Day One of the Third Test match between India and England at Lord’s cricket ground, were not impressed when a loveliness of ladybirds invaded the pitch. Play was stopped for seven overs (an over is a set of six bowled balls) towards the end of the day’s play. Bear in mind that ladybirds bite. Their bites may be minor, but can be irritating. Several attacking at once might not be very pleasant.

In spells of hot weather, insects regenerate more quickly. Ladybirds are to be encouraged and welcomed, as they are rapacious predators, particularly of aphids, mites, and scale insects. Each ladybird larva can consume around 350 aphids daily, so they are valuable visitors to gardens and farms.

Ladybirds are known as an umbrella species because their presence or absence indicates the health of the overall ecosystem. They are also an important part of the food chain, providing sustenance for birds, arachnids, and amphibians.

They are not primarily pollinators, though they will feed on pollen and nectar. In particular, they like flowers such as yarrow, marigolds, and nasturtiums. They are also attracted to herbs including thyme, parsley, and fennel.

                                    Harlequin ladybird (Harmonia axyridis) 

            This is one of the less strkingly-coloured and patterned Harlequins.

Since 2004, invasive Harlequin (Harmonia axyridis) ladybirds have become a threat to native ladybirds. Harlequins are bigger, eat more aphids more quickly, and reproduce quicker than native ladybirds. They also eat the eggs and larvae of ladybirds, moths, and butterflies, thus upsetting the natural balance in Nature.

They come in many patterns and are attractive creatures. It is to be hoped that the two species – native and invasive – can eventually cohabit. It is probably a vain hope.

1939

 

1939

After the end of the First World War, the Duke of York, later to become King George VI, following his elder brother’s abdication, wanted to try and break down some of the class barriers rampant in Great Britain. He founded week-long summer camps, which ran annually until 1939, just before the outbreak of World War Two.

His ambition was to bring boys together from dissimilar circumstances to enjoy outdoor pursuits and find common ground and friendship. About five hundred boys from backgrounds as varied as public (fee-paying) boarding schools and mining communities were invited to join.

Southwold Common in Suffolk was a frequent location, and the Duke of York often joined the boys at the camps for a day, even after he became King. He enjoyed taking part in activities, which included games, swimming, talks and entertainments, and sleeping under canvas with the boys. The boys knew him as the Great Chief, and he wore the same uniform of shorts and shirt as they did. The importance of teamwork was emphasised.

In 1939, when it was clear that the country would soon be going to war again, and the young lads would be embroiled in combat, the King decided that he wanted to spend more than one day with ‘his boys’ and so invited them to Abergeldie Castle, three miles from Balmoral.

For this final camp, which he renamed the King’s Camp, the King invited just two hundred boys, and altered the emphasis from games and competition to discovering the wonders of nature. He planned all the activities, including mapping out hikes they would take. The boys were invited to tea at Balmoral Castle, where they met the Queen and the princesses.

The last camp commenced on 5^th August. War was declared on 1^st September, four weeks later.

Pathé News, which produced documentaries and newsreels for sixty years, from 1910 to 1970, presented a review of 1939. Part of it showed George VI and other members of the Royal Family at camp, singing ‘Underneath the spreading chestnut tree.’  It was a favourite song of his and was chosen for the 1948 Royal Command Performance.

It was also a favourite of mine, and one I enjoyed teaching. The lyrics, inspired by the first line of ‘The Village Blacksmith’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1832) were written by J and H Kennedy. Hal Kemp set them to music and the song was recorded by the Glenn Miller Orchestra in 1939, with Marion Hutton. It’s delivered at a spanking pace, and I can imagine anyone attempting to add the actions would be quite breathless by the end.     

Below are the actions to the words, as clearly as I can set them out.

