It was my brother's 21st birthday. We had all gathered at a big fancy restaurant for dinner. How fancy? Well, I was wearing a long dress and long gloves! It must have been pretty fancy, but my dress would not have disguised the fact that I was pregnant. Apart from ourselves and my brother, my parents, and two uncle and aunts were there, along with a couple of cousins. We had great fun, lots of chatter, lots of wine including champagne (I'm trying to set the scene here!). The dishes were served silently, coming and going with an effortless ease. We didn't really notice the waiters, it was a really special evening.
I have no memory of the first or main course. They must have been good, or I would have remembered them as bad. Finally the dessert menu was presented, and I chose fresh figs. Well......
It now transpired that the Maitre d' was Greek. He suddenly went into ecstasy mode.! The whole restaurant became silent and everyone looked in our direction. 'Madame! Madame! Madame, she want figs! Madame, she want fresh figs! She want FIGS! She is pregnant and she want FIGS! In my country, we know when a lady want figs when she is pregnant, she is expecting a boy. More champagne! She is expecting a boy.' He went on in this vein for some time, the whole restaurant cheered, and we did indeed get a free bottle of champagne. I duly ate my figs and went home.
Three months later I gave birth to our daughter.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Monday, October 13, 2008
Monday, October 06, 2008
Monday Memory, Or the Tale of a Pig
This is a true story.
Once upon a time there was a pig. We will call him Monty.
Monty lived on a farm, and, although he was well cared for, he sometimes got lonely because his only companions were cows and turkeys. Sometimes Monty would go for a walk in the hope that he would find another pig to talk to, but the farmer always found him before he had time to get very far.
One sunny day Monty shook the pigsty door until it opened. Walking across the farmyard he pushed yet another hole through the hedge and began to walk along the lane. He was big and fat, so he walked slowly, sniffing the air for interesting smells, especially as his eyesight was poor. He could see a shadow ahead, and as he approached he could tell that it smelt interesting.
It was a car with the boot up, but Monty didn't recognise it as such, to him it smelt like a food trough, for languishing in the boot was a large sack of horse feed. Monty didn't know that the feed was only meant for horses, he thought it had been put there just for him, so with an enormous amount of effort he pulled himself into the boot and began to devour the feed, packaging and all. It was delicious, and he was really surprised when suddenly there was much commotion and the farmer arrived with a very irate man who demanded compensation! Without ceremony Monty was returned to the lonely pigsty.
Holes in the hedge were reinforced and an extra strong bolt was put on the pigsty door. Monty was fed more than usual, but that was no problem, he could always find space for another morsel. But one day he began to feel lonely again, and he knew what he had to do.... With enormous effort he pulled himself over the door of the pigsty. He fell with a bump, but although a little sore he walked towards the hedge. He felt a little like an Olympic pole vaulter, he felt that he had set a record for pigs, the hedge would be easy, in spite of reinforcements.
He began to walk along the lane. The sun was shining, and that shape was there again. Monty sniffed the air. Sure enough, it was waiting with food for him. However, when he got there he discovered that the food was covered up! (The boot was closed). Now what to do? The more he sniffed the air the more he wanted the food. How could he get to it? Monty was a resourceful pig, he walked around the car sniffing as he went. As he got to the driver's door the smell intensified. Hooray, someone had thoughtfully left the driver's window open. Here was a way in.
Getting through the window was not easy, but having done so Monty was in heaven. On the back seat was a sack of horse feed, exactly the same as the one he had eaten before! Such delight! He chomped his way through it. It was delicious! (Isn't forbidden food ALWAYS the sweetest?). When finished he sat for a moment to make sure that nothing was left, the smell of food was still strong, although nowhere in sight. Yes, he could still smell something, and then he realised that the smell was coming from behind the seat. Sure enough, there was another sack in the car boot, but how could he get to that?
The pig who had scaled the pigsty door, pushed through reinforced hedge AND climbed in through a car window knew no limitations. It wasn't very tasty, but Monty now began to tug and tear at the back of the seat, and before long he had access to the rest of the food. Once he had his head far enough through to eat he stopped pushing and just ate. He thought he was in heaven before, but this must be it, because there were two sacks waiting for him. Delicious!
