tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62412582668406089242024-03-05T16:00:55.798+00:00Mad againMemories of flower and bird and wind and world, and all the living and all the dead.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-45520457794015584912015-05-04T09:25:00.000+01:002015-05-04T09:25:01.453+01:00Did you watch the C-Word last night?
I met Lisa Lynch on line and we exchanged blog messages and, later on, some emails. I work this morning realising how fortunate I am.
I haven't had to suffer any kind of major illness.
As a parent, I haven't had to watch my children die (and hope, fervently, that they both outlive me)
I've been able to follow my path and my heart.
My beloved Git is now 18 years old and still enjoying life.
I have been gone for a while so apologies if you've got bored waiting for me to return.
Here is a clue as to what I have been doing. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIFyQFcfWNEs4pGDEj5y80bnkEC_yNW5Km4Jsvmz8CJqdwuahQZ0-qYhjX-RHatzDHD1-26C6OcHsNX63bNxgFfA3bkjagTb0LKu4dhtJlbPHjnCbI1P8TEeMa-MsyezfS3AcQylekXCO/s1600/DSCF3400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIFyQFcfWNEs4pGDEj5y80bnkEC_yNW5Km4Jsvmz8CJqdwuahQZ0-qYhjX-RHatzDHD1-26C6OcHsNX63bNxgFfA3bkjagTb0LKu4dhtJlbPHjnCbI1P8TEeMa-MsyezfS3AcQylekXCO/s320/DSCF3400.jpg" /></a></div>
MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-12730259763840483052011-09-11T10:12:00.002+01:002011-09-11T11:09:44.472+01:00RememberingWhat were you doing? Where were you? Who were you with?<br /><br />I can, of course, only be talking about one day, one event. one date.<br /><br />At 2 pm, I was booked for a conference call with a supplier in Midtown. 9 am their time. Just before 2, I got my team together and we filed into the meeting room, dialed the number and waited. No-one came on the line. I was about to give them a hard time for failing to live up to expectations. At ten past, we gave up and I went back to the desk and I started to call them. No answer. I wrote a short, salty email.<br /><br />A few moments later someone came onto the floor from the dealing room where there were television screens scattered around the room. The horrible news started to filter through. <br /><br />I phoned home. My son had just sat his A levels and was at home at the start of his gap year. He put the television on and watched all afternoon. <br /><br />Three colleagues were 3 blocks away on their way to a 9 am meeting when the first plane hit. No-one knew where they were or if they were safe. Their families were ringing the office desperate for news. <br /><br />At 3, a friend called. She had flown back in from New York overnight and had gone to bed for a few hours sleep. Turning on the television, she couldn't make sense of it all. The day before she and her fiance had been in the Windows on the World restaurant planning their wedding. He worked next door to the World Trade Center. <br /><br />We had just seen the South Tower collapse. <br /><br />A colleague came in from the dealing room. Tearfully, he told us how they had closed the lines to Cantor Fitzgerald, in the North Tower. How could you bear to listen to what was happening? <br /><br />Mobile phone and landlines were haphzard in London. My daughter was planning to go to London that evening to visit a school friend. Eventually, I got a message through to her not to travel. <br /><br />At 4pm, our local chief exec closed our office for the day. The Underground was closed so I walked to Waterloo. Hardly anyone was talking. Some people were holding hands. All the way home on the train, people were pale and quiet. <br /><br />My three colleagues were safe. They had carried on towards their meeting after the first plane hit. With the second impact, they headed back up through Manhattan on foot. My friend's fiance was safe. He was travelling to Seattle later that day so was on his way to the airport.<br /><br />My colleague who had listened to the Cantor Fitzgerald staff who knew they were about to die was never the same, closing in on himself.<br /><br />At home that night, I just wanted to hug my son and daughter. And I have had the privilege of ten more years of loving them, unlike thoese poor people who died that day.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-60831291249721289982011-06-10T19:31:00.003+01:002011-06-10T20:07:51.835+01:00Going postal<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RdYJkHLSvHWznW5FQnJzZZTXsd1sg_MCqgV8HOf0ThcpY9xEN_D7MZ1gyMU1W9SqlgyXsjqLFHueAn2es4FKEAQso-uwNsA6hjxDvaOKaOsvUafgFjkJWu37d5bSupGpUgTGlHkUB97n/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 109px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RdYJkHLSvHWznW5FQnJzZZTXsd1sg_MCqgV8HOf0ThcpY9xEN_D7MZ1gyMU1W9SqlgyXsjqLFHueAn2es4FKEAQso-uwNsA6hjxDvaOKaOsvUafgFjkJWu37d5bSupGpUgTGlHkUB97n/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616668511195208946" /></a><br />Sorry - I'm rubbish.<br /><br />I have this wonky back. Had it for years. Four years ago it was diagnosed and some treatment sorted me out for a while. Last autumn, it started to be very painful again and by the turn of the year every step was painful. Every night it woke me up and every day I was tired. Too tired to be bothered with much in the way of pleasure, like writing a blog. Sleep, eat, walk Spot and work. Crap, eh? <br /><br />A couple of months ago, a lady took herself to Dignitas because she could not face the remaining years of pain from arthritis. On the radio, the presenter said "Only arthritis". I would love to be able to clip him round the ear with one of my wonky hands. <br /><br />Anyway, I've had some more treatment which is a bit of a curate's egg just at the moment. Some days I am full of buzz and energy and others are not so good. <br /><br />But this isn't about me. Sir Terry Pratchett has made a documentary about assisted dying and it will be shown on television next week. Go and look it up on the BBC website. He doesn't have wonky hands and a wonky back. Makes me ashamed to bleat.<br /><br />But, I am so proud to have met him and shaken his hand and thanked him. What for?<br /><br />Well, if you remember, at the end of last year, Junior Mad became Dr Junior Mad. The little boy who was labelled as "nice in his own way". Code for thick. Without the ability to read, his life would be so diminished. And he didn't get that from his first school. <br /><br />When Junior Mad got to about 10, he COULD read, just DIDN'T. He saw no pleasure in the experience. One day, totally out of the blue, he picked up "Guards, guards". We overheard this wonderful chuckling. He was hooked. He is never without a book to keep him company. <br /><br />About 11 years ago, I queued for about 2 hours at a book signing. Sir Terry's latest book for my son's Christmas present. I managed to tell him how grateful I was for the door that he had opened to the world of the imagination. He was charming and gracious and told me how pleased he was.<br /><br />What a smashing man. And the world will be a lesser place without him. <br /><br />And thanks for asking. Just old, miserable and grumpy. But still glad to be alive.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjR5BpQzjxY7RV2qOr4LeQMOVcoyzf96NNBTDx3q4JwInvqRTs42aeRL2r5QCnDS4UvU4c4LRMglr9SAfgrcprbBMZB-NRIxovrFC6_Ea33zd423g-bQ1iLRCIQizImKz6-uhaAymFU98/s1600/Hay+Week+2011+080.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjR5BpQzjxY7RV2qOr4LeQMOVcoyzf96NNBTDx3q4JwInvqRTs42aeRL2r5QCnDS4UvU4c4LRMglr9SAfgrcprbBMZB-NRIxovrFC6_Ea33zd423g-bQ1iLRCIQizImKz6-uhaAymFU98/s200/Hay+Week+2011+080.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616669558457947346" /></a>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-46196946904851776252011-02-10T15:16:00.002+00:002011-02-10T15:23:31.170+00:00It wasn't me!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzpd3G1XFmSS9Hy51GBV5w_TNIvn5bJ_OuQnz7nAm-liGUTtjJpx80od05UI_htELqjx-8ubgE6Gqexf3hQEEA_pJhU4nCBirJfSWCNQSeSQU35fS6lYqPSUEO0c65sIgtNUR2fjdgm98/s1600/13997878_BG1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzpd3G1XFmSS9Hy51GBV5w_TNIvn5bJ_OuQnz7nAm-liGUTtjJpx80od05UI_htELqjx-8ubgE6Gqexf3hQEEA_pJhU4nCBirJfSWCNQSeSQU35fS6lYqPSUEO0c65sIgtNUR2fjdgm98/s200/13997878_BG1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572080417022157762" /></a><br />Well, I've got the Red Coat but it wasn't me. Honest.<br /><br />Though I'd like to think that I'd be up for handbagging the yobs.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-28515595454661131622011-01-19T18:30:00.004+00:002011-01-19T18:48:39.413+00:00The Red CoatI'm a touch high maintenance mixed with an inclination to be careful with the pennies. So I tend to wind up with beautiful expensive coats that have to last.<br /><br />My current heavy winter coat for work has been around a few years. Alright, I confess. Nine years. It's classic, black and simple. Looks good wherever you go in it. But it is nine years old and the lining (yes the lining) is beginning to wear out. <br /><br />I've been looking at those wonderful red coats. Hobbs had a nice one and the Austin Reed was even more me. And the sales have been on ...<br /><br />As I drove back from the supermarket last week, I had the following conversation with myself:<br /><br />"That red is smashing, isn't it?"<br /><br />"Yes, but how practical is red?"<br /><br />"Who cares? And it goes with the, ahem, blonde, hair."<br /><br />"How much wear will you get out of it?"<br /><br />"Who cares. It's gorgeous"<br /><br />"But you need a black winter coat ... you know for black coat events"<br /><br />"Maybe no-one will die in the winter"<br /><br />"Who said funerals?"<br /><br />"You just did ... it's still gorgeous"<br /><br />"Well, you know ... it wouldn't look too good at a f..f..funeral"<br /><br />"You've got the black Hobbs trench and the Max Mara three-quarters in black. That'll do for <em>your black coat events</em> "<br /><br />"That would sort out my <em>practical needs</em>, wouldn't it?" <br /><br />"FGS. It's gorgeous. And the sales are still on. But if you don't get a move on they'll only have one tiddly one and a circus tent left".