Here's the thing. On Sunday, I was out walking with my dear friend of 27 years - we met at Mothers and Toddlers when we each had just the one baby under one year old. We've shared a huge number of experiences since - the second baby, the passing of our parents, the trials of living with middle-aged husbands, and now we are both contemplating retirement and what activities we will take up.
DF told me that her husband (already retired) has started running a chess club at the primary school which all of our children attended.
I was interested in this, and asked to hear more. His most recent session focussed round bringing in a game he had actually played himself at the age of 16, for the primary school kids to look at and follow. Apparently, they were mesmerised, and all asked him to photocopy the sheet of paper on which he had noted down the moves, and then autograph it for each of them!
This of course reflected very well on all parties - the good manners and enthusiasm of the children, the energy and imagination of the leader of the club.
We both laughed, uproariously and irreverently, however, at the fact that her husband had kept this relic for nearly 50 years. It is entirely in character, as "extraordinarily retentive" would be a polite description of him.
I said, confident that I was remembering correctly, "I don't have a single thing in my possession that I owned when I was 16, not an item of clothing, a memento, an old toy - nothing!"
It turns out that I was wrong, and what would the item be but a book, of course!
Recently Radio 4 ran a series of programmes called "The Real George Orwell."
It was an excellent mini-series, comprising some dramatic renderings of actual stories by Orwell, such as "1984" which to my surprise had never been put on radio before. Then there was an adaptation of "Homage to Catalonia", this being an account of his experiences in the Spanish Civil War, with commentary as to how this shaped his cynical views of Communism which later emerged in "Animal Farm" and "1984".
A further strand was a short reading of an essay each morning, and then there was an imagined re-construction of his relationship with his first wife. All in all, meaty nuggets and plenty to choose from.
I missed all the essays, as the morning "Book of the Week" slot is at a time when I am always busy, either working in the house or out of it.
Yesterday, I was searching in one of my "very-seldom used" bookcases (I have several categories of book-case scattered around the house) for a copy of the first book I ever borrowed from a library (this, I hope, will be the subject of a later post). The book has been in my actual possession a few years: I got it from a charity shop and the price inside the cover is marked "5p".
Next to it was a Penguin paperback copy of "Down and Out in Paris and London" by George Orwell. "Oh, good," I thought, "I'll take that downstairs and add it to my meal-time reading pile". I thought it would be good to refresh my memories of the really outstanding standard of Orwell's essay-writing .
I opened the (now fragile, browning) pages and looked to see if I had bought this book as new, or from a second-hand shop. In the flyleaf was my maiden name, in childish handwriting, black fountain pen ink, and the date, "2nd Feb 1970". I was in the sixth form, studying A-Level English, at the time, and must have bought this as background reading, for the set text "1984".
At that date, I was 16 years old. Wow! Wrong, then, but wrong in a good way. And the writing, (I've slotted it straight to the top of the meal-time reading pile), is just as strong, refreshing, clear and original as it seemed 43 years ago.
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
Sunday, 3 February 2013
Arthur Miller
Now, I have a love-hate relationship with Arthur Miller. First, "Death of a Salesman" - it said just about everything there was to say about growing up in the world as a post-war baby boomer. I first saw the play as a teenager, a very impressionable age. This work is a master-class in dramatic form, and never loses its power to move me to tears.
Then, as the years go by, realising that he was a misogynistic and arrogant man, a bundle of self-obsession and entitlement. Realising that he married Marilyn Monroe because he could, because he wanted to own that beautiful dream, come home to it every night (in his own words), until he found out he had got a wounded bird on his hands, a fragile thing which he couldn't handle at all. Utterly unable to offer the support an insatiably needy creature demanded.
Then going back to the genius Arthur Miller again, who simply expressed, apparently with effortless clarity, a lifetime of being an American. (Although it was, of course, hard and dedicated workmanship that lay behind the flow of words).