When he had finished, however, Monty began to panic. He was now firmly wedged with his head and shoulders stuck through the back seat and his rear end jammed up against the back of the front seats. He couldn't move... How was he going to get out? He began to twist from side to side in the hope that he could free himself, but this only served to make the car rock, and this rocking drew the attention of a passing postman.
Car owner and farmer were duly summoned. More compensation was demanded, Monty heard the words, but didn't know what they meant. What had he done wrong? The farmer bundled Monty into a trailer and off they went. Regrettably, not to the pigsty.....
Monday, September 22, 2008
Monday Memory
As you read down this post you will find a long gap. Before you scroll further to read my memory for this Monday I would like you to search into your own. Do you have children? If not, consider a memory from your own past that fits into this scenario...
Think about an occasion - maybe long ago - when your child (or you) was very naughty.....
You don't have to make any admissions here, these thoughts are private, just bring something to mind before you read on.
Here begins the gap.
And here it ends....
In the following narrative the names have been changed to protect the innocent! The story, however, is true.
Several years ago we lived in a small community. Our children were very small, in fact our youngest was barely walking. There were few local playmates, but there was one little boy who lived across the road. We will call him John. He led a very protected and sheltered life, and it was unusual for him to be allowed to play with other children, however, our daughter had obviously passed whatever test was set, and she was often invited over to play by his mother whom we will call Susan.
One morning, after only about half an hour there was a knock on the door. Susan was standing at the door holding our DD's hand, and clutching John firmly to her bosom. I could see that something was wrong, but couldn't imagine what it could be. The story unfolded....
DD had found a pair of scissors and had cut John's hair. She had never done anything like it before, and has not done anything like it since. To be honest, as I looked, I couldn't see anything wrong with the hair, but I was appalled that she had done such a thing. She was suitably chastised, and I presumed that the relationship with the family had been severed for ever. Certainly relationships were cool for the rest of the month. One morning, however, at coffee time the doorbell rang. Susan was standing on the step, John firmly in tow. I invited them in. DD was delighted to see him, and before long they were playing happily together.
On the afternoon of the incident Susan had taken John to a child's birthday party. All the mothers had oohed and aahed over the haircut and requested the name and address of the barber! Family members had also expressed delight at how good his hair looked when they attended a wedding the next day, in fact, although she had never admitted that it had been cut by a four year old, the general concensus was that John had never looked so smart or like a boy. We ended up laughing about the whole incident, and we still chuckle over it to this day.
The moral? Well, all children are naughty, and maybe your child has just done something you would rather forget. However, I'm fairly certain that sometime in the future you too will be able to regard it with a certain amount of amusement, without condoning the action either at the time or now. Memory is a wonderful thing....
Think about an occasion - maybe long ago - when your child (or you) was very naughty.....
You don't have to make any admissions here, these thoughts are private, just bring something to mind before you read on.
Here begins the gap.
And here it ends....
In the following narrative the names have been changed to protect the innocent! The story, however, is true.
Several years ago we lived in a small community. Our children were very small, in fact our youngest was barely walking. There were few local playmates, but there was one little boy who lived across the road. We will call him John. He led a very protected and sheltered life, and it was unusual for him to be allowed to play with other children, however, our daughter had obviously passed whatever test was set, and she was often invited over to play by his mother whom we will call Susan.
One morning, after only about half an hour there was a knock on the door. Susan was standing at the door holding our DD's hand, and clutching John firmly to her bosom. I could see that something was wrong, but couldn't imagine what it could be. The story unfolded....
DD had found a pair of scissors and had cut John's hair. She had never done anything like it before, and has not done anything like it since. To be honest, as I looked, I couldn't see anything wrong with the hair, but I was appalled that she had done such a thing. She was suitably chastised, and I presumed that the relationship with the family had been severed for ever. Certainly relationships were cool for the rest of the month. One morning, however, at coffee time the doorbell rang. Susan was standing on the step, John firmly in tow. I invited them in. DD was delighted to see him, and before long they were playing happily together.
