Gentleman With Pipe

Pipe smoking is a very particular activity is it not? I haven't given it too much thought but it occurs to me that it does seem to be a thing that mostly males do. I wonder why that is?

I thought that I was going to have to look elsewhere for an image to join in with Sepia Saturday (on a Monday) this week or opt out altogether as I've realised that I have a pretty limited photo collection and frequently come across photographs from other sources that are far more interesting than those I do have. Fortunately, though, this photo-on-a-postcard (date unknown - 1940's perhaps) of my great grandfather with - hoorah - a pipe, was sitting on the sideboard and fitted at least a part of the brief.

I don't know much about Harry, above, apart from the fact that he was devoted to his wife, Maude, who predeceased him. As a widower he lived with his daughter and two granddaughters in Cornwall. I remember my mum telling me that he was a lovely grandfather and that when she was little he used to pay her thruppence for darning the holes in his socks. The other detail I know about him is that on his daughter's marriage certificate his occupation is described as 'Gentleman'. What that means I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm quite drawn to his 'look' - the plus twos, thick walking socks, tie, jumper and tweed jacket - as it's quite distinctive.

There are quite a few sayings which refer to being a gentleman or the qualities of being gentlemanly - although I appreciate that the concept of both might seem a little out of date to some - but the following one seemed a fair one to quote: 'To be born a gentleman is an accident. To die a gentleman is an achievment.'

Tower Beach

I was a little stumped by this week's Sepia Saturday brief and couldn't find anything decent in the family albums. Luckily I remembered I'd seen some images online some time ago of the remarkable sandy beach that was created on the banks of the Thames about a mile and a bit away from where I live.

Tower Beach, on the foreshore just below the Tower of London, was opened in July 1934 and was made by heaping fifteen hundred barge-loads of sand on to the banks of the river Thames between St.Katherine's Steps and the Tower.

It was the idea of The Tower Hill Improvement Trust and was intended for those who could not afford a seaside holiday - something that was considered a luxury for many of those who lived near to this part of the river.

Between 1934 and 1939 more than half a million people used the 'beach' for building sandcastles or relaxing in a deckchair and could paddle or swim in the 'sea'. It was even possible to rent a rowing boat. Although the beach was shut during World War II, it was reopened in the 1950's but closed permanently in 1971 when worries about both river pollution and safety became a concern.

Photos: HRP

Wedding Guests in London

For Sepia Saturday's wedding theme I've posted (a bit late) a photo from the 1960s by the Ghanaian photographer James Barnor called 'Wedding Guests in London' which is in the collections at the V&A.

Apart from the two ladies' elegant outfits and beautifully styled hair - not to mention the very feminine way in which they are posing - these two guests could probably be anywhere in the world, were it not for the distinctive but slightly incongruous looking telephone box in the background.

Image Source: V&A

Documents and Envelopes

My passport ran out at the end of May. There was a chance that I might be going abroad at short notice so I made an appointment for the Premium (twice the price) four-hour turnaround passport renewal service. After finding and then spending what felt like far too long in a 'UK Passport Standards Approved' photo booth, feeding it with one pound coins, checking my nose was clean then looking straight ahead into the camera and not smiling, frowning or blinking, I came away with a lot less money and what I thought was a selection of okay likenesses: two lots with hair behind ears, one lot not.

The passport office is a bit like an airport terminal and your bag and body get x-rayed in the same way as at the airport except you're only going to travel as far as an interview booth on the second floor. The experiences are similar in other ways too: same anxious pre flight feelings despite getting there earlier than necessary, same focus on an information board that's flashing numbers, same need to verify that the right documents are present and correct and the same worry about whether there'd be time to go to the loo before take off/interview or do you hang on 'til later.

Then four (non-premium) hours later after the biometric chip has been activated and the background checks have been run and you wonder if HM Passport Office has made a note on your file about those overdue library books, the new document is ready for collection to be handed over in this cheerful yellow envelope. A surprisingly jazzy stationery choice for something that's government issue that helpfully takes your mind off the message informing you that the trip abroad around which all this administrative urgency was designed, has been cancelled.