<br /><br />So here it is ... <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygitn861S-oiTMSfoBM0RaY7sUumj_yzzglnjkvNHTyhLlDY6XAZYKJaXwzQ_uEiW-39FPXp1P-Ow1WVlaaJlfVWfz4n2jsyH3c7hDTfzWNpEOwsPK3L7KXO0m07pWtBShVJ4mwrdGHPo/s1600/coat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygitn861S-oiTMSfoBM0RaY7sUumj_yzzglnjkvNHTyhLlDY6XAZYKJaXwzQ_uEiW-39FPXp1P-Ow1WVlaaJlfVWfz4n2jsyH3c7hDTfzWNpEOwsPK3L7KXO0m07pWtBShVJ4mwrdGHPo/s200/coat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563969849206515714" /></a><br /><br />Oh. By the way. At <strong>my </strong> funeral, you'll all have to wear your brightest and sassiest clothes. Not planning on going yet, you understand. But just remember.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-17149804179655943272011-01-14T11:04:00.003+00:002011-01-14T11:23:22.435+00:00My Ann<BlogItemTitle><BlogItemURL> <a href="http://madagainblogspot.blogspot.com/2010/07/anns-story.html">Ann</a> </BlogItemTitle> was an old lady by the time I was born. She continued to be an old lady for the next 13 years. Widowed at forty-five, she spent the next ten years in poverty until her youngest child was grown up. This took its toll and she rapidly became the white haired old lady of my childhood. <br /><br />This was taken in 1936, when she was fifty-five. When I first looked at the back of the photograph, I thought it said 1956. You would easily believe she was seventy-five, wouldn't you?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2syx-OlmkPANOrYBZGrDR0CtMtxVbRp-7o-GmBZSBBPDMnBLa9a0jWDC1eB0RT4eZUvIPmmS6ul1JI3fRS0kzYd-kwQ7IxWEhJs9VFbvyjvj9C0oPFhbkFG2RdyUFWI-TxtvqoIpuvTd/s1600/Ann+1936.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 122px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2syx-OlmkPANOrYBZGrDR0CtMtxVbRp-7o-GmBZSBBPDMnBLa9a0jWDC1eB0RT4eZUvIPmmS6ul1JI3fRS0kzYd-kwQ7IxWEhJs9VFbvyjvj9C0oPFhbkFG2RdyUFWI-TxtvqoIpuvTd/s200/Ann+1936.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561997755292303954" /></a><br /><br />I remember her wedding ring – a typically thick Edwardian band that never left her hand. One day, my mother’s wedding ring slipped from her finger and disappeared inside the sofa. Ann was so angry with her. “Your wedding ring should never leave your hand. Don’t you understand, you silly young woman?” <br /><br />My mother made all my clothes and I would be required to stand on the table while the hem was pinned. One day, when I was whining quietly, Ann told her to take me down from the table. It wasn’t perfect. My mother was a perfectionist. “No king will get off his horse to look at it”. Hard times had taught Ann that good enough was good enough sometimes. <br /><br />When she was confused and “going home”, I would sometimes sit with her while my mother and aunts rushed around shopping and cleaning. As a twelve year old, I didn’t really know what to say to this old lady. We would sit quietly, either side of the range. I would mainly have my head in a book just on the look out from the corner of my eye for hat-coat-hatpins and out-of-the-door. She would gaze into the distance, probably somewhere before 1927. But sometimes, she would say. “Let’s have some coffee” and we would make a little pot to share. My mother firmly held to the belief that coffee stunted the growth of the young. I remember Ann laughing at her, “So what’s your excuse, then?” My mother was (just) 5’. No inches. Ann was a stately 5’5". I'm 5' 4". So who was right?<br /><br />Ann died on July 15th 1965. The funeral was about a week later. I was sent to school and returned to the house after it was all over. All that was left was the scent of lilies.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-39718318614947480462011-01-13T17:34:00.004+00:002011-01-13T17:45:10.568+00:00My HughBack last year, I started to tell the story of my grandparents, sarting with <BlogItemTitle><BlogItemURL> <a href="http://madagainblogspot.blogspot.com/2010/07/hughs-story.html">Hugh</a> </BlogItemTitle> and I need to finish off my recollections of them. <br /><br />Hugh died thirty-five years before I was born. I glimpse the boy and man through the photographs. Earnest and good looking leaving Merionethsire to make his way in the south. The proud newly-wed. Hands on hips grinning broadly from over his work bench. The father with young children. That photograph is taken about three years before he died. Was he already aware of his own mortality?<br /> <br />Most of his story is pieced together from family memories. Eluned, his third child, was my mother. She adored her strong, clever father and treasured memories of days with him. But, of course, her memories stopped when she was twelve. Did he have a temper? The family have what we call the “Evans temper”. Was he a perfectionist? That seems to be in the family too. <br /><br />There are no more photographs of him. They are all in last year's blogs. But this was the little stool that he made for my mother. Touching the wood that he carved is the nearest I get to him.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcfqP8gz8pE0ryfdldFb-NKa7ZDNFl_U4bdpfq_MbCwgM2FLhqDvgcMenV5WO5MNggv2HEIW0BQct7RM_vmJukZuieV8vZkgZefJJudyDgzOBhZoXEBT_OmskD7-7rEG7FYklMdQeJqMC/s1600/August+2010+021.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcfqP8gz8pE0ryfdldFb-NKa7ZDNFl_U4bdpfq_MbCwgM2FLhqDvgcMenV5WO5MNggv2HEIW0BQct7RM_vmJukZuieV8vZkgZefJJudyDgzOBhZoXEBT_OmskD7-7rEG7FYklMdQeJqMC/s200/August+2010+021.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561727375849147186" /></a><br /><br /><br />I look at his photographs and see a keen resemblance with my son. So my Hugh is a shadow, a chimera that I did not know. I would love to have an hour in his company to know what he was really like. But the Hugh that I have to settle for is from other people’s memories. And maybe that’s all we really are, once we’re gone.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-90991087984877205722011-01-05T07:06:00.006+00:002011-01-05T07:19:48.534+00:00Happy New NewDid you have a good Christmas and New Year holiday? <br /><br />Mine was wonderful; family and friends filled the house. Highlights included trekking across the fields to collect the turkey, the Boxing Day walk where the temperature got UP to -9C and watching the kite overhead against the crisp blue winter sky.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2qbB66Ng1cUkbyKrieNcmNdz2cWLpo-EcUnX4qolXMTWAndbR4NrmZ9al5Cwrq732kt4NTH_Kbb-vjoG92FLcxflSTOTW4ec9mRflDxgy9I6R4hEUDeHrOrUjTkcfpKMRx5KRIbSlmtj/s1600/December+2010+1191.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2qbB66Ng1cUkbyKrieNcmNdz2cWLpo-EcUnX4qolXMTWAndbR4NrmZ9al5Cwrq732kt4NTH_Kbb-vjoG92FLcxflSTOTW4ec9mRflDxgy9I6R4hEUDeHrOrUjTkcfpKMRx5KRIbSlmtj/s200/December+2010+1191.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558597554166090226" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97I-QiZm6aclFudatUA6s9eaAlfRxKShSUmfqE_ql_9w9AtLckKITxDUZ7zrM2-s310m-5gUSOcIpoE7bwPcQMFWHSpkkF8Acc3npgMHr_54NFp2Wy1bldP-Ah2A8C2-cdS9WR1bVkInY/s1600/December+2010+1147.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97I-QiZm6aclFudatUA6s9eaAlfRxKShSUmfqE_ql_9w9AtLckKITxDUZ7zrM2-s310m-5gUSOcIpoE7bwPcQMFWHSpkkF8Acc3npgMHr_54NFp2Wy1bldP-Ah2A8C2-cdS9WR1bVkInY/s200/December+2010+1147.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558596989176704370" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGrd2BrH0U9hEK6UTrcX9QOJdICpKF0bfA9HRp1kNT3UZwsCPtSshFigjnKe3bs8wPCNd78RcRBY07C9AM1QonSdkseJADq-d3SBRLDki94NW_XeZpK_StHyRSW7e5GyZdf3b1JnH48ZV/s1600/December+2010+1102.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGrd2BrH0U9hEK6UTrcX9QOJdICpKF0bfA9HRp1kNT3UZwsCPtSshFigjnKe3bs8wPCNd78RcRBY07C9AM1QonSdkseJADq-d3SBRLDki94NW_XeZpK_StHyRSW7e5GyZdf3b1JnH48ZV/s200/December+2010+1102.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558596576961939570" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuIPPxzgvTBN3NTn4D17s-Lyp_FmZ5FxRmiu-yHb5KwroJ3h7sC3yH_ITZqvrItV80dDYzDFryjAegaUKzGIrggkmsroxHqAk0W2KgjHMdtkYEe1JKiV84fS7Woj9S6FJmFGccR7m58-w/s1600/December+2010+0060.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuIPPxzgvTBN3NTn4D17s-Lyp_FmZ5FxRmiu-yHb5KwroJ3h7sC3yH_ITZqvrItV80dDYzDFryjAegaUKzGIrggkmsroxHqAk0W2KgjHMdtkYEe1JKiV84fS7Woj9S6FJmFGccR7m58-w/s200/December+2010+0060.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558596024845786770" /></a><br /><br />Best wishes for 2011 to you all out there in the blogosphere.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-60082723495775501172010-12-03T09:48:00.007+00:002010-12-03T11:53:33.306+00:00The survival of curiosity“It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiQojUSBc1HE2sM4UzsYi7QjFdeYoqOCde4U28u_tNdDXNcQlH1gZV1GItwMzQcR5nypE8H7JbyQ_bJ_tl2jnaGRua1HSEMPrT8BPm1suAlZ3bTwKJmisW4shUS7jbG6RE9Yd-F2a2Tk1/s1600/owen+col+2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiQojUSBc1HE2sM4UzsYi7QjFdeYoqOCde4U28u_tNdDXNcQlH1gZV1GItwMzQcR5nypE8H7JbyQ_bJ_tl2jnaGRua1HSEMPrT8BPm1suAlZ3bTwKJmisW4shUS7jbG6RE9Yd-F2a2Tk1/s200/owen+col+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546421713457943842" /></a><br /><br />Madette turned rapidly from a tiny premature scrap to a hollering monster to a sharp intellectual pebble, never content with a "that's how it is" explanation. Clever and determined, she commanded input from all around her. Junior Mad was a placid, easy baby with a cheerful disposition and a wicked smile. Separated by only twenty-three months, they rapdily became playmates. He had keen knack for winding up his big sister. She would patronise him with her superior language and understanding and he would retaliate with a tease. "You're a mushroom, you're a teapot, you're a mushpot", he would sing. They both loved to sit and listen to stories, reading being a passion in the Mad household. <br /><br />Madette howled at being abandoned at nursery school. Junior Mad howled because he was too young to stay. A sociable, jolly little boy he joined in all the activities with enthusiasm once he was old enough to stay. <br /><br />When Madette went to school, she could read a little and write her name. Within a few weeks, she was composing grand stories about monsters and dragons in a neat script. By seven, she had read "Swallows and Amazons". Junior Mad was fascinated by how the world worked. His first visit to the Science Museum at three left him breathless and pink-cheeked with excitement. When our two hour slot in the Launch Pad was up, I had to carry him out under my arm because he was desperate to stay. He'd probably still be there now.