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree (spread arms above head, then touch chest, head and lift arms high)

I loved him and he loved me.                              (hands on heart, then hug)

There I used to sit upon his knee,                     (hands on knees)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.                 (as before)

 

There beneath the boughs we used to meet,   (spread arms, then clasp hands)

All his kisses were so sweet:                            (kiss fingers)

All the little birdies went ‘tweet-tweet’         (fingers make bird beaks)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.             (as before)

 

I said, ‘I love you and there ain’t no ifs or buts, (hands on heart, shake finger)

He said, ‘I love you’ and the blacksmith shouted, ‘Chestnuts!’ (hands on heart)

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree          (as before)

There he said he’d marry me,                           (mimic placing ring on finger)

Now you ought to see our family     (hand indicates heights of children on ‘fa-mi-ly)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.                (as before)

 

 As with all songs or dances, there were adaptations. The following clips show two. The first shows the King and his family singing at a camp sing song.

 The second shows how the song emigrated to the USA to become a dance.

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree . . .

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree . . .

. . . there are thousands of spent catkins. They are about thirteen centimetres (five inches) long and carpet the woodland floor.

 Sweet chestnut sapling

The sweet chestnut tree (Castanea sativa) has grown in the UK for so many centuries that it is regarded as native, but it hails from southern Europe and Asia Minor. It was once thought to have been introduced by the Romans, but scientific methods have suggested that it was introduced much later. The first confirmed planting dates from around 1640 AD, though some ancient specimens probably existed in Tudor or Stuart periods.

It is believed to have survived the last Ice Age, approximately 115,000 to 11,700 years ago in southern Europe.

 It is a long-lived deciduous tree, attaining several hundred years and growing to heights approaching thirty-five metres with a girth of two metres. Some ancient examples are over two thousand years old, but most should be able to survive for around seven hundred years.

It belongs in the Fagaceae family alongside oaks and beeches.

As a young tree, its bark is smooth and greyish, but as it ages, it develops fissures which spiral upwards around the trunk. At about twenty-five years of age, it begins to produce fruit, shiny brown soft-shelled nuts enclosed in spiky, green cases.

The dried remnants of the catkin hang below the prickly casing of the chestnut.

The sweet chestnut is monoecious, meaning that it bears male and female flowers on the same tree. The strongly-scented catkins are mostly male flowers, with insignificant female flowers at the base. After they have been pollinated by insects, including blowflies, house flies, beetles and bees, the female flowers develop the fruits.

In late summer or early autumn, the woodland floor is littered with the ripe chestnuts, mostly all still within their prickly cases.

The wood of the sweet chestnut is similar to oak but easier to work with. The trees were extensively planted in Kent to be used in producing hop poles, because their wood was strong and rot-resistant. The hop industry has declined, although Kent is still the main hop-growing region in the country, but the wood is still used for fencing and stakes.

Strangely, although I was brought up in Kent, I don’t recall sweet chestnut trees being prominent in the landscape. They are much more prevalent where I now live, in Berkshire.

A born dancer?

 

A born dancer?

‘You don’t realise the true proportions of someone until you see them in a leotard,’ thought Sylvia. Fully dressed, Miranda was elegant and rather pretty. She was almost six feet tall and broad-shouldered and had the milky skin that so often goes with tawny hair.

She had taken ballet classes since she was four years old and was now seventeen. In the autumn she would be going to university and her dancing lesson days would be behind her.

Sylvia had encouraged her daughter to continue dancing lessons, recognising early on that the little girl was not going to develop into a small and dainty adult. She would need the discipline of dance or sport to teach her to coordinate her limbs. Miranda had never been interested in athletics or games, and didn’t care for swimming, but she had enjoyed dancing.

The introductory music started, and the audience ceased their chattering. First onto the stage tripped the very smallest girls and one little boy. They looked so sweet as they galloped around to the music, looking at each other to make sure they were doing the right thing. One of the children was very lissom and floated across the stage like thistledown. Miranda had never been like that, Sylvia thought, smiling a little sadly.