October 1965

I'm linking up to Sepia Saturday with this post which is a photo of my late father (whose birthday would have been today) as a fresh-faced twenty five year old. I only know this detail because - helpfully - the date is printed on the white border of the original print. I think that the vehicle he's standing in front of could be a Humber of some description - a Sceptre or a Super Snipe perhaps but I'm not totally sure.

The sorts of cars we had were of the work horse, practical, not terribly exciting variety: Morris Traveller, Ford Escort Estate, Hillman Avenger Estate - that sort of thing. For my dad, cars were just a means of getting from A to B. He had little interest in what they looked like or how they worked and would certainly never have spent a weekend afternoon tinkering with the engine or buffing up the paintwork.

I'm guessing that the photograph was taken by one of my brothers and I wonder if my dad's just got back or whether he's about to leave? If it's the former, he might be returning home after spending his working week in the city. For those five days mum stayed in the country with my three older siblings. But this version of family life despite suiting one of my parents, was less idyllic for the other and they later swapped the hills and fields of Herefordshire for life in the urban sprawl and a shorter commute to the office.

From Earlier

Rummaging through the past in order to clear some of it out, I came across a booklet I made at primary school entitled 'My Family'. Tells it like it was - well, mostly.

My brothers. Without ears or necks.

'My Self' - the details. 

Happily for those around me, I no longer play the violin. Or eat baked beans. 

Self portrait with strange grey hair, pox-like freckles and many flowers.

A frank, unsentimental appraisal of my mum.  

 

Nearly all of what I wrote was the truth. Honest.

First Day of 2013

The sun shone. The sky was blue. We ate soup for tea and shared the last two of a batch of pies that I'd made up from leftover stew.

The fridge is empty.

I've rediscovered cooking. This makes me very happy.

Last Day of 2012

I love cheese straws.  Here are the ones I made on Christmas day. In fact they were the only thing I made on Christmas day. 

I love cheese straws.

A very, very happy new year from me to you.

Not A Post - Just A Message

I don't know how I managed it but I have accidentally deleted my last post. Gone. How did I do that? Thank you to Dicky, Shopgirl and Nessa Roo for the comments you left.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving (If You Let It)

Night Lights

Too Little Too Late

I just wanted to say:

A heartfelt thank you to anyone who has clicked on this blog and read or looked or left a comment. Nearly all of those comments have been lovely and have meant a great deal to me.

I did at one point receive a flurry of weird/mildly offensive ones which made me feel a bit odd about blogging but I expect that's all part of it.

The reason I'm writing this is because lately a lot of people have stopped following this blog which has made me think about a few things eg., content. (Obviously those who've already left won't be reading this so if you see them, perhaps you'd pass on the message.)

I get a small pang of sadness when people move on, especially those whose blogs I really like.

The feeling doesn't linger too long though, unlike the smarting on my lower gum that came from ramming my toothbrush into it during some enthusiastic teeth cleaning two days ago. Have you ever done that? It really hurts.

Here's a picture for you. It's been like high summer in England today with temperatures at around 16ºC (68ºF). Almost balmy.

I hope you have a lovely week end.

Nothing Personal

Lucy is at home searching for the phone so that she can call her mobile. She usually keeps it in her coat pocket but it isn’t there now. It’s also not in the next most likely place it could be – her bag, or the one after that – on the kitchen counter.


There had originally been two cordless handsets but one of them fell behind the living room radiator. Lucy tried to free it by shoving it upwards from underneath with a wooden spoon. She had also attempted pincering at it from the side with barbecue tongs and levering it out with a martial arts stick, but every effort to retrieve it seemed to wedge it in even more tightly.


Having turned over the ground floor of the house, Lucy finally locates the landline phone under the sofa cushions in a garden of raisins, popcorn kernels and general detritus. She wipes the dust off the phone, keys in her mobile number and waits for the ring tone.


A dulled buzz vibrates on the desk within arms length of where she is standing.