And the MacCarthy witchhunts, which inspired that awfully depressing play "The Crucible" which I had to study at GCE O-level. Again crafted to a particular and predictable conclusion, Thomas Hardy -esque in the inevitability of the hammer blows of fate which mount up to a tragedy.
Last week, after hearing a dramatisation of the relationship between AM and his director Elia Kazan, on Radio 4's afternoon play slot, I took out of the library the playscript of "After the Fall". This, written by AM and first directed by EK, "takes place entirely in the mind of Quentin" - it is thus the voice of the author. All three of his wives appear in the play, as does his relationship with Elia Kazan.
You first think - the ego! To write a play all about himself and taking place all inside his mind! But then you have to respect his ability to read into the minds of women. Particularly his first wife, who has left no lasting memory in the minds of the public, and therefore might appear as a nobody, unlike his second, Marilyn Monroe, and his third, who outlived him and bore two children, one of whom is married to Daniel Day-Lewis.
As a first wife myself, (albeit still in situ, after more than thirty years), I could identify with a lot of what this first wife character complained about. Her complaints seemed entirely reasonable to me.
And here is how the errant and rebellious husband reacted to her complaints - his aide-memoire of things he could do better on:
"Know all, admit nothing, shave closely, remember birthdays, open car doors, pursue her not with truth but with attention."
He's got it all there, and I have had issues with my husband on every one of those points.
Of course, being a genius, he felt no need to take his own advice, but went out there and did exactly what he wanted (owned the blonde of the century).
Of course, being ordinary mortals, we ourselves at BB house could add to the list : "accept that your wife knows best on everything to do with the household, particularly kitchen management" - but that's too mundane for AM (although the whereabouts of the household phone list did appear as a dialogue several lines long).
Probably AM speaks for most of the husbands of the Western world. That's genius.
Then, as the years go by, realising that he was a misogynistic and arrogant man, a bundle of self-obsession and entitlement. Realising that he married Marilyn Monroe because he could, because he wanted to own that beautiful dream, come home to it every night (in his own words), until he found out he had got a wounded bird on his hands, a fragile thing which he couldn't handle at all. Utterly unable to offer the support an insatiably needy creature demanded.
Then going back to the genius Arthur Miller again, who simply expressed, apparently with effortless clarity, a lifetime of being an American. (Although it was, of course, hard and dedicated workmanship that lay behind the flow of words).
And the MacCarthy witchhunts, which inspired that awfully depressing play "The Crucible" which I had to study at GCE O-level. Again crafted to a particular and predictable conclusion, Thomas Hardy -esque in the inevitability of the hammer blows of fate which mount up to a tragedy.
Last week, after hearing a dramatisation of the relationship between AM and his director Elia Kazan, on Radio 4's afternoon play slot, I took out of the library the playscript of "After the Fall". This, written by AM and first directed by EK, "takes place entirely in the mind of Quentin" - it is thus the voice of the author. All three of his wives appear in the play, as does his relationship with Elia Kazan.
You first think - the ego! To write a play all about himself and taking place all inside his mind! But then you have to respect his ability to read into the minds of women. Particularly his first wife, who has left no lasting memory in the minds of the public, and therefore might appear as a nobody, unlike his second, Marilyn Monroe, and his third, who outlived him and bore two children, one of whom is married to Daniel Day-Lewis.
As a first wife myself, (albeit still in situ, after more than thirty years), I could identify with a lot of what this first wife character complained about. Her complaints seemed entirely reasonable to me.
And here is how the errant and rebellious husband reacted to her complaints - his aide-memoire of things he could do better on:
"Know all, admit nothing, shave closely, remember birthdays, open car doors, pursue her not with truth but with attention."
He's got it all there, and I have had issues with my husband on every one of those points.
Of course, being a genius, he felt no need to take his own advice, but went out there and did exactly what he wanted (owned the blonde of the century).