The more advanced classes followed, consisting mostly of girls with one or two boys. The differences in physique were more noticeable in the older students. Some were slim and fine-boned and in perfect proportion, while others were undergoing the tribulations of sudden growth spurts, when limbs didn’t quite match heads or trunks. Miranda had often seemed ungainly in her early teens but now looked much more balanced.

At last it was the turn of Miranda’s class to perform. All girls, they wore pointe shoes which clonked across the wooden boards of the village hall. Each dancer in turn performed a short solo and then they danced an ensemble piece. Miranda stood head and shoulders above the rest of the chorus. She had not been placed in the centre, where her mother had expected her to be, but off to the side, almost out of view. As the girls danced, Sylvia began to understand why. Miranda was always half a beat behind the others.

Through the years, Sylvia had noticed that her daughter’s timing was slightly askew when she played the piano or her guitar, but she had never recognised until now just how poor it was. As she reflected on this, she realised it had not improved and may even have become slightly worse as the years rolled by.

Over dinner that evening, Miranda confided in her mother that she was glad she would never have to dance on stage again. ’You know, Mum, everybody thinks I’m a terrible dancer, but I’m glad I stuck at it. My timing’s dreadful but dancing has taught me how to hold my head up high and always do my best.’

Sylvia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m glad, too,’ she said.

 

Odd

 

Rain

The washing had been pegged out and then, as so often, the heavens opened, and the rain pelted down. Blithe claims that it would ‘just be another rinse for the washing’ died on my lips as the water level rose in the garden. It was a flash flood of Biblical proportions.  The laundry would be mud-streaked when the flood receded.

As ground turned to mud, sucking at my feet, I tried to return indoors.

It was going to be difficult, wading chest-high through the waters. I was beginning to panic . . .

 

 . . . and then I woke up!

Quelle surprise!

 

Quelle surprise!

Silver rudd (Scardinius Erythrophthalmus) are shoaling fish, and a good species to keep with other pond fish. They are peaceful and easy to look after. This photograph was taken a few years ago.

Who’d have thought it? Blow me down! Well, I never! You could have knocked me down with a feather (yeah, right)  . . . and other expressions of delight, amazement and astonishment.

What caused this delirium? After a period of at least two years of absence, two fish surfaced in our pond. We don’t know where they’ve been hiding.

Newly hatched fish fry are tiny and prey to many other aquatic species, like dragonfly and damselfly larvae and diving beetles. Parent fish cannibalise their young, but all our large adult fish had inexplicably disappeared and we hadn’t noticed any overweight herons bumbling around. The fish we saw have clearly survived the perils of fish babyhood.

So, it remains a mystery, but we were so pleased to see two little fish swimming about. There may be more, but those are the only ones we’ve seen. They are around 3” long, so may be mature enough to spawn. We shall see.

Today's little fish would not oblige and pose for a photograph, so this is a shot from a few years ago.

Poorly car!

 

Poorly car!

Marnie and Jake model a custom-built dog crate, many years ago.

Our sixteen-year-old car is languishing in the local car repair garage. It is the vehicle we use to transport the dogs. It is sturdy, workmanlike, and effective over rough ground as it has good ground clearance. It is not comfortable, and is only used for short journeys of less than ten miles.

Keeping dogs safe in cars is a concern. For a while, we had a crate in the boot and thought the dogs were secure in it. Then we read a couple of articles about cars being involved in accidents and the owners finding the crate impossible to open. Crates were abandoned.

Our dog box has a tailgate, through which the dogs enter the vehicle. There is strong netting separating their section from the driver/passenger compartment. Dogs have been ejected through the front windscreen on occasion, a horrifying accident which would surely never be forgotten, and so we took steps to avoid that.

The dogs are happy in their part of the car. One day, a following driver kept honking at us. We were puzzled, as we were not speeding or driving excessively slowly, and we were on a quiet road, the one we live on. Eventually, we stopped to find out what was causing the disturbance and discovered that we had not shut the tailgate. Three Labradors stood stoically and obediently, awaiting our word to disembark.