<br /><br />So when he started school at four and a half, I had few worries about him. Sociable, sparky and cheery, I expected a period of settling in as he got the hang of the routine and while reading and writing embedded. There was no settling in. It started bad and got worse. "Is it a school day, Mummy?", he would ask. If I said yes, then he turned his face to the wall. <br /><br />We asked if he could see the Educational Psychologist. No point, said the school. He's just immature and not very motivated. He was, after all, barely five! But he was so deeply interested in everything <strong>outside</strong> school. In desperation, we saw a private Ed Psych. The school refused to read the report. "A waste of time". A pity really. She had found a very bright little boy with some writing difficulties. School managed to lose the writing aid that she recommended. <br /><br />Months went by and the situation did not improve. He got into trouble because he lost his temper. Each child had been asked to give a little talk to the class. He chose satellites. When he got to the bit explaining how a satellite was in geostationary orbit, the other children became a bit bored, so the teacher stopped him. He was furious and telling her so earned him the punishment of losing break-time. He was six.<br /><br />Parents evening was torture. The little heap of books showed almost no achievements, a few tatty sentences painfully scribed at the top of the first page in most books and nothing else. "It's very difficult, Mrs Mad. You shouldn't compare him to Madette. He can be lovely in his own way". "You are telling me that he's thick, aren't you?", I questioned angrily. "This is something very hard for educated middle-class parents to accept". Just who are you calling effing middle-class? <br /><br />Eventually, another mother came to talk to me in the playground. She had seen Junior Mad reduced to tears in the class by the carelessly cruel remarks of his teacher. She had labelled him lazy and ignorant. That was the last time they had the opportunity to hurt him. He left that day.<br /><br />But they had done such a lot of damage in the time he was there. His confidence was knocked sideways and he never quite regained the easy manner which allowed him to make friends readily. The next school peeled back the protective outer layer and provided him with the support he needed. Choices around senior school were hard. I couldn't bear the idea of sending him away to board so senior school was a curate's egg. Not all bad, although it was dispiriting to have to explain dyslexia to some teachers. But we were very fortunate to have the resources to provide support that he didn't get in school. <br /><br />Sixth-form was mainly a good experience since he had a nice group of friends and he focused on the sciences where he excelled. An inspirational teacher encouraged him to take a Nuffield Bursary with a placement at a space science laboratory. His curiosity continued to unfurl. After a gap year, he set off to university. One of those Russell Group institutions, not normally renowned for taking students who are "lovely in their own way". He got a First. <br /><br />So what's he doing now? Well, today he's probably nursing a bit of a hangover. But yesterday, he was awarded his PhD. <br /><br />That's right Dr Junior Mad. Ha! I can say, "My son, the doctor". Don't go to him if you're bleeding or the like ... he's not that sort of a doctor. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpx3L5Yp6S7m1P11iD8bseGaLy71KVzyQoEskPN8vAvMSaDDDBI79_-msKjRattelDrqUTVqLxu8VaI58dZQcCxvnLRVwa8euzfpr88q5ZLbsTPRe0TC5MkcqD7IdxtBmAj9KwLvN_oAcO/s1600/Owen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpx3L5Yp6S7m1P11iD8bseGaLy71KVzyQoEskPN8vAvMSaDDDBI79_-msKjRattelDrqUTVqLxu8VaI58dZQcCxvnLRVwa8euzfpr88q5ZLbsTPRe0TC5MkcqD7IdxtBmAj9KwLvN_oAcO/s200/Owen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546417171675242290" /></a><br /><br />And just in case you're wondering why my son is wearing a colander in the first picture ... it was so he could look at the lights through the holes. He'd noticed they looked different with / without the holes. <br /><br /><br />This is not a dish best served cold. Yes , I bit of me would like to string some of his early teachers up by their toes but, hey, it's in the past. <br /><br />“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day."<br /><br /><br />Both quotations are from Albert Einstein. They said he was a bit thick too.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-10455965961943445452010-12-01T11:15:00.005+00:002010-12-01T13:20:38.195+00:00Shaken from white wash buckets down the sky ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpR_1Noa3hn_LbH-xvCdFhyAe2yigIhEOjQDO9w2oalsxigvPu3rdjyqq8E3_WHQRYGybKeh1D-J3HVRzx6U2pseghnsEAkdhptiLiYgxD_oCbV9N6p3zz07tx_XJRe5X5LWFbT9D_2Zhm/s1600/Defynnog+Nov+2010+029.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpR_1Noa3hn_LbH-xvCdFhyAe2yigIhEOjQDO9w2oalsxigvPu3rdjyqq8E3_WHQRYGybKeh1D-J3HVRzx6U2pseghnsEAkdhptiLiYgxD_oCbV9N6p3zz07tx_XJRe5X5LWFbT9D_2Zhm/s200/Defynnog+Nov+2010+029.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545672027016387762" /></a><br /><br />A bit chilly, eh? Sunday afternoon it was -10C. And that was when the sun was out. Last January, they said that the weather was "a once in a generation event". Hey-ho.<br /><br />And, I heard a punter on Radio 4 declaiming that it was "time that this country stopped being so insular". For an island, that may be a challenge. Anyone feel like getting out and giving us a push?<br /><br />I never quite know whether I like the white stuff. The sensible bit of me sees the chaos and danger and the bone-chilling hard work for the farmers and other outdoor workers. It was much easier being ten.<br /><br />In 1963, I had just turned ten and loved the stuff. The pleasure was heightened by the fact that school was closed for weeks. The ancient pipes had burst and we had to go in every day for 6 weeks, sign the register and then go home. <br /><br />We had no running water for two months and drinking water had to be collected from a standpipe a quarter of a mile away. Snow was gathered in big pans and heated on the Rayburn to give us water to wash. Ten year olds don't need much washing anyway. <br /><br />My mother frantically tried to keep the house clean against melted slush trailing through. Dad delivered milk every day and always checked on the old and frail on his milkround. I would help him carry freezing bottles up grey stone paths. He trudged with icy cold metal milk crates, his hands chilled to the bone in fingerless gloves. The gloves would be put in the slow oven to dry and warm up before he went out again. <br /><br />My dad's friend was the undertaker and he made me a sledge out of a failed coffin side. Dad polished it up and fixed a box seat and ropes for steering. The final embellishment was the runners. Two stair-rods were screwed in place and we buffed the monster up a bit to give it extra whizz. It certainly had extra whizz and I trudged up the hill valiantly until my legs were like jelly. The descent was a few moments of squealing delight. <br /><br />Ten was just the age to be, eh?<br /><br />"Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."<br /><br /><em>Dylan Thomas</em>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-11520043249840897612010-11-26T14:21:00.003+00:002010-11-26T14:31:09.178+00:00Back again<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjTmtN3APjfn1VrOV3t1DDuLBFQVy1W8tdLgcQF8o9zTOyHX9EIePSCgytvrihJ1_yEEqSAa8u5zRw5XRUExzT1fIx7gkKk-uIscP2nfiyHKbSJCjEirOLoy0OaT4VWfBgEV7sj_6vkUL/s1600/Defynnog+Nov+2010+010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjTmtN3APjfn1VrOV3t1DDuLBFQVy1W8tdLgcQF8o9zTOyHX9EIePSCgytvrihJ1_yEEqSAa8u5zRw5XRUExzT1fIx7gkKk-uIscP2nfiyHKbSJCjEirOLoy0OaT4VWfBgEV7sj_6vkUL/s200/Defynnog+Nov+2010+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543864684384622018" /></a><br /><br />Apologies for the disappearing act. Nothing sinister. Just busy with work, painting, a small holiday, putting the garden to bed for the winter and stuff.<br /><br />Anyway, I haven't gone away.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-52663864023838265142010-10-08T10:53:00.002+01:002010-10-08T11:06:45.223+01:00Happy Birthday, Madette<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTsPtEoqtd93i52Iw7fUnpqgm8M0GrT3LrIMTmpdnmqxCa3JMqtCl8w1vT_cZjGusoLtb0filriz_c0lre-z-YlahAgCEOR159bmedpGNM7af7_KKhaN4hwr_YKrgrvmj9f_XzZwuk9V2/s1600/KLM.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTsPtEoqtd93i52Iw7fUnpqgm8M0GrT3LrIMTmpdnmqxCa3JMqtCl8w1vT_cZjGusoLtb0filriz_c0lre-z-YlahAgCEOR159bmedpGNM7af7_KKhaN4hwr_YKrgrvmj9f_XzZwuk9V2/s200/KLM.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525611446402590738" /></a><br /><br /><br />Today I've had my quota of believing six impossible things before breakfast. <br /><br />First, it was my birthday yesterday and I cannot believe my age. But I downed it before breakfast.<br /><br />Secondly, I share my birthday (date and year) with Vladimir Putin. What was that strange and bitter taste?