Of course, being ordinary mortals, we ourselves at BB house could add to the list : "accept that your wife knows best on everything to do with the household, particularly kitchen management" - but that's too mundane for AM (although the whereabouts of the household phone list did appear as a dialogue several lines long).
Probably AM speaks for most of the husbands of the Western world. That's genius.
Monday, 17 December 2012
Poem by Edward Thomas
And You, Helen
And you, Helen, what should I give you?
So many things I would give you
Had I an infinite great store
Offered me and I stood before
To choose. I would give you youth,
All kinds of loveliness and truth,
A clear eye as good as mine,
Lands, waters, flowers, wine,
As many children as your heart
Might wish for, a far better art
Than mine can be, all you have lost
Upon the travelling waters tossed,
Or given to me. If I could choose
Freely in that great treasure-house
Anything from any shelf,
I would give you back yourself,
And power to discriminate
What you want and want it not too late,
Many fair days free from care
And heart to enjoy both foul and fair,
And myself, too, if I could find
Where it lay hidden and it proved kind.
So many things I would give you
Had I an infinite great store
Offered me and I stood before
To choose. I would give you youth,
All kinds of loveliness and truth,
A clear eye as good as mine,
Lands, waters, flowers, wine,
As many children as your heart
Might wish for, a far better art
Than mine can be, all you have lost
Upon the travelling waters tossed,
Or given to me. If I could choose
Freely in that great treasure-house
Anything from any shelf,
I would give you back yourself,
And power to discriminate
What you want and want it not too late,
Many fair days free from care
And heart to enjoy both foul and fair,
And myself, too, if I could find
Where it lay hidden and it proved kind.
Edward Thomas (died at the battle of Arras, 1917)
"What you want and want it not too late" .... Every single real-life person with whom I have discussed younger daughter's ski chalet experience has said the same thing. That one must do what one wants in life, and do it not too late.
The poet's wife was called Helen. He wasn't very nice to her in real life. It's hard to really love someone, not just in words.
Never too old to learn something new, and never to old to try to do better.
"And myself too if I could find
Where it lay hidden and it proved kind"
The poet knew.
To my daughter, with love from Mum
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Switch Back
Now I am feeling depressed. Not clinically depressed of course. Just back to the negative feelings about younger daughter (recap, age 25, had good job, has given it up to slave in a ski chalet for 65 euros a week, no holiday and one day off a week for five months).
At first we got no emails at all - a sure sign that EITHER
a) she was having a fantastic time or
b) they had been put to work as soon as they arrived and were working flat out from Sunday morning onwards.
It turned out to be (b).
Hubby and I read her ghastly descriptions when they were finally emailed, and told each other "She'll soon get this out of her system, no worries, after five months of this she'll be glad to go back to a professional job".
But no.
Today's email reported that she was getting the "boring accountant" out of her system, and was confident that she was well on the way to become a "fun" person.
I am sad. Is this what I gave my all for, over 20 years of education, paid for, no debts, endless support, endless comfort and taxi service, home cooking, etc etc etc?
It appears that her sole ambition is to be a "fun" person and to have "fun".
I can honestly say from the bottom of my heart that never in all my 59 years has it ever been my ambition to have fun.
I wanted to do good in the world, to contribute something, to be part of a team doing something worthwhile, to communicate, to be intellectually stimulated. Not altogether! In roughly that sequence.
It's still my ambition, even after being humiliatingly dismissed earlier this year from my main job, to contribute something to the household budget, to be as near as possible financially independent, to keep myself fit and intellectually occupied, and to waste no time watching daytime television.
So it was with some sadness that I read her words. I still haven't decided how much to tell her dad, who is even more serious than me, who has slogged even harder than me, and longer, to give her the privileged start in life she so carelessly dismisses.
Will she grow out of this?
At first we got no emails at all - a sure sign that EITHER
a) she was having a fantastic time or
b) they had been put to work as soon as they arrived and were working flat out from Sunday morning onwards.
It turned out to be (b).