Lucy lifts up a woollen hat, picks up her phone and sweeps a fingertip across the screen to unlock the handset. She questions why she still uses a password when it was cracked months ago by the resident code breaking co-op Cagney, Lacey & Holmes Inc., App Downloaders Extraordinaire.


Messages – none. Texts - none.


Lucy goes to the kitchen, switches on the kettle then returns to the living room to boot up the computer.


She neatens the pile of mixed paperwork: drawings, correspondence, bills and so forth, forgets about a drink, forgets the kettle sometimes gets stuck on ‘boil’ and sits down at the desk.


In the corner of the room a green light flickers on the router. Lucy takes hold of the mouse and directs the cursor to her web browser and clicks. A line of bold red text stretches across the milky white screen and tells her:


YOU ARE NOT CONNECTED

Cup, Mug, Bowl

The waitress had set down a teapot, a jug of milk, some flapjacks in a bag, a sort of ceramic paint palate that I think was the plate, and a bowl.

I thanked her and she went back inside.

I looked at the rectangular slab with the hole in it and thought that it might be right with cheese on it perhaps, but decided to eat the biscuits straight from the packet the waitress had brought them in rather than use the palate plate. It reminded me of an office party years ago when the caterer had arranged for the snacks to be served on mirrored tiles and everyone made a point of mentioning what a ‘fancy’ and ‘interesting’ (pretentious?) idea that was. 

Then I checked out the bowl, swivelling it round in case there was a handle that I’d missed that would make it an extra large cup. There wasn’t a handle so I wondered if possibly the bowl was for putting the used teabag in or something.

Certain that the waitress would be back any minute with a mug, I played around with my phone.

She didn’t return and the penny dropped that I was supposed to drink out of the bowl.

I don’t know what stopped me from going in and asking for a takeaway cup with a lid as I’d certainly have felt less self-conscious using that type of non-handled beaker for a drink.

Whilst inside, I could conduct a straw poll to see if anyone else felt a bit silly eating off a ceramic oblong and drinking from a bowl and if they did, then I could - in a non-threatening way - feed the info back to the management and suggest that it’s okay for them to use ordinary plates, cups and mugs; no one will hate them for it.

Aware that my tea would soon turn from hot to warm to undrinkable and that I could still retrieve some value from my five pounds fifty including service if I hurried up, I chose to let go of my inhibition, grasped the bowl with my fingers and drank back some tea as confidently as if I took it like that all the time. 

A few more gulps like this and the pot was drained. I then stuffed the remaining flapjacks in my bag for later, paid and left and the thought came to me - maybe the bowl had been meant for the teabag after all.

Christmas Day

Is it compulsory for someone to get a slinky for Christmas? I think that maybe it is.

We're almost at the end of Christmas Day in this time zone and after an earlier than expected start this morning, I'm about ready to turn in. But before I head bed-ward I just wanted to say that I hope you've had/are having/will have a lovely day.

Happy Christmas to all and thank you so much for visiting. 

Misty London Town

100 Words: Style Counsel

I haven't taken off my jacket even though I've been home for ages. Covering up has become a comfy habit I can't shrug.

My children suggest a makeover involving lipstick and dresses and a face mask of fruit they saw being made on TV.

I look in the mirror, smile at their hopes and try to bend a length of hair across my forehead to see if I'd suit a fringe.

"What do you think?"

"Go on mum - take a risk, make an effort. Otherwise you're always just going to be a forty year old woman in a coat."

Postcard From London

The South Bank from Golden Jubilee Bridge.

Late Night Link

I was just about to publish a post when I read this. So very touching.

100 Words: Goodbyes

You packed for a holiday - Tio Pepe, wine, fudge, and books. Your summery linen tops and trousers reminders of warm evenings in Greece, people-watching from the balcony.

You'd cleared your flat of any evidence of pills and illness - no telltale bedside boxes of  unpronounceable pain killers or sticky plastic spoons. 

I must admit it was a shock seeing you disguised as someone else in borrowed pyjamas, even though the nurse assured me you'd picked them out yourself. Funny - we had you down as a nightie lady.

But then you always were a bit surprising - I'd no idea you liked fudge.