<br /><br />Thirdly, that Spottie the Git decided to wake me up at 02:31 to have a wander outside. Needed a cup of tea for that one. <br /><br />Fourthly, the Labour party had a choice of two Millipedes and chose the wrong one. I swallowed that one with a banana which may have something to do with the decision.<br /><br />Fifthly, Madette is 29 years old today. Gulp.<br /><br />Lastly, and this really is hard to chew. A bit like Shredded Wheat. You can chew it for hours but it will never get past the tonsils. Tomorrow, Madette will be <strong>exactly </strong> the same age I was when she was born. <br /><br /><strong> <em> Chance made you my daughter; <br />love made you my friend </em></strong>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-27809953142820360732010-10-07T13:40:00.002+01:002010-10-07T13:44:00.608+01:00Happy Birthday, Vlad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFn8YgbgAkFSc-fr92w67imBs3DslCloqqhUpJMw4P1DFjgHDKjW9T5_RHGbhI2r_TR3sTwF0NVEucybGNVwWW6NsCAWcze0iOc9FVkBwReB6zzX_8dY3-gkKrryPTpTcgiZKXyteGhtF/s1600/parecidos-razonables-vladimir-putin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFn8YgbgAkFSc-fr92w67imBs3DslCloqqhUpJMw4P1DFjgHDKjW9T5_RHGbhI2r_TR3sTwF0NVEucybGNVwWW6NsCAWcze0iOc9FVkBwReB6zzX_8dY3-gkKrryPTpTcgiZKXyteGhtF/s200/parecidos-razonables-vladimir-putin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525283694497243042" /></a><br /><br />Yes... it is my big day too. And no, it's not me posing with him.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-70550123904948909352010-10-01T11:52:00.002+01:002010-10-01T15:22:46.288+01:00My morning as Joseph K<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2pNOQiURfiIdz4C2994zmbrdG6At8vxwrSZx9jn6WdYMXCZlCuxkM_e3IRm1qx7BUkwq2-xZeRq8su8nrfIJU9apzIa484kjdMtG_ZE0J1jB_Qm4iGaro66Vp1rv3W5Gz31r2gNjdZeo/s1600/broken+fridge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2pNOQiURfiIdz4C2994zmbrdG6At8vxwrSZx9jn6WdYMXCZlCuxkM_e3IRm1qx7BUkwq2-xZeRq8su8nrfIJU9apzIa484kjdMtG_ZE0J1jB_Qm4iGaro66Vp1rv3W5Gz31r2gNjdZeo/s200/broken+fridge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523029190590287810" /></a><br /><br />My fridge freezer is dying. One bit of the freezer is hot. This is not the normal state of affairs. <br />But I have a 5 year warranty - paid for it when I bought the house in 2006. <br />I have all the paperwork because I am just that sort of person. <br /><br />Phoned manufacturer - directed to an 0844 number for service department.<br />Get through to muppet #1 who asked for my warranty number.<br />No such number on the paperwork. But I have an invoice number. Not interested, says muppet#1. <br />Muppet #1 says can't help without warranty number and hangs up.<br /><br />Phoned back. Got muppet #2<br />Searches database, Can't find me, Says therefore I do not have warranty, argues that my paperwork can't be valid and hangs up.<br /><br />Phoned back. Got muppet #3<br />Searches database, Can't find me, Says therefore I do not have warranty. "Stop" I squeak. Muppet #3 agrees to email manufacturer and will call me back IF I have a valid warranty. Says no point in taking my phone number since, if I have warranty, it will be on the system. Hangs up.<br /><br />Phoned manufacturer again. Hit random set of numbers until I got a human bean. "Don't hang up," I plead. <br />HB#1 searches database using my name, address and invoice number on the warranty document. The latter finds me. They have me as "Again Mad" not "Mad Again". <br />HB#1 tells me to call 0844 number for service department and give them the information about the name and the invoice number since they are using the same database. HB#1 tells me to give them her name as well. <br /><br />Phoned back to service department. Got muppet #4.<br />Explain it ALL again. Muppet #4 searches system and says can't find me. Says they've never heard of HB#1. Hangs up.<br /><br />Phoned manufacturer. Hit random set of numbers until I got HB#2. "Don't hang up", I plead. "Please can I speak to HB#1".<br />I wait on hold while listening to music interspersed with spiel about how reliable their products are ...<br />HB#1 comes back on phone. Listens patiently and says she will put me through to another HB who will sort it out.<br />I wait on hold while listening to music interspersed with spiel about how reliable their products are ... and then I'm cut off.<br /><br />Phoned manufacturer. Hit random set of numbers until I got HB#3. "Don't hang up, I plead". Please can I speak to HB#1.<br />HB#3 says that HB#1 is on the phone but can she call me back. <br /><br />Twenty minutes later, HB#1 calls back and says that she will put me through to HB#4 who will sort the problem out. <br />I wait on hold while listening to music interspersed with spiel about how reliable their products are ...<br />Just when I think that it's all gone wrong again, HB#4 comes on the line with all the background. An engineer will call me today. <br /><br />None of this has actually fixed the darned thing. <br /><br />And I will be spending the weekend making strange and interesting dishes. Vegetarian bolognese sauce with a garnish of gooseberries. Blackberry and gammon crumble. Bread pudding and German sausage. Any takers?MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-53842446653902344422010-09-20T09:55:00.005+01:002010-09-20T11:18:30.153+01:00An arrow from a bow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxRvF99ecjDK1FwsLqk42Kyhl0riB_oqlyPSfm3GeKA2DU_v9_s5_WSUC4QJi7B5CZQ3VBXFkJuXsViSemdGdHkiX33inp5Rldxjd0TR-3IFEW3MWv5fBUiO9vde4L-eH2aMSll45xq6S/s1600/KLM.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxRvF99ecjDK1FwsLqk42Kyhl0riB_oqlyPSfm3GeKA2DU_v9_s5_WSUC4QJi7B5CZQ3VBXFkJuXsViSemdGdHkiX33inp5Rldxjd0TR-3IFEW3MWv5fBUiO9vde4L-eH2aMSll45xq6S/s320/KLM.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518937047681499266" /></a><br />Saturday morning at 5 o'clock as the day begins ...<br />... she's leaving home, bye bye<br /><br />Ok, so not like the Beatles Wednesday morning and she didn't exactly creep out. Rather, my more than slightly not-sensible car was stuffed to the gunwhales with books, pots and pans, new bed linen as we set out for the long journey North. We smiled at all the cars filled to the brim with the things that Freshers need: duvets, tea bags and a surreptiously packed teddy bear. We grabbed breakfast at a service station and watched an anxious family. Pa re-checking the map, Ma looking in the M&S food shop for one last item of grocery and Son shrugging in depair while he explained that they could probably buy food in Sheffield. <br /><br />This was different. Madette has been there and done the undergraduate thing, even the post-grad thing. When she was in "that distant marsh town", meeting up for a weekend or even a day trip was easy. This last year has been full of ups and downs for her and in this strange hiatus she has been back home. Despite the frustrations of unemployment and dashed hopes, there have been some very nice times. Weekends in Wales, dog-walks and sharing books. Now, she is a long way North starting an academic career in one of our great universities. We won't mark the ebb and flow of university terms any longer. Yes, she will see the students come and go and the city will be quieter during the Long Vac but her work and research will fit around it not rush with the same tide. Weekends will need planning, many hours of travel punctuated with the misery of motorway journeys or long train journeys. Just why were there pedestrians on the M1 yesterday? <br /><br /><br />Your children are not your children.<br />They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.<br />They come through you but not from you,<br />And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.<br /><br />You may give them your love but not your thoughts, <br />For they have their own thoughts.<br />You may house their bodies but not their souls,<br />For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, <br />which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.<br />You may strive to be like them, <br />but seek not to make them like you.<br />For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.<br /><br />You are the bows from which your children<br />as living arrows are sent forth.<br />The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, <br />and He bends you with His might <br />that His arrows may go swift and far.<br />Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;<br />For even as He loves the arrow that flies, <br />so He loves also the bow that is stable.<br /><br /><strong></strong> <em>On children - Kahlil Gibran</em><br /><br />The fingers, so tightly gripped all those years ago, have been relinquished. And I'm so pleased for her. Now, it's just me, the Collie and the Jam mountain.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-84960278751727465802010-08-30T09:40:00.005+01:002010-08-30T09:58:12.933+01:00Green and golden<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wbx2WQcY2RUef_HXijlXrivNcfleOmWym1sVlPIgaMDx_zvTDJh2SGwCpXrz63AEM_jF9xzinG0XLX-QLzDaIUZCnipmdKkduPZzeGjCLWup2NhQqKHxibMk3RnVELvxkGMIazBKRjLe/s1600/August+2010+012.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wbx2WQcY2RUef_HXijlXrivNcfleOmWym1sVlPIgaMDx_zvTDJh2SGwCpXrz63AEM_jF9xzinG0XLX-QLzDaIUZCnipmdKkduPZzeGjCLWup2NhQqKHxibMk3RnVELvxkGMIazBKRjLe/s320/August+2010+012.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511123107899284770" /></a><br />I've listened to all my European colleagues yattering on about the long weeks that they've spent down on the Med while I've been waiting. Smugly, you know. Through the long not very nice summer, I've taken long weekends to watch progress on the building work on the house. As the showers came and went, and building was slowed down, my smug smile withered slightly but still hovered a bit Cheshire cat-like. <br />Last week, as the school holidays trickled away, I watched the fields and gardens turn to mud. Still a bit smug but also fearful that those forecasts of wet until November might be true.