Hubby and I read her ghastly descriptions when they were finally emailed, and told each other "She'll soon get this out of her system, no worries, after five months of this she'll be glad to go back to a professional job".
But no.
Today's email reported that she was getting the "boring accountant" out of her system, and was confident that she was well on the way to become a "fun" person.
I am sad. Is this what I gave my all for, over 20 years of education, paid for, no debts, endless support, endless comfort and taxi service, home cooking, etc etc etc?
It appears that her sole ambition is to be a "fun" person and to have "fun".
I can honestly say from the bottom of my heart that never in all my 59 years has it ever been my ambition to have fun.
I wanted to do good in the world, to contribute something, to be part of a team doing something worthwhile, to communicate, to be intellectually stimulated. Not altogether! In roughly that sequence.
It's still my ambition, even after being humiliatingly dismissed earlier this year from my main job, to contribute something to the household budget, to be as near as possible financially independent, to keep myself fit and intellectually occupied, and to waste no time watching daytime television.
So it was with some sadness that I read her words. I still haven't decided how much to tell her dad, who is even more serious than me, who has slogged even harder than me, and longer, to give her the privileged start in life she so carelessly dismisses.
Will she grow out of this?
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Two insights and a revelation
I have now come down with a really ghastly cold and lost my voice. For a person who loves talking next best after reading this is hard to bear. Especially when a best friend came to stay overnight on Friday, and we drove down to London together on Saturday. This is the friend with whom I have been on holiday twice, in holiday cottages in Norfolk and Dorset, and on each occasion we hardly drew breath in all our waking hours. This weekend I just had to curb my enthusiasm.
Anyway, we were talking (of course) about her negative feelings about her husband and mine about younger daughter. It made me realise, that of course this is just me being at a low ebb. Of course I love younger daughter to bits, and want her to enjoy her ski season immensely, and wish her the best.
This is what made me realise that the problem was within me. I was hearing my friend criticising her hub, and seeing that, actually, the poor guy is just the same as he has been for the last ten years (namely, not very exciting, has some irritating habits, etc). I could see that the problem really is that she herself is completely worn out, from working full-time, having three adult children still living at home and trying to keep it all together.
So then I realised that I too, was quite low from being ill, and that was why I felt negative.
Fortunately, daughter and I parted on good terms at the bus station. I helped her with her luggage, made sure that we stopped the postman as we drove up the road (he had the Foreign Exchange cash card in that day's delivery, which of course she needed for her trip), helped her find the place to wait, suggested she wrote her name on her luggage, and helped her with her sandwiches. And of course I told her I loved her, and gave her lots of hugs.
So that was OK.
With my friend, I told her that you never know what's round the corner, and as her husband is ten years older than she is, it would be better to forget bad things that have happened and focus on the good in whatever time there is left.
She said she thought I was right, and would try to.
My last revelation was how much my husband was clearly enjoying me not talking all the time!
Anyway, we were talking (of course) about her negative feelings about her husband and mine about younger daughter. It made me realise, that of course this is just me being at a low ebb. Of course I love younger daughter to bits, and want her to enjoy her ski season immensely, and wish her the best.
This is what made me realise that the problem was within me. I was hearing my friend criticising her hub, and seeing that, actually, the poor guy is just the same as he has been for the last ten years (namely, not very exciting, has some irritating habits, etc). I could see that the problem really is that she herself is completely worn out, from working full-time, having three adult children still living at home and trying to keep it all together.
So then I realised that I too, was quite low from being ill, and that was why I felt negative.
Fortunately, daughter and I parted on good terms at the bus station. I helped her with her luggage, made sure that we stopped the postman as we drove up the road (he had the Foreign Exchange cash card in that day's delivery, which of course she needed for her trip), helped her find the place to wait, suggested she wrote her name on her luggage, and helped her with her sandwiches. And of course I told her I loved her, and gave her lots of hugs.
So that was OK.