Waiting . . . 

We praised the dogs, shut the tailgate firmly and thanked the thoughtful driver who had alerted us.

Months ago, it became impossible to lock the dog car. That is, we could lock it but had to call the AA to unlock it, so we stopped locking it. The dog car is not a desirable automobile - no-one in their right mind would steal it, so we had no fears on that score. The most valuable things in it are our dogs and our walking poles, which we never leave in at the end of a walk.

Last week, the side door and the petrol cap locked themselves.

 Gremlins? Boggarts? Poltergeists?

Driver and passenger doors were still operational and so were the tailgate and the door at the passenger side of the rear compartment. The fear was that they too would lock themselves, and then the dogs would be trapped inside, with no means of releasing them. The strong netting has since been removed and the poorly car is enjoying an enforced holiday at the garage, awaiting spare parts.

Meanwhile, the dogs are appreciating the unexpected pleasure of travelling in the back of the eighteen-year-old estate car we use for journeys longer than thirty minutes – it’s more comfortable than the dog car.

People often ask why we use a car to take the dogs for a walk. We like to walk in the woods, which are a fifteen to twenty-minute walk from our house along narrow pavements. We prefer to take a short drive and let the dogs run free quicker than they otherwise would.

Waltzing wallflowers

 

Waltzing wallflowers

When I was eleven years old, I was one of the shortest, smallest girls at my grammar school.

                Eleven years old, hair as straight as a yard of pump water.

Eighteen years old

 By the time I left, I was among the tallest.

My height meant that I had to learn the male part in ballroom dancing, which played havoc when I actually had to dance the female part. Luckily, by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo. If a boy plucked up the courage to ask a girl to dance, there was little physical contact – that is to say, physical contact was not compulsory as it would have been in more formal dancing.

When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form, at the age of sixteen, and considered ourselves mature and adult, our school arranged a joint dance with the boys’ grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all.

Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers were allocated partners, sight unseen.

It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one’s escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I’m sure. We girls gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug sisters who had come with partners of their own choosing, tried to be polite, and longed for the evening to end.

I was relieved that my partner was taller than me. Did the teachers take height into account when allocating partners or were we put together alphabetically or just randomly? I can’t imagine they had time or inclination to find pair like-minded companions. Whatever the case, the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn’t actually counting the beats out loud, his movements were somewhat robotic. Poor boy!

I don’t think the boys had received much dancing instruction. Most of the masters had returned from the war a decade or two earlier with a multitude of experiences, and teaching spotty adolescents to dance may not have been a task they desperately desired. At least the boys knew they were meant to be ‘leading.’ I knew I was supposed to be ‘following’ but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting my partner for the privilege.

At some point there were refreshments, but time has mercifully overridden all other memories of the evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship. Later, I came to know many of the boys from the boys' grammar school, but so far as I know, they did not attend that dance. They were more interested in playing rugby or riding racing bicycles or motorbikes.

When, eventually, my friends and I started going to dances at the local Palais, the anticipation was always far better than the reality. For some, it may have been the route to meeting their life-long partner, but it was not to be so for me, or any of my close contemporaries.

I was always among the anxious wallflowers lining the walls until the final, desperate, traditional ‘Last Waltz’ began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. Nevertheless, it was better to dance the Last Waltz with anyone at all rather than remain on the touch line like an abandoned shipwreck. In any case, it would have been rude to refuse the offer of a dance – we were all very polite in our awkward teenage ways.

I’ve always enjoyed dancing. When the mood takes me, I dance in the kitchen on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat, or occasionally a small child. 

Sleeping dogs

 

Sleeping dogs

        

                                                Puppy Jenna

Everyone knows you should let sleeping dogs lie (lie undisturbed, that is, not tell untruths!)