<br /><br />But now here I am smug, SMUG, <strong>SMUG</strong>. On holiday, in Wales with Fern Hill weather. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsCkI0XxSZDzIFaLiznSlk1vpZaj1jG0jWeaYHI_eaks3R0XIn8L2K1qskeuQxbEu__LjIBYpRIQQdeYHt4aHnGqQIwKDUT4ZfNZ1vDAJGtLpVAXkNo_NRbo0_5J44b8DUNL-Fu06iAWs/s1600/August+2010+006.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsCkI0XxSZDzIFaLiznSlk1vpZaj1jG0jWeaYHI_eaks3R0XIn8L2K1qskeuQxbEu__LjIBYpRIQQdeYHt4aHnGqQIwKDUT4ZfNZ1vDAJGtLpVAXkNo_NRbo0_5J44b8DUNL-Fu06iAWs/s320/August+2010+006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511123957168296178" /></a>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-18408463361678752022010-08-25T13:33:00.004+01:002010-08-25T23:01:22.964+01:00Happy Birthday, Junior Mad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsBum9zp0t1GLq3PeW8VZQy8tGTLiPXAKH1HcyXYaSLa-fCcgZMns6pFOOeuAq-M6J4Jk7-gMfz0kajIlMg6AOVcy2ZhcUnkbaga2D1pZSiju14vCeMv7T6sa2BIlZLyBnH_-30pSiskw/s1600/Owen+2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsBum9zp0t1GLq3PeW8VZQy8tGTLiPXAKH1HcyXYaSLa-fCcgZMns6pFOOeuAq-M6J4Jk7-gMfz0kajIlMg6AOVcy2ZhcUnkbaga2D1pZSiju14vCeMv7T6sa2BIlZLyBnH_-30pSiskw/s320/Owen+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509470557719193074" /></a><br /><br /><br />Twenty-seven ... every blessed year for the last twenty-seven years. Wide awake in the middle of the night. 04:04 found me sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and a book. <br /><br />Happy Birthday, my smashing son. <br /><br />And the little blue lion in the corner ... she's 27 today too.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDs-UKWeKghsTYwGNZGiIRyauenqrOHIrdO7FCEX_OA9cp-k9sfcLqTE7pLyTEIZ11EkO0oRhhz1zXYJEiauF9NF9VmB9_Zn87sEXt9y6xmfLq4eRfFvVUkGE0ZCVMucwqGzQ74ooxbTXF/s1600/birthday+cake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 66px; height: 63px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDs-UKWeKghsTYwGNZGiIRyauenqrOHIrdO7FCEX_OA9cp-k9sfcLqTE7pLyTEIZ11EkO0oRhhz1zXYJEiauF9NF9VmB9_Zn87sEXt9y6xmfLq4eRfFvVUkGE0ZCVMucwqGzQ74ooxbTXF/s200/birthday+cake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509325416873341858" /></a>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-82920005702169931852010-08-23T13:40:00.002+01:002010-08-23T13:59:34.835+01:00Paradise Lost<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1alfcF3AF0q9TGOCDWeo9q4uhdGWirjxgvE29upJkNZm2whFIQ6-dRmqu41EyqBw5KGc2TILeTxbVYxgvNfwIeTyZIX9Er0QWzosje4PANTXSTcKFXuODbhEIcbxldGfke1EwOJczRP-t/s1600/apple.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 164px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1alfcF3AF0q9TGOCDWeo9q4uhdGWirjxgvE29upJkNZm2whFIQ6-dRmqu41EyqBw5KGc2TILeTxbVYxgvNfwIeTyZIX9Er0QWzosje4PANTXSTcKFXuODbhEIcbxldGfke1EwOJczRP-t/s200/apple.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508584896064481138" /></a><br />Tap me with your finger,<br />rub me with your sleeve,<br />hold me, sniff me, peel me<br />curling round and round<br />till I burst out white and cold<br />from my tight red coat<br />and tingle in your palm<br /><br />as if I’d melt and breathe<br />a living pomander<br />waiting for the minute<br />of joy when you lift me<br />to your mouth and crush me<br />and in taste and fragrance<br />I race through your head<br />in my dizzy dissolve.<br /><br />I sit in the bowl<br />in my cool corner<br />and watch you as you pass<br />smoothing your apron.<br />Are you thirsty yet?<br />My eyes are shining<br /><br /><em>The Apple Song Edwin Morgan 1920 - 2010</em>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-51962140065741097122010-08-16T11:05:00.003+01:002010-08-16T11:45:54.774+01:00William and Rachel's storyIf you're looking for a happy ever after story, I'm sorry but this will disappoint you.<br /><br />They moved from Rachel’s aunt’s home to a rented house as a young married couple. William tolerated the fat, ugly baby who, anyway, spent a deal of time with his great-aunt. <br /><br />In the late Summer of 1916, Rachel fell pregnant again. This wasn’t in the Great Plan. She had not wanted another baby and was terrified of going through days of labour. As far as possible, she ignored her pregnancy and tried to hide it from everyone especially William. Far from rejecting her, he was delighted to have another baby of his own. This still did not mollify her. Taking no notice of nagging backache, she set off for the Spring Fair with her sister. Throughout the day, the pains increased and eventually, they got home moments before the baby boy was born nearly two months early. A tiny scrap, Rachel hoped he would not survive. She had given all her love to one son and had none left for this red, angry baby who ruined her figure and her plans. <br /><br />William persuaded his sister-in-law to help him bottle feed the little reject who refused to die. Reluctantly, Rachel came round to the baby,Eric, but made sure that there would be no further mistakes. She put a bolster down the middle of the bed and this stayed in place for the next forty-five years.<br /><br />But love did not deepen for William and Rachel; they endured each other. The household eventually fractured into two separate parts. Rachel loved the first baby forever and tried to give him every opportunity, saving pennies to buy him small treats. William’s indifference to his stepson turned to stone when the boy showed no aptitude to learn how the world worked. By contrast, his own son showed a keen understanding of everything mechanical. In 1925, they sent off for a kit and instruction book to make a cat’s whisker radio. Everything that William lavished on Eric was denied to his stepson. At three years old, Eric became desperately ill leaving him almost totally deaf. William sent him to private school and when he was nineteen, he bought a car for him to learn to drive. The other son was allowed nowhere near the car. Eric took his lead from William and learned to despise his half brother. The common currency between William and Eric describing the older boy was "that silly bugger".<br /><br />In 1921, William and Rachel and Rachel’s sister and brother-in-law bought a plot of land and built two houses with large gardens. Rachel and Hannah were close companions and Eric played with his young cousins who could follow his awkward speech. <br /><br />Every Summer, when William’s holiday came round, Rachel would take his holiday pay and buy wallpaper and paint. He spent the next week decorating while she went away with her sister. One year, William returned the materials and, stripping off the wallpaper on the stairwell, he painted a fresco of a remarkably evil looking horse. Since it was applied directly to the plaster, it remains to this day, hidden under wallpaper. <br /><br />Rachel was furious and they had one of their infamous rows where she hurled a kettle of boiling water followed by a flat iron. He fended her off with the ironing board. That was the last year of decorating summer holidays. William had achieved what he wanted and he and Eric took off on their own travels every summer. <br /><br />After Eric had learned to drive in 1936, they went to Devon and Dorset just following their fancy. The ferry from Weymouth to the Channel Islands caught their eye and then it was just a short hop to St Malo where they meandered along the north coast of Brittany for a few days. Lord knows what the Bretons made of this strange pair.<br /><br />Rachel developed a taste for charabanc trips to Scarborough and Blackpool with her sister and best friend. She became a pillar of the Church and, when war broke out, she joined the Red Cross as a volunteer nurse in a local convalescent home. <br /><br />Both sons married in the 1950s leaving William and Rachel to rub along on their own. <br /><br />In 1961, William’s health began to fail and in November, he and Rachel made a momentous decision. They got married. William was eighty-two and Rachel was sixty-eight. <br /><br />You’ve probably done a double-take at this point. No, go back up and re-read it. William and Rachel set up home “as a young married couple”. Just without the getting married bit.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwffgevgVSNGVh9cE2wn1wcx4z3A05hvzHJJfAUqDF9Z17Z4WIrzvFy05_ZbJ8QKiTLokcEvBAB5Mm0D2q_s_c2CIZOgE9vwLNJMEOxBKNxHfqFGqgn8jcQQIoImMYNskZcPSkDb2EAI9M/s1600/Family+photographs+045.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwffgevgVSNGVh9cE2wn1wcx4z3A05hvzHJJfAUqDF9Z17Z4WIrzvFy05_ZbJ8QKiTLokcEvBAB5Mm0D2q_s_c2CIZOgE9vwLNJMEOxBKNxHfqFGqgn8jcQQIoImMYNskZcPSkDb2EAI9M/s200/Family+photographs+045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505955580630102386" /></a>William and Florence were married in 1905 and by the Summer of 1914, they had parted. I don’t know exactly when or why. But by 1914 he was no longer with Florence. Rachel was said to have given him this watch on their wedding day in June 1914. It’s inscribed. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtdCfGrtrPkYHLWCYzNBQ61OFcm4W88mMqQvaANhom2cc2TPs4tPM9_x7ymz8qibrnfYH4T-AceUYuxMrql4VJzZb3SZ3kxu73Jvs1CdCLe_y6upcNRAN8c9PLbFN6jF6tQCAtF56cL34/s1600/Family+photographs+044.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtdCfGrtrPkYHLWCYzNBQ61OFcm4W88mMqQvaANhom2cc2TPs4tPM9_x7ymz8qibrnfYH4T-AceUYuxMrql4VJzZb3SZ3kxu73Jvs1CdCLe_y6upcNRAN8c9PLbFN6jF6tQCAtF56cL34/s200/Family+photographs+044.