With my friend, I told her that you never know what's round the corner, and as her husband is ten years older than she is, it would be better to forget bad things that have happened and focus on the good in whatever time there is left.
She said she thought I was right, and would try to.
My last revelation was how much my husband was clearly enjoying me not talking all the time!
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
I have to have a good moan
I've realised what's been pressing down on me for the last two weeks, stopping me from getting on with anything and making me feel drained and irritated.
It's the presence in the house of younger daughter, (aged 25). This girl is now a grown adult, and yet when in the house she persists in behaving like a stroppy teenager, complete with swearing and personal abuse.
She gave up her well paid job in accountancy at the end of October, and rented out the flat we helped her to acquire. She brought home every possession she has, other than equipment which must be left in the flat for the tenants. We had to help her with this, naturally, and find spaces to store what won't fit in her bedroom.
She spent the first week using our washing machine non-stop, and taking up every drying space in the house. I pointed out that she could have done all this in her own flat before she left it.
Then she went to Nepal for two and a half weeks to "trek", so there was a respite.
Now she is back home waiting to travel to France on Friday to spend five months working in a ski chalet.
This morning, I generously allowed her to include what she said were "whites" in my pristine white wash. The whites turned out to be mostly a filthy grey, and also to include stuff with colours of all sorts, including black, in them.
I told her that these could not be included in my white wash, but she totally refused to accept this, and started abusing me. In the end, I had to take my washing out of the machine, as she just would not back down.
After she shut her bedroom door in my face when I tried to discuss the matter, I had to communicate by text. Here's what I sent.
"I have the right to make my own decisions in my own home about my laundry arrangements. Do not interfere and certainly you do not have the right to abuse me."
Am I over-reacting?
It's the presence in the house of younger daughter, (aged 25). This girl is now a grown adult, and yet when in the house she persists in behaving like a stroppy teenager, complete with swearing and personal abuse.
She gave up her well paid job in accountancy at the end of October, and rented out the flat we helped her to acquire. She brought home every possession she has, other than equipment which must be left in the flat for the tenants. We had to help her with this, naturally, and find spaces to store what won't fit in her bedroom.
She spent the first week using our washing machine non-stop, and taking up every drying space in the house. I pointed out that she could have done all this in her own flat before she left it.
Then she went to Nepal for two and a half weeks to "trek", so there was a respite.
Now she is back home waiting to travel to France on Friday to spend five months working in a ski chalet.
This morning, I generously allowed her to include what she said were "whites" in my pristine white wash. The whites turned out to be mostly a filthy grey, and also to include stuff with colours of all sorts, including black, in them.
I told her that these could not be included in my white wash, but she totally refused to accept this, and started abusing me. In the end, I had to take my washing out of the machine, as she just would not back down.
After she shut her bedroom door in my face when I tried to discuss the matter, I had to communicate by text. Here's what I sent.
"I have the right to make my own decisions in my own home about my laundry arrangements. Do not interfere and certainly you do not have the right to abuse me."
Am I over-reacting?
Sunday, 18 November 2012
A Perfect Afternoon
Started at the Oxfam shop, where I was due to meet my friend after her Saturday morning volunteer shift ended at 1.00pm. Any excuse to visit a charity shop is most delightful, and to add to the pleasure there was an Age Concern shop right next door. I bought "My Dear, I Wanted toTell You" by Louisa Young, in the Age Concern shop. This is a novel set in the First World War, by the grand-daughter of Robert Falcon Scott's widow, Kathleen, (from her second marriage), and was serialised on Woman's Hour on publication, so I am looking forward to reading it.
Passing next door to the Oxfam shop, I was delighted to find there a set of two cassette tapes of Shirley Williams giving talks to Woman's Hour (didn't realise the common link until this afternoon), in 1996. She is talking about her childhood, about being the daughter of one of my favourite authors of all time, Vera Brittain, and then moving on to her life in politics. Great listening- thank goodness we didn't throw out our last ghetto blaster in a recent clear-out, as it is the only machine in the house which I can play the tapes on.