On the afternoon of the incident Susan had taken John to a child's birthday party. All the mothers had oohed and aahed over the haircut and requested the name and address of the barber! Family members had also expressed delight at how good his hair looked when they attended a wedding the next day, in fact, although she had never admitted that it had been cut by a four year old, the general concensus was that John had never looked so smart or like a boy. We ended up laughing about the whole incident, and we still chuckle over it to this day.
The moral? Well, all children are naughty, and maybe your child has just done something you would rather forget. However, I'm fairly certain that sometime in the future you too will be able to regard it with a certain amount of amusement, without condoning the action either at the time or now. Memory is a wonderful thing....
Monday, September 15, 2008
My Monday Memory
It is the time of year when our garden is full of raspberries. We have several varieties producing both red and yellow fruit. I have to admit that the yellow ones are sharper and less tasty than the red, but they make wonderful jam, and I can use them to make enough to last the entire year. The red ones, though, are best eaten fresh or frozen to make desserts and sometimes we just have so many our freezer is still bursting with them as the new crop nears readiness for picking. Family and friends always know that they can expect a supply and this year again we are inundated with berries.
Yesterday, as I picked another bowlful, I was reminded of a time long ago. It was the days before 24 hour television, when TV's still had a white dot that faded to nothing and the commercial channel in the UK was still in its infancy. We had to find other ways to entertain ourselves. Reading was a passion, the radio evoked visions of characters rather than personalities, Sunday afternoons usually involved a walk after lunch, and so on. Brought up in the south-east of England my memories are mainly of sunny summer days with cold winters, yes, it rained, but those memories have faded into insignificance.
My late Father, was a lovely man. He was unusual in that he could tell us from an early age that he loved us (almost frowned upon in those days) and he loved giving us treats and surprises. These were usually family based, something we could all enjoy. In those days he worked for the BBC. He worked long hours on shift work, leaving home at 6am and not returning until well after midnight, his shift pattern followed a two week cycle which meant that one weekend he would work from Saturday morning until the early hours of Monday morning. However, that also meant that he would be home the next weekend, and that usually meant a treat. Sometimes they were really simple. For example I remember one weekend when my Mother went to the local Church to help with a fundraiser. Unbeknown to her (and to us) my Father packed a picnic and when it was time for the sale to end he bundled my brother and me into the car and we went to collect her. We then drove into the nearby country and had a lovely time. It was the surprise element that made it so exciting. Often he would suddenly announce part way through Saturday that tonight he was doing the cooking. It was very unusual for a man to help in the kitchen, let alone take on a full meal, so this was different too. His meals were always unconventional, using ingredients that went together in an unexpected way.
About four times a year we would have a trip to the theatre. Our nearest was a repertory theatre in Guildford. This was long before the days of the Yvonne Arnaud, and the evenings we spent there were full of magic and delight. The evening culminated with a meal at the Corona Cafe. Like the repertory theatre the Corona has long gone, but the food was good, and a meal in a restaurant was a real treat. It was to these meals that I found my thoughts turning as I picked the raspberries. My favourite dessert was the Raspberry Meringue Glace. Icecream, raspberries, meringues and cream. It was only available during the summer months, for the raspberries were fresh, and this was long before the days of food being carried by airlines. In fact, I thought about our trip so much that I even made an Etsy treasury in their honour. You will have to be quick if you want to see it, it will expire in a couple of days, but here is the link. Just for fun!
My Father? He died in 1992, and tomorrow would have been his birthday.
Yesterday, as I picked another bowlful, I was reminded of a time long ago. It was the days before 24 hour television, when TV's still had a white dot that faded to nothing and the commercial channel in the UK was still in its infancy. We had to find other ways to entertain ourselves. Reading was a passion, the radio evoked visions of characters rather than personalities, Sunday afternoons usually involved a walk after lunch, and so on. Brought up in the south-east of England my memories are mainly of sunny summer days with cold winters, yes, it rained, but those memories have faded into insignificance.