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505955576397603010" /></a><br /><br /><br />But there was no wedding. William was still married to Florence. <br /><br />Moreover, there was no divorce either. When Florence married Abraham in 1921, she was still married to William. William certainly lost touch with Violet and Felix. <br /><br />Rachel sported a modest wedding ring and a band of diamond chips but had never been married. Her first son had no father named on his birth certificate and carried Rachel’s surname. But William is named on Eric’s birth certificate and he carried his father’s surname. <br /><br />So just why did they marry? Was it just to be respectable? Certainly, there was a grat risk that the whole sorry tale it would have come out when William died. <br /><br />Was it because Florence had died and there would have been no hindrance? No. Florence went on until 1979 when she was ninety-five. Abraham had died in the sixties but, of course, their "marriage" remained irregular too. <br /><br />William knew that, since he and Rachel were not actually married, Rachel had no property rights over his estate. He intended to leave his whole estate to Eric and therby exclude her first son. But Rachel knew William’s secret. Somewhere, there was his wife and legitimate children. She could bring the whole poisonous ediface down around the one person whom William truly loved. Eric would be exposed as illegitimate. It’s hard to understand how terrible that was before the swinging sixties. Anyway, the swinging sixties took a bit longer to reach the South Wales valleys and even in the mid seventies people were still shocked by illegitimacy. In a contradiction of double standards, in the late fifties in some areas more than 50% of brides were pregnant when they married. The dishonour was in the illegitimacy.<br /><br />So, back to William and Rachel. They owned up to Eric that they had never married and that they planned to have a civil ceremony from his sister’s home. Hurt and shocked, he drove them to Swansea on a cold day in November for the wedding. <br /><br />His old will was destroyed when they “married” and he left everything to Rachel. He declined over the Spring and Summer of 1962. In his last days, Rachel saw what a miserable life they had created. Holding his hand as he lay dying, she wept for the bitter years. “Don’t go Will. Don’t leave me”. He died a few days before his eighty-third birthday. Make of her pleading what you like.<br /><br />After his death, Rachel did her best to obliterate his presence from the house. All his artist’s materials, jewellery making tools, violin and harp were thrown out. Eric rescued a few pieces but most of it was lost. All the photographs were destroyed. <br /><br />William had intended leaving the large garden to Eric so that he could build a house. During the shady dealings of sham marriages and wills, this never took place. Rachel gave Eric the land and he built the home of his modest dreams. Next door to Rachel, he and his family were on hand. <br /><br />Old age was reasonably kind to Rachel. Her first son was married with one son and they visited occasionally. Eric continued to love and care for her despite everything. Occasionally, she would lash out at him with the spiteful reminder that he was the child she had never wanted. She didn’t get on with his wife who found Rachel’s bitterness and duplicity loathsome. Sometimes there were nasty rows and Rachel and her daughter-in-law did not speak for months and in one case for more than a year. But mainly she accepted the kindnesses with or without thanks; the Sunday lunches, the laundry and the jams and preserves went on even when they didn’t speak. <br /><br />At the start of 1982, Rachel went downhill rapidly. Through the hard snows of January 1982, Eric struggled to carry on working while caring for his mother. By March she needed 24 hour care. Eric drove to the local hospital nearly every day. On April 8th, he spent the afternoon in the garden planning to go for evening visiting. But he didn’t make it that day. Finishing in the garden, he lit a cigarette, leaned on the garden fork and died. <br /><br />Telling Rachel that he had died was hard. “Not my Eric. Not my boy”. Ah yes, Rachel. The boy you didn’t want, who spent his life trying to please you. Rachel died three weeks later. <br /><br />And what about her will? She left it all to her two sons. Eric’s half went to his widow. There was a deal of confusion and solicitor’s fees spent resolving the fact that, although Rachel had given Eric the land for building, no legal paperwork had ever been completed. Eric’s half brother disputed the title claiming that, although they owned the bricks and mortar, they did not own the land on which it was built. Eventually, common sense won. <br /><br />William and Rachel were my paternal grandparents. <br /><br />Like I said, no happy ever after.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-15452299952934414182010-08-12T22:30:00.006+01:002010-08-12T22:52:49.206+01:00William's story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lILva-JkI71Nak2sBuEQGgKnLauI4G1gz4nr-0t_w6i84PqFBKnO9Ve23oVuSiQL8eO9Vc5IZf2NdLIJudEkYfR7CkB4cYOiZEQ7mglBa1jlxer5n4UNGVqTpfMapBz9IIrBsbTfSPcH/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lILva-JkI71Nak2sBuEQGgKnLauI4G1gz4nr-0t_w6i84PqFBKnO9Ve23oVuSiQL8eO9Vc5IZf2NdLIJudEkYfR7CkB4cYOiZEQ7mglBa1jlxer5n4UNGVqTpfMapBz9IIrBsbTfSPcH/s200/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504640650289825314" /></a><br />William was born on the longest day of 1879, one of the younger children of a large and chaotic family in Merthyr Tydfil. Frank was a woodworker, his sister Jessie became a suffragette, Lizzie was a communist councillor, John set off to fight in the Spanish civil war. All the brothers and sisters were political radicals in the People’s Republic of Merthyr Tydfil. William was an artist and musician. He painted, drew and made jewellery winning first prize for jewellery making in the national Eisteddfod in 1950. He played the violin. Deciding to that he wanted to learn to play the harp and so started from first principles, making his own harp. But for everyday living, he worked in the pit as a coal hewer.<br /><br />In 1905, he married Florence and in 1906 Violet was born. They moved to Aberfan where their son, Felix was born in 1910. New technology was coming to the mines; they were being electrified. William’s quick understanding of how things worked took him into the heart of this new technology. Florence took the children to live with her parents while William travelled around different coal mines, moving on again once electricity had been installed.<br /><br />By 1914, he was lodging with a middle-aged woman and her pretty young niece and illegitimate baby. William became captivated by this young girl, fourteen years his junior.<br /><br />Felix and Violet remained with Florence who married Abraham in 1921. <br /><br />William's life took a different course. He had met Rachel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpQMjGozVGwcct8yOnlrRxWPT_fi1H6bOrjDdedHV2wd79g5OGA0M76zDER8_sx015rwzCoe4y1BefIzyyFC45syQb7j_TKo-7wy4PFhKQa_lRxSiZ6150gssN9FTaDzek7nAPhTlsNfI/s1600/William.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpQMjGozVGwcct8yOnlrRxWPT_fi1H6bOrjDdedHV2wd79g5OGA0M76zDER8_sx015rwzCoe4y1BefIzyyFC45syQb7j_TKo-7wy4PFhKQa_lRxSiZ6150gssN9FTaDzek7nAPhTlsNfI/s200/William.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504644196280772834" /></a>MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-48995778388762181612010-08-09T19:30:00.003+01:002010-08-09T22:51:40.576+01:00Rachel's story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJEiy0pAhEhcE0A3FTfWyv6-oDxyF7d1um454-uw0gftHvKxqai-86cb5Sm5dTQd5ilmGbQ3Qi2gLZsjc_HiSMWlohoxMAk4mzy8EANNx0LQNn8QErQNmuNsDaF_c7jT6JeVQsundb4vnR/s1600/Family+photographs+028.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJEiy0pAhEhcE0A3FTfWyv6-oDxyF7d1um454-uw0gftHvKxqai-86cb5Sm5dTQd5ilmGbQ3Qi2gLZsjc_HiSMWlohoxMAk4mzy8EANNx0LQNn8QErQNmuNsDaF_c7jT6JeVQsundb4vnR/s200/Family+photographs+028.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503530866545683474" /></a><br />Rachel was born in 1893, the eldest of three children. Her father had a small farm, mixing farming with open-cast mining. By the time she was sixteen, he had sold the farm for good money. Deep mining was eating its way through the valleys. Daniel spent the money on buying a pub. Sadly for Rachel and her brother and sister, their parents enjoyed the pub far too much and the money disappeared rapidly. She left home to work as a kitchen maid in a local manor farm. <br /><br />Willow pattern blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair and her delicate build caught the attention of a young man in the house. By the spring of 1912, she was pregnant and by the summer, jobless. Returning home to her parents, she found herself unwanted there as well. Utterly rejected and homeless, she was found wandering the lanes by her widowed aunt who took her in. Her aunt was childless with no experience of childbirth. Rachel’s tiny frame struggled with the large baby for days of agonising and frightening labour. Rachel was nineteen and this was January 1913. Defiantly, she named her baby after his father who never acknowledged the kitchen maid and her unwanted baby. <br /><br />Large, square and ugly, she adored him. But she knew that she had to provide a living and a home for them both. Her aunt ran a boot round, collecting and returning boots and shoes door to door for mending and Rachel joined her, expanding the business walking many miles pushing the perambulator with the boots piled in with the baby. Her brother and sister came to visit and, gradually, her parents allowed their daughter to visit. <br /><br />Rachel looked for more than lodging in her aunt’s home. She wanted security and, at barely twenty-one was still young and pretty. <br /><br />Meeting William put Rachel’s life on a completely different course. They met in 1914 and were together for the next forty-seven years. She had found a step-father for her baby and a man who could provide a good living for the little family. She settled into respectability and domesticity.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-91621346170111671642010-08-02T21:56:00.006+01:002010-08-02T22:43:22.186+01:00Hugh and Ann's Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnE7Cxv9LFMjhuEg_UuP18qYA-LjV5ebNHVicyIOhc5_jS_GpIujb4ur5n3rGHO_HrlOZlih0O-HhGg18Bu4QT6WEVbnBHvujDIIhWii3pcUjenAfpGJ1-bmLoPtCZ7f4h_B000NTSSRn/s1600/Hugh+and+Ann+wedding+Autumn+1909.