Next I picked up a copy of "The Mitfords, Letters between Six Sisters" (published 2007), edited by Charlotte Mosley, a Mitford daughter-in-law (the surname tells you which one). This, I nearly said, would add to my collection of Mitford books, but I don't actually have this collection. I have passed every book on to elder daughter, and she has enjoyed them just as much as I have. Jessica Mitford's famous "Hons and Rebels", two novels by Nancy, a biography of all six sisters by Mary Lovell, and lastly, Debo Devonshire's memoir, "Wait for Me".
The last is very recent, and I purchased it following a visit by elder daughter and me to Chatsworth, which we both enjoyed very much.
I was about to leave with my friend, when I spotted W Somerset Maugham's "Cakes and Ale", a very old book first published in 1930. I don't find WSM interesting in himself, but having just read some biographical works about Thomas Hardy, I have come across a reference to this book several times. Apparently it contains a descriptive parody of TH, which caused great offence to the latter's widow, Florence.
To my surprise, my friend told me her book group had read this book. As she is thinking of leaving her book group because they persist in picking boring books, this was not a great advertisement. However, as I said, I have a particular motive for buying this, and may not read all of it.
My friend and I then went for lunch and spent the next three and a half hours talking non-stop. This was most enjoyable.
Later, after I returned home. I was still in non-stop talk mode, and this annoyed hubby during "Strictly". He put up with it for so long, and then could stand it no longer. "Will you PLEASE stop talking!" He is, as I have said before, a man of few words.
However, nothing could detract from the pure pleasure of an afternoon spent with a very old friend, which included two charity shops, a kitchen shop, and much talk about books, our daughters, our holidays, families and a long shared history.
Passing next door to the Oxfam shop, I was delighted to find there a set of two cassette tapes of Shirley Williams giving talks to Woman's Hour (didn't realise the common link until this afternoon), in 1996. She is talking about her childhood, about being the daughter of one of my favourite authors of all time, Vera Brittain, and then moving on to her life in politics. Great listening- thank goodness we didn't throw out our last ghetto blaster in a recent clear-out, as it is the only machine in the house which I can play the tapes on.
Next I picked up a copy of "The Mitfords, Letters between Six Sisters" (published 2007), edited by Charlotte Mosley, a Mitford daughter-in-law (the surname tells you which one). This, I nearly said, would add to my collection of Mitford books, but I don't actually have this collection. I have passed every book on to elder daughter, and she has enjoyed them just as much as I have. Jessica Mitford's famous "Hons and Rebels", two novels by Nancy, a biography of all six sisters by Mary Lovell, and lastly, Debo Devonshire's memoir, "Wait for Me".
The last is very recent, and I purchased it following a visit by elder daughter and me to Chatsworth, which we both enjoyed very much.
I was about to leave with my friend, when I spotted W Somerset Maugham's "Cakes and Ale", a very old book first published in 1930. I don't find WSM interesting in himself, but having just read some biographical works about Thomas Hardy, I have come across a reference to this book several times. Apparently it contains a descriptive parody of TH, which caused great offence to the latter's widow, Florence.
To my surprise, my friend told me her book group had read this book. As she is thinking of leaving her book group because they persist in picking boring books, this was not a great advertisement. However, as I said, I have a particular motive for buying this, and may not read all of it.
My friend and I then went for lunch and spent the next three and a half hours talking non-stop. This was most enjoyable.
Later, after I returned home. I was still in non-stop talk mode, and this annoyed hubby during "Strictly". He put up with it for so long, and then could stand it no longer. "Will you PLEASE stop talking!" He is, as I have said before, a man of few words.
However, nothing could detract from the pure pleasure of an afternoon spent with a very old friend, which included two charity shops, a kitchen shop, and much talk about books, our daughters, our holidays, families and a long shared history.
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