My late Father, was a lovely man. He was unusual in that he could tell us from an early age that he loved us (almost frowned upon in those days) and he loved giving us treats and surprises. These were usually family based, something we could all enjoy. In those days he worked for the BBC. He worked long hours on shift work, leaving home at 6am and not returning until well after midnight, his shift pattern followed a two week cycle which meant that one weekend he would work from Saturday morning until the early hours of Monday morning. However, that also meant that he would be home the next weekend, and that usually meant a treat. Sometimes they were really simple. For example I remember one weekend when my Mother went to the local Church to help with a fundraiser. Unbeknown to her (and to us) my Father packed a picnic and when it was time for the sale to end he bundled my brother and me into the car and we went to collect her. We then drove into the nearby country and had a lovely time. It was the surprise element that made it so exciting. Often he would suddenly announce part way through Saturday that tonight he was doing the cooking. It was very unusual for a man to help in the kitchen, let alone take on a full meal, so this was different too. His meals were always unconventional, using ingredients that went together in an unexpected way.
About four times a year we would have a trip to the theatre. Our nearest was a repertory theatre in Guildford. This was long before the days of the Yvonne Arnaud, and the evenings we spent there were full of magic and delight. The evening culminated with a meal at the Corona Cafe. Like the repertory theatre the Corona has long gone, but the food was good, and a meal in a restaurant was a real treat. It was to these meals that I found my thoughts turning as I picked the raspberries. My favourite dessert was the Raspberry Meringue Glace. Icecream, raspberries, meringues and cream. It was only available during the summer months, for the raspberries were fresh, and this was long before the days of food being carried by airlines. In fact, I thought about our trip so much that I even made an Etsy treasury in their honour. You will have to be quick if you want to see it, it will expire in a couple of days, but here is the link. Just for fun!
My Father? He died in 1992, and tomorrow would have been his birthday.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
May, Take it Further
What a chapter of accidents! I have had to write this post in fits and starts. Many interruptions caused me to save and return to add more. The problem arose when I had more than one copy open in several windows (I still don't know how this happened). The result was that instead of publishing the final copy I saved the first! All the time and effort (well, almost all) was wasted and I have had to start again. Hopefully I can remember what I wrote, at least in gist.
I know it's June now, but I had actually completed the challenge by the end of May. As I thought, it was a holiday project, and here are my thoughts and results.
I gave the question a lot of thought because it goes much deeper for me than it would at first appear. My name is Welsh, but as soon as I open my mouth you will think I am English. It was a quirk of 'fate' that caused me to be born and brought up in England, but in spite of living here all my life I still regard myself as Welsh. I experienced Hiraeth long before I knew there was a name for it, and travelling over the border always makes me feel as though I am returning home.
In my working life I wear many figurative hats. I am a dyer, stitcher, artist, enabler (I feel that that is different to just a teacher). I work in textiles. My other hats include wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt, and friend. At different times and if different places my 'title' needs to be different. With regard to my working life I consider myself to be a Dyer first and foremost. If asked 'what do you do' I always say 'I dye'. Of course, that could be for the impact, as it often raises a shocked glance as the 'y' isn't apparent in speech! I then go on to say that I'm an Artist who works in fabric and thread. I used to say that I worked in textiles. However, that seems to conjure up pictures of sheets and tea towels to the uninitiated, and I most definitely DON'T work in those!
Thinking along all these lines made me want to create something that harked back to my roots. Here is the result
This was made during our holiday. Fortunately I had an embellisher with me, and each layer was made using a different technique. There is also some hand-dyed fine viscose felt there, and some of the layers were made using an embellisher roll. It was good to make something from start to finish while still in the area. From first sketch to finished piece took about 3 days, but I certainly wasn't working all the time. It made me realise just how much I love creating, and how rarely I am able to fully indulge these days. However, dyeing is creative too, and I do LOVE mixing colour. Don't forget that you can see some to the colours I create on the website and also on Etsy.
I know it's June now, but I had actually completed the challenge by the end of May. As I thought, it was a holiday project, and here are my thoughts and results.