                                            Old lady Cariadd 

However, only extremely young puppies and particularly old dogs sleep the absorbed sleep of the entirely relaxed. In the intervening years they sleep with one ear and one eye open.

If they haven’t reacted to a human entering the kitchen they may continue to give every appearance of slumbering, but the slightest food-related noise will alert them. The chink of the butter dish, the opening of the fridge door, the clink of a food bowl will awaken them, and they may or may not stir themselves to investigate.

However, a human saying, ‘Whoops!’ will have them instantly in attendance. They know that food has fallen like manna from heaven and it is their task to tidy it away, which they accomplish swiftly and  efficiently.

I wish I could spring into action from a standing sleeping start as they do . . . or ever!                                            

Foxtrot

 

Foxtrot

                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The Foxtrot is a ballroom dance originally danced to ragtime. It was first danced in public in 1914 and was named after its originator, the vaudeville entertainer, Harry Fox.  From its inception until the 1940s it was the most popular fast dance, combining quick short steps with longer flowing ones.  Most of the records produced in this period were foxtrots.

In the early 1950s rock and roll made its debut. Record companies were unsure which style of dancing would best fit the music, but Decca Records decided to classify their rock and roll discs as foxtrots. Thus, Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was called a foxtrot. It is estimated that the recording sold more than twenty-five million copies of the song to become the biggest selling foxtrot of all time.  

Have you seen a fox trot
Neatly through the night,
Keeping out of eyeshot
And the farm dog’s bite?

Red coat and sharp black nose,
Bushy tail held straight,
Fleet of foot on soft toes,
Dinner can’t be late.

Now the henhouse beckons,
All the hens asleep,
Reynard swiftly reckons -
How many will he reap?

One, two, three or seven?
Hungry cubs await
Chicken supper heaven!
Then he hears, too late

The farmer’s heavy footfalls,
The roaring of his gun,
The beating of his heart stalls -
Reynard’s life is done.

JC

Dancing

 

Dancing

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I was educated solely with girls from the age of six to eighteen.

This had a lasting impact on my ability to interact with the opposite sex. I had an older brother, who was no help to me whatsoever, and a glamorous sister, fifteen years my senior. She had a stream of attractive boyfriends, and I used to watch wide-eyed as she prepared for an evening out, knowing I would never be able to achieve her level of sophistication. I overcame these obstacles to some extent, of course, but was always shy and never managed the easy relationships with young men that other girls seemed to enjoy.

Anyway, at the age of eleven, I duly went off to the next stage of my state education. Dancing was part of the physical education curriculum. We learnt country dancing -Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley, Old Tyme dancing - the Veleta and the Military Two-Step, and ballroom dancing - the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot. We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enthusiastic but not completely enamoured of the exercise.

All the staff members were women. (The appointment of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.) One of our PE teachers was a particularly good ballroom dancer, but I’m afraid we callow lasses didn’t appreciate her skill as we watched her spinning gracefully round the assembly hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little interest in anything other than ourselves.

When we were about fourteen, the school organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed in our finest. My mother was a talented needlewoman and made me a very pretty deep pink Empire line dress. Our pleasures in those days were simple, and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. After all, we were accustomed to seeing each other only in our hideous green school uniform. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them.

I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had possibly lost fiancés in the war. It must have felt bittersweet to them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescent girls, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of single sex schools, had crushes on them.

Looking back, I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and accept invitations to dance, or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

Mating Dance

 

Mating Dance

Peacock spider (Maratus volans)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

A courtship display or mating dance is a ritual set of movements designed to attract the attention of a potential mate. If successful, the couple will copulate and eventually young will be born or hatched.

Ritual displays are often colourful and extravagant. The Peacock spider (Maratus volans) is a jumping spider native to Australia. Brightly coloured, he also claps his third pair of legs and dances from side to side as he approaches the female. However, if she is not sufficiently impressed by his display, she may eat him!