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnE7Cxv9LFMjhuEg_UuP18qYA-LjV5ebNHVicyIOhc5_jS_GpIujb4ur5n3rGHO_HrlOZlih0O-HhGg18Bu4QT6WEVbnBHvujDIIhWii3pcUjenAfpGJ1-bmLoPtCZ7f4h_B000NTSSRn/s320/Hugh+and+Ann+wedding+Autumn+1909.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500923616531005442" /></a><br />After marrying, they moved into a small flat above a shop. All Ann’s family except her brother were at the wedding. James was in the navy and hadn’t been able to make it back in time. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7D1ZnQoYGO1SV1ZlE96R0Hy3AiAtpTiIsLOggXlxEXL92-RHMeEJ7KFio_AqTJ8Pz5gYeRU6PVdFQiEOJ58CAaA4gmJ0RZ5Fvswvw30vWRDMYRtlNcsEm7OG9pBMPuTCH201qAJlRhbi3/s1600/Family+photographs+025.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7D1ZnQoYGO1SV1ZlE96R0Hy3AiAtpTiIsLOggXlxEXL92-RHMeEJ7KFio_AqTJ8Pz5gYeRU6PVdFQiEOJ58CAaA4gmJ0RZ5Fvswvw30vWRDMYRtlNcsEm7OG9pBMPuTCH201qAJlRhbi3/s200/Family+photographs+025.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500928594056159074" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFb3QxZft_eFxv93svockH-0LWdVX5nS3tGL_Tcftu5dQYd9hbtJSQTBCAU7zCeP68pBJdvH4eoODGZUQJrRaJeznaBmZLGG70-Nc9zzQAM09by61yR-gW4EPDnch6bRF3yB8i4v4ouIc/s1600/Family+photographs+024.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFb3QxZft_eFxv93svockH-0LWdVX5nS3tGL_Tcftu5dQYd9hbtJSQTBCAU7zCeP68pBJdvH4eoODGZUQJrRaJeznaBmZLGG70-Nc9zzQAM09by61yR-gW4EPDnch6bRF3yB8i4v4ouIc/s200/Family+photographs+024.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500927962723230962" /></a><br />After saying goodbye to the family, they retired for the night. Trembling with anticipation, they lay in bed, chastely side-by-side. Hugh unwound Ann's hair and she threaded her fingers into his curls. Suddenly, a clatter and shout were heard outside. “A drunk, take no notice”, he whispered. “Ann, Hugh, c’mon. It’s me … James”. It was her brother. His ship had arrived at Cardiff docks and he had gifts for the newlyweds. His sailor’s bag was slung over his shoulder and balanced in his arms were a set of eggshell delicate bone china and a large wall clock. Realising that he had missed the wedding breakfast, he had enjoyed a glass or two before catching the last train up the valley. He spent the night on their sofa, snoring. They held hands all through a long unconsummated night. <br /><br />The presence of an unexpected guest didn’t damper their ardour for long. Morfydd was born in August 1910, Mair in 1912, Eluned in 1914 and Iorwerth in 1916. In 1918 a still-born baby broke into their happiness. Eluned was so excited that there was going to be a baby and ran upstairs. Hugh stood on the landing glassy-eyed with tears and wouldn’t let the little girl go in. “I want to see the baby”, she bellowed. “There isn’t a baby for us today”, he murmured hugging her. Another baby girl, Irene, arrived safely in 1919. Glennys was born in the summer of 1921 but died at seven months. Eluned had knitted a dolly for her baby sister and hugged it on the day of the funeral. <br /><br />But mostly, it was a happy home. Ann worked hard to keep a good house, blacking the range and scrubbing the front step. Cleanliness and godliness were level pegging in the home. By 1919 Hugh was the foreman-builder on a new development of council houses. He earned a good wage and they could afford a few luxuries. Shelves began to fill with books and occasional toys for the children. Hugh and Ann loved coffee and they would mill the beans for fresh coffee in the evening when the children went to bed. Little Eluned would beg for a sip of coffee but grimaced at the taste every time.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2y5Nkjrk5UKNzdW-Od6YSKxJiB-NpnJm2Gb2QWLjFLUuNFXW8dRWBhQf_icV3XvJNBaoXMfVFvYvGdKDpu1lxgdJpdW4kn2VfoWjRbht0Up1PXRotNAee1rV_M7BBTyFWjliQ55PXfBC9/s1600/Family+photographs+002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2y5Nkjrk5UKNzdW-Od6YSKxJiB-NpnJm2Gb2QWLjFLUuNFXW8dRWBhQf_icV3XvJNBaoXMfVFvYvGdKDpu1lxgdJpdW4kn2VfoWjRbht0Up1PXRotNAee1rV_M7BBTyFWjliQ55PXfBC9/s320/Family+photographs+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500922483321845874" /></a><br /><br /><br />Hugh would bring home his account book and a bag of money to pay the workmen. Eluned and Iorwerth would be given the money to count while Morfydd and Mair bagged up and labelled each wage. Later, when Eluned proved to be adept with numbers, she would be given the columns of figures to check. <br /><br />Two dogs trotted in and out of the house. There was always a spaniel and a terrier. Each Whit Monday and on the first Monday in August, Hugh would hire a pony and trap and take them to the seaside. A long day with Eluned and Iorwerth on the perch by the side of Hugh and the dogs sandwiched between them. Ann and the other girls would sit in the back with the baskets of provisions and the blankets. Eluned didn’t care whether they ever got to the sea; sitting up in the cart looking at the fields and hedges was the thing. Hugh was a fine horseman having been a teamster before leaving home. He would let the little ones stand between his knees and hold the reins as they trotted along the lanes. On the journey home, the two postillions would be adamant that they weren’t tired enough to need to travel behind but they often found themselves waking up under blankets by the end of the journey. <br /><br />After Glennys, there were no more babies and Hugh and Ann looked forward to the children growing up. He was making a good living and thinking about throwing his lot in with his brother Robert who had started his own building firm. Robert’s wife still looked down on the shop girl and Alice was busily inculcating her nieces with the “we might be poor, but we’re not common” mantra. In 1924, Morfydd left school to work in the local Corn Stores, a sensible reliable girl. 1926 was a year of great change for the family. Mair left school to work in a dress shop. Eluned passed her scholarship exam to go to the grammar school and Hugh fell ill. <br /><br />The cancer quickly took hold and one day in the Spring of 1927, the younger children were taken to the hospital to see their father one last time. They arrived too late. He had just just died and they couldn’t recognise the old man in the bed. He was forty-four. <br /><br />Life changed completely for Ann and the children. The two elder girls became the breadwinners. Irene spent many months with her aunts and Eluned with her uncle and aunt. Iorwerth became the man of the family. He was ten. The light had truly gone out of Ann’s life. Scrimping and saving to keep the family together took away her sense of joy and was replaced by overwhelming sadness occasionally spliced with bitterness and anger.<br /><br />In 1962, Ann had a small stroke leaving her permanently confused. She wanted to go home – to the house where she had lived with Hugh and their young family. Every day, she would dress her hair, put on her coat and hat and carefully put the two hatpins in place ready to go home. Eventually, she went home in June 1965. <br /><br />Hugh and Ann were my maternal grandparents.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-54456525086202875812010-07-30T14:51:00.005+01:002011-01-13T17:33:12.143+00:00Ann's Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvBPjW81banCkZ8zUJ8iOCwuPIYBoIaGossnCCVBT6BHqimPCO1wpV3gP40FWm6EjL4oHxN7oZaCcDl_VudP2cR11wlHp172vhpHbb3DEW6moQIpzophNjhyphenhyphen8GIs09lM8ZWRhuXqRPGGB/s1600/Family+photographs+008.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvBPjW81banCkZ8zUJ8iOCwuPIYBoIaGossnCCVBT6BHqimPCO1wpV3gP40FWm6EjL4oHxN7oZaCcDl_VudP2cR11wlHp172vhpHbb3DEW6moQIpzophNjhyphenhyphen8GIs09lM8ZWRhuXqRPGGB/s320/Family+photographs+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499697651273045074" /></a><br /><br />Benjamin and Charlotte lived on the edge of coal mining with Charlotte bringing a little bit of money and some pretension to the household. They ran a shop passed to them by Charlotte’s parents. Benjamin was an occasional coal haulier, or “Haulier of Coal” as Charlotte would have it.<br /><br />Sons and daughters filled the home, worked in the shop and contributed to a comfortable but not luxurious existence. Some of the older sons worked in the local brewery. James went to sea. The daughters who were not working in the shop became seamstresses. All except Hannah. Tall, elegant and sharp, Hannah went into service where she became the housekeeper in a grand house. On her visits home she brought magazines relaying the latest styles and <em>comme il faut </em>to her sisters. She taught Alice, Esther and Gwenllian how to trim the edges of skirts and blouses according to the magazines. She taught Ann how to twist her beautiful dark hair on to the top of her head and to wear a hat at a fashionable angle.<br /><br />Ann is on the far left in the photograph and Hannah on the right. Their mother, Charlotte is next to Ann, followed by Alice and Gwenllian who is holding baby Morfydd. Esther is not in the photograph. Please note Hannah's crisp black dress with the leg-o-mutton sleeves and immaculate over pinny. A woman not to be messed with.<br /><br />Ann was born in 1881. A late summer baby with dark hair and eyes. At three years old she had an eye injury. Playing around with a pencil, one of her brothers poked it into her eye. It took a while for Ann's eye to recover and it was kept bandaged over for months. She developed the habit of looking down and then fixing you with a fierce glare, mainly through the good eye. You remember when your mother said "you'll take someone's eye out"? Well they nearly did.<br /><br />Hugh was captivated by Ann’s dark intense looks and she adored his curls and swift smile. After the Peeping Tom incident, he had a gift for her: two hatpins. To keep her hat neatly on her head and "just in case". She wore them for the rest of her life. One was tipped with a crystal finial and the other with jet.