I gave the question a lot of thought because it goes much deeper for me than it would at first appear. My name is Welsh, but as soon as I open my mouth you will think I am English. It was a quirk of 'fate' that caused me to be born and brought up in England, but in spite of living here all my life I still regard myself as Welsh. I experienced Hiraeth long before I knew there was a name for it, and travelling over the border always makes me feel as though I am returning home.
In my working life I wear many figurative hats. I am a dyer, stitcher, artist, enabler (I feel that that is different to just a teacher). I work in textiles. My other hats include wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt, and friend. At different times and if different places my 'title' needs to be different. With regard to my working life I consider myself to be a Dyer first and foremost. If asked 'what do you do' I always say 'I dye'. Of course, that could be for the impact, as it often raises a shocked glance as the 'y' isn't apparent in speech! I then go on to say that I'm an Artist who works in fabric and thread. I used to say that I worked in textiles. However, that seems to conjure up pictures of sheets and tea towels to the uninitiated, and I most definitely DON'T work in those!
Thinking along all these lines made me want to create something that harked back to my roots. Here is the result
This was made during our holiday. Fortunately I had an embellisher with me, and each layer was made using a different technique. There is also some hand-dyed fine viscose felt there, and some of the layers were made using an embellisher roll. It was good to make something from start to finish while still in the area. From first sketch to finished piece took about 3 days, but I certainly wasn't working all the time. It made me realise just how much I love creating, and how rarely I am able to fully indulge these days. However, dyeing is creative too, and I do LOVE mixing colour. Don't forget that you can see some to the colours I create on the website and also on Etsy.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Take It Further:: February
True to her word Sharon posted the February challenge earlier this month. I have been thinking about it, even whilst finishing that of January
My family memories of the past are extremely good. This has been a real blessing recently as I have been able to reminisce with my mother about all sorts of things. My earliest memory is being taken for a ride in my pushchair while staying with my grandparents in Brecon, S Wales. As my brother wasn't yet born (I wouldn't have been in the pushchair if he had)and my mother wasn't even pregnant with him yet (her pregnancy meant she could no longer travel) I must have been younger than two.
I certainly don't want to commemorate that, however. I have been thinking a lot about babies, though, prompted I'm sure by recent visits from our newest grandchild. I have had two pregnancies and both my children were born in the Louise Margaret Maternity Hospital in Aldershot. Although this was a military hospital (it was closed a while ago) it was also open to civilians, and that's how I came to be there! Shortly before my daughter was born an IRA bomb was detonated close by. This meant that there was much security in place, and some roads in Aldershot were closed (and have never been reopened). This is not something I would like to dwell upon or commemorate either. My son, however, was born 4 years later in much more relaxed circumstances, and in the middle of a heatwave. To tie it all together I've decided that that's what I'll consider for my Take it Further Challenge for February. The heatwave!
Is anyone visiting Textiles in Focus next week? We'll be there so come and say 'Hi'.
My family memories of the past are extremely good. This has been a real blessing recently as I have been able to reminisce with my mother about all sorts of things. My earliest memory is being taken for a ride in my pushchair while staying with my grandparents in Brecon, S Wales. As my brother wasn't yet born (I wouldn't have been in the pushchair if he had)and my mother wasn't even pregnant with him yet (her pregnancy meant she could no longer travel) I must have been younger than two.
I certainly don't want to commemorate that, however. I have been thinking a lot about babies, though, prompted I'm sure by recent visits from our newest grandchild. I have had two pregnancies and both my children were born in the Louise Margaret Maternity Hospital in Aldershot. Although this was a military hospital (it was closed a while ago) it was also open to civilians, and that's how I came to be there! Shortly before my daughter was born an IRA bomb was detonated close by. This meant that there was much security in place, and some roads in Aldershot were closed (and have never been reopened). This is not something I would like to dwell upon or commemorate either. My son, however, was born 4 years later in much more relaxed circumstances, and in the middle of a heatwave. To tie it all together I've decided that that's what I'll consider for my Take it Further Challenge for February. The heatwave!
Is anyone visiting Textiles in Focus next week? We'll be there so come and say 'Hi'.
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