About sixteen years ago, we were privileged to watch an incredibly special ritual never before captured on camera. The conservatory was empty of everything except a pair of step-ladders. As we attempted to fold the ladders to put them away, we noticed that they were inextricably tangled. On closer inspection, we realised we had chanced upon the mating dance of the step-ladders.

The ladder on the right in the above photograph, is a five-step ladder, a female. The male, on the left, has seven steps and is taller and broader than his mate. Note the black straps – a secondary sexual characteristic of the male.

The following photograph gives a closer view of the male’s technique. See how closely he embraces his mate. Can you see the female’s black feet?

We were delighted to be privy to this unique event and anxiously awaited baby ladders in the near future. We hoped they would be six-steppers, but would have been content simply to see sturdy baby ladders.

 View from another angle, female on left, male on right

Sadly, it was not to be, and a repeat mating was never attempted, for the ladders were separated and stored, never to meet again.

Tally Ho!

 

Tally Ho!

Point-to-point (steeplechase) 1870s

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Many years ago, Barry and I went to a point-to-point on Salisbury Plain. It was a business meeting disguised as a ‘jolly’ – a pleasant day out with refreshments provided. There was a point-to-point, ostensibly to entertain the attendees, in particular the visiting dignitaries of the company. As the company was American, a number of the guests were American.

It was a sea of green and brown. Men in hearty tweeds, some even in plus fours, sipped whisky. Tweed is a robust woollen fabric, prized as suitable clothing for outdoor pursuits, like hunting and shooting, because it is hard-wearing and moisture-resistant, and proof against thorns and thistles. However, the company was indoors, sheltered from the elements, so the outdoor clothing seemed a little de trop.

Women with strong yellow teeth, were drinking gin. They were dressed a little less formulaically, though still in earth tones, with sturdy legs, and feet shod in well-worn leather.As with all gatherings of this nature, there was a great deal of noise. It might be described as braying and there was a lot of guffawing. Everyone was talking, no-one was listening.

Most of the Brits were entirely relaxed, strapping, healthy, well-built people in an ocean of lovat green, thoroughly enjoying their day out, happy to see and be seen and chortling merrily, displaying their very British teeth.

Into this scrum stepped a dainty, whip-thin woman, clearly well out of her comfort zone, but smiling nervously as she accompanied her husband into the noisy throng. She was extremely slender, tanned, stylishly dressed, and beautifully groomed. She was polished and honed and ironed to the ends of her immaculate nails, a delicate hot-house flower in a garden of vigorous vegetables. The most fascinating thing about her was her teeth. They were such a contrast to the dentition of all around her. They were unnaturally, glaringly white, sunbeams glancing off them and dazzling all around her. They were obviously well-maintained, expensive teeth and no doubt, in her natural environment, would have been unremarkable in a room of similarly blinding gnashers.

I was reminded of the episode of ‘Friends’ in which Ross, played by David Schwimmer, whitened his teeth. They shone in the dark!

I don’t suppose the lady ever attended another point-to-point, but she was to be commended for making the effort. No doubt, she and her husband were invited to a Buckingham Palace reception later and that would have been more acceptable to her, though the Royal teeth are similarly strong, yellow, and large.

The Bedale Hunt, early 2000s
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The point-to-point continued, but only those participating took any notice of proceedings. In the distance, the local hunt (Royal Artillery Hunt) streamed across the fields, resplendent in scarlet. Of course, they were not pursuing foxes, as that had been outlawed, but the spectacle was still colourful and eye-catching.

Eventually, the day drew to a close, all the networking finished, and it was time to return home.

Exercises

 

Exercises

 

Just a few exercises for the little grey cells.

Q: They can be made, laid down, bent and broken, although it’s difficult to touch them. What are they?

Q: The maker does not need it. The buyer does not use it. The user uses it without knowing. What is it?

 Q: I have neither sister nor brother, but my mother’s daughter is the man’s mother. Who am I?