<br /><br />Hugh’s young sister-in-law looked down her rather pointed nose at the shop-girl who was being brought into the family. She showed off the fine embroidery, cut glass, pianola and fish knives that graced their home, compared with the modest trappings of Ann’s family. Robert and his wife invited Ann to tea. Hannah was invited to accompany her sister. A bone china miserable affair, Ann sat through the agony of scrutiny and put downs. Alice politely admired the finery. When the tea of thinly cut bread-and-butter and dry cake was served, Alice smiled, arched one eyebrow, looked carefully at the tea-set and said “Ah, Mrs Lloyd-Jenkins has something very like for the <em>second</em> best set”. <br /><br />The Boer War and the Great War took brothers away to fight and potential suitors to a distant death. Only Ann married. The sisters stayed kept a neat home, never marrying. Hannah kept them in order after their parents’ days, reminding them “We might be poor, but we’re not common”.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-60136567022168271312010-07-29T13:37:00.005+01:002010-07-29T21:29:52.058+01:00Hugh’s story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusuxWSql_qyeE4JKU8AewXlTDyQz4FI3WMT05G4HoaIr4825jmTRGprKDF4IwSZTBsBFddWDOdGP1zSGSwIws0W8ih_t2KeiXfWTsgpJxgtydJUWBASB_cAsDRk4zly4chkYFHV-Qc-77/s1600/hugh+leaving+home.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 117px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusuxWSql_qyeE4JKU8AewXlTDyQz4FI3WMT05G4HoaIr4825jmTRGprKDF4IwSZTBsBFddWDOdGP1zSGSwIws0W8ih_t2KeiXfWTsgpJxgtydJUWBASB_cAsDRk4zly4chkYFHV-Qc-77/s200/hugh+leaving+home.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499308289870379186" /></a><br />In the mid 1870s, Evan and Jane met. They were both in their twenties living on the coast. North Cardigan bay where the salt marshes make a boundary between the sea and the mountains. He was a younger son of a local farmer and Jane was the youngest daughter of a prosperous adjoining farm. Not quite the Montagues and Capulets, but not much love lost between the two families. They married in the summer of 1878.<br /><br />Jane’s father carved out a portion of land for them to farm. Evan loved the land and Jane was capable and organised. The first son, Robert came along in 1879 followed by Lewis in early 1881. Hugh was born in 1882 just as Summer tips over into Autumn and warm days give way to cool nights. A combination of cold nights and warm affection saw the next decade filled with babies. John was born in 1884, Evan in 1886 and David in 1888. At last a daughter arrived; Ellen was born in 1893. They were comfortable and settled but the land was not theirs to hold and would never be passed down to their sons. Robert left in the late 1890s to search for work in South Wales, taking two of his younger brothers with him. Hugh stayed home on the farm but by 1901 his parents’ health was failing. His father was now a farm worker for his brother-in-law and Hugh worked the horses on his uncle’s farm. By the mid 1900s, both parents had died and the sons dispersed. Evan loathed the industrial south and became a shepherd for his uncle, living the rest of his life in a tiny cottage on the top of a hill with his lovely wife, Mary, who never quite got English. Lewis went to India and David went to work for his farming uncle. Robert took Hugh under his wing and returned south to look for work in the burgeoning construction industry. <br /><br />A hard worker with a serious view on the world, Hugh quickly found that he was respected and trusted by his employer and by twenty-six he was a foreman. Social life revolved around the chapel where he could relax out of formal workaday English and be comfortable in Welsh. His passion was singing and attendance at chapel was for the hwyl and companionship of singing as much as the observance. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeEAzSyRhZBYl-nUOExYpY0nCGjM32848SzA0G-oeXs3JJK0bqJOR5v7MnMtp156ZylLfzzlLCMVJSOndDYFtPM0359qvcOk_X3tiiz9bCmfZ_HTLFMYjyrsls6MI7j2sLZOQ2KxBqHFV/s1600/Hugh+at+work.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeEAzSyRhZBYl-nUOExYpY0nCGjM32848SzA0G-oeXs3JJK0bqJOR5v7MnMtp156ZylLfzzlLCMVJSOndDYFtPM0359qvcOk_X3tiiz9bCmfZ_HTLFMYjyrsls6MI7j2sLZOQ2KxBqHFV/s200/Hugh+at+work.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499309991694511874" /></a><br /><br />Hugh hated hypocrisy and double-standards. Chapel was part of his life but, when the minister asked an elderly member of the congregation not to sing because his lack of a tune was spoiling it for everyone else, Hugh argued that a tuneless voice was raised no less in praise of God than a tuneful one. When the elders of the chapel demurred, he left, proclaiming that his sort of God was rather different to theirs. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpe47RnGvWgDzQVfi-UpGGpfFIoTOiKr9R3fkQIcmv-h9dEuxiiOsqQwEoZTuGL9hl7KaZs3BeZ7spVBQwBt8xBDAfmentQnP6HUgTLM9BGuOQZBK8ZDq6D6H3_TfsuvY2NXqCSrvGWH3/s1600/Family+photographs+001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpe47RnGvWgDzQVfi-UpGGpfFIoTOiKr9R3fkQIcmv-h9dEuxiiOsqQwEoZTuGL9hl7KaZs3BeZ7spVBQwBt8xBDAfmentQnP6HUgTLM9BGuOQZBK8ZDq6D6H3_TfsuvY2NXqCSrvGWH3/s200/Family+photographs+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499309180361949650" /></a><br /><br />Robert married in 1905 and Hugh lodged with them. Good looking with a head of neatly flattened curls and sea blue-green eyes, he was quite a catch. His new sister-in-law was determined to introduce him to a suitable match but he’d spotted his girl. Heavy dark hair was wound into a complicated up-do. Dark brows and eyes made gave her an intense look and she would follow his gaze and then look away under dark lashes. His sister-in-law wasn’t impressed. Ann was only the shopkeeper’s daughter but they were bowled over by each other.<br /><br />Walking out together took them along a country path and a stile was a favourite place to stop, hold hands and kiss. He would lift her up to sit on the stile and they would spend sweetly tender minutes there before he walked her home. An infamously dirty old man used to wait for courting couples so that he could spy on them. One day, they overheard a noise in the bushes and knew it was the old man. Hugh put his fingers to his lips to signal to Ann to stay quietly perched on the stile while he sidled around the edge of the bushes. She heard a couple of swift blows and saw the Peeping Tom running away. Hugh came back to her grinning to himself while slipping something back into his breast pocket. Ann demanded to know what it was. He pulled his jacket open to reveal a knuckleduster. It was never seen or mentioned again. <br /><br />They married in the Autumn of 1909. A love affair for the rest of their lives.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241258266840608924.post-76074810020833663842010-07-29T10:57:00.011+01:002010-07-29T11:58:47.740+01:00Living the dreamI've been a bit otherwise engaged recently and neglectful of the blogworld. I have been keeping up with you all but there's been a lot going on.<br /><br />First of all, we had Hay Week. Friends, culture and the odd glass of wine. <br /><br />Then building work There. My smashing builder doubles as the local undertaker and so you have to fit the projects in between building emergencies and the occasional stiff. And he can't estimate for toffee so we're about 50% behind schedule. <br /><br />And jam, of course.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx53n85ygNCeYPmy1poqGUwbh2gYO9OrH2P_gaaZOMSSLfMvSqbGNo2bqDhScDAPkqZ84aUi_bPR-92_jkvkZ2DeMe-3uthq9NcjLr7fo3SFW8uJyIAvzRos_YHnm7g7z3evIcJmJcZpAh/s1600/photo+jam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx53n85ygNCeYPmy1poqGUwbh2gYO9OrH2P_gaaZOMSSLfMvSqbGNo2bqDhScDAPkqZ84aUi_bPR-92_jkvkZ2DeMe-3uthq9NcjLr7fo3SFW8uJyIAvzRos_YHnm7g7z3evIcJmJcZpAh/s200/photo+jam.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499274997328239682" /></a><br /><br />I became White Van woman for a weekend to help Junior Mad move house.<br /><br />Poor old Humbug has been diagnosed with diabetes so we've been investing heavily in trips to the vet's practice. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG7haF3YB-VNLmyS5OVAtoUkLBFa6jQE0QCEJ21RHoPZW2PEGIYtsM1Xd86Wdt1CxgEKpR_ZMkLZLec5Oy5MBP8AH0_OPG6xPwGdPmGxmIEZiz7Fiz5eOfRN4FO4cHFtH_vY33_3R4VEf/s1600/photo+Humbug.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG7haF3YB-VNLmyS5OVAtoUkLBFa6jQE0QCEJ21RHoPZW2PEGIYtsM1Xd86Wdt1CxgEKpR_ZMkLZLec5Oy5MBP8AH0_OPG6xPwGdPmGxmIEZiz7Fiz5eOfRN4FO4cHFtH_vY33_3R4VEf/s200/photo+Humbug.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499275348581506242" /></a><br /><br />And then we have had an office move. The new office is in a nicer area with some attractive little City gardens to eat a sandwich or to wander round. Here are some of the things you might not expect to see in the City of London:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsMJGBqdHB5NGu2qr4aoN8WKSbGI-FpYG0RzXau7D6h9FibuH9G6c8OiojLSjupBspHRqdBJ-JTuqrR9nyMFdy-_TJ1bmMKFTIORbOyW_7i-gnIln3xt7sjEGMj6kZcDXIxPvtsaHlMRW/s1600/blog+pic+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsMJGBqdHB5NGu2qr4aoN8WKSbGI-FpYG0RzXau7D6h9FibuH9G6c8OiojLSjupBspHRqdBJ-JTuqrR9nyMFdy-_TJ1bmMKFTIORbOyW_7i-gnIln3xt7sjEGMj6kZcDXIxPvtsaHlMRW/s320/blog+pic+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499279848628802242" /></a><br /><br />This has coincided with some changes in management at work. I won't bore you with the details, but my boss flounced out in a huff - it's great seeing a bald 40 something year old man behaving like a teenager. So I grabbed the opportunity to suggest to my new boss that I could work from home some of the time. And some of the time that means There. Like today ... I'm eating my lunch, sitting in my study and catching up.<br /><br />And the other thing I've been doing, is tracking down some family history and that's what I'll be blogging about next.MBNAD womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11604195971368211750noreply@blogger.com5