Q: An aircraft carrying 60 Mexican lawyers to a convention in Rio crashed on the border between Colombia, Venezuela and Brazil. Under International Law, where should the survivors be buried?

Thingummyjigs and what’snames

 

Thingummyjigs and what’snames

Dorothy, on the right, with her elder sister, Edie, and her father, in Folkestone, Kent, about 1936, when she was 18

I first met my future mother-in-law, Dorothy,  when I was seventeen. She was a cheerful, chatty person, who had learnt to make the most of life.

Dorothy as a young mother with her boys, Trevor, left, and Barry, right, in India

 Her first husband died when he was thirty-five. Her second husband, whom she married after both her sons had married and settled, died two years after the marriage. Thus, she spent sixty years of her adult life living alone, but she never complained about the hand fate had dealt her.

Her widow’s pension was small and she decided to return to work. She had expected never to have to work again, but enjoyed the challenge and the friends she made through it. Her social life was built around her working life.

She loved to talk, but conversing with her could be tricky if one hadn’t been in at the beginning of her train of thought. Sometimes, I felt like saying, ‘Give me a clue.’ However, I soon discovered that she repeated herself frequently and topics were revisited exactly word for word, with even the little laughs in the same places. She was easy to listen to, and entertaining, for she enjoyed gentle gossip, though never anything salacious. 

Repetition is not just a function of old age; some young people are very repetitious. Occasionally, I think it’s my fault, and they repeat their tale because they think I haven’t heard, or perhaps I’m not responding enthusiastically or loudly enough.

Dorothy aged 75

Some speakers become so locked into their narrative that they cannot move on from it and must recount every detail. They remind me of people who  struggle gamely through a lengthy joke long after everyone has anticipated the funny ending half-way through. The laughter they anticipated is less hearty than they felt was justified. Thinking the punchline has been misheard or misunderstood, they repeat it, maybe two or three times, while the patient audience tries to respond with the requisite amount of fervour, rictus forming on their aching jaws.

My mother-in-law didn’t tell jokes. She had a good sense of humour but I don’t recall her ever telling a gag. Thinking about her now, I suspect she thought it would not have been very ‘ladylike.’

She took enormous pride in her appearance and was always impeccably groomed. Going clothes shopping with her, which I did frequently, was an unforgettable experience. It was never a short outing, but she loved clothes and was always delighted with her purchases. Any proposed family gathering - wedding, funeral, Christmas - was an excuse to buy a new outfit, and who would blame her, after a solitary, fairly lonely life, if she indulged her passion for style and colour? 

When she reached her nineties, words began to fail her. She had always had difficulty remembering names and often laughed at herself because of that, but then her conversation became peppered with ‘doings’, ‘thingummyjigs’, ‘what’snames,’ and ‘you knows.’ Some of our grandchildren’s names completely escaped her. She could not remember that our dogs were Dalmatians and called them ‘spotted dogs,’ for the bidden word would not come to her lips.

Approximations would be made – for example,  ‘terrestrial television’ became the more heavenly ‘celestial television’ and ‘trolley’ was renamed ‘lorry.’ Someone else I knew of, and much younger than her, referred to ‘Swarfega’ as ‘Swastika.’ (Swarfega is a British brand of heavy-duty hand cleaner.)

There were also almost-associations – a supermarket chain called Morrison’s became William’s. (William Morris was the association, maybe?)

On her 90th birthday

Later, very near the end of her life, when dementia took its cruel hold, she could no longer remember her husbands’ names and lived in the long-ago past, constantly surprised to learn that her parents had died. Ancient transgressions, such as breaking a window, or trespassing on someone’s land, came to the fore and she lived in fear of retribution. Yet, she still recognised that there was ‘something wrong in her head’ as she expressed it, as reality slipped further and further away.

For all that, when or if I reach my mother-in-law’s age, I hope I shall remain as alert, interested and independent as she was until her latter handful of years. After all, what’s in a word?

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.