Annalog

Apparently history isn’t popular at school.  Is that because of the remoteness of the details of a long ago and very different world, compared to silly selfies?   Do you come to it in age, trying to make sense of the world you live in?

In order to try and understand what is happening in Ukraine today, you’d have to have a look at the area’s history up to WWII.  And it’s complex. Sometimes when you look back, your head swims.
There is a current trend in history writing to look at the minutiae, stories of what this woman said or that man wrote or somebody else did, asides aligned to illuminate the enormous movement of men and munitions, the consequences of apparently simple decisions and the fallout which is almost always uglier than you can imagine.  So thank you (to name but two) Max Hastings for “All Hell Broke Loose” (WWII) and Florian Illies for “1913: the year before the storm”(WWI and he’s German).

WWI broke out 100 years ago this year and it takes anything from 60 to 100 years for humans to begin assess history in context.  My father (born 1896) enlisted just before his 18th birthday and fought in campaigns that faded into forgetting throughout his life because of savage losses in Europe.  His regiment was sent to what we then called the North West Frontier (now Afghanistan) and in Mesopotamia (now Iraq) – which seem to indicate how slowly humans learn anything.  And his dislike of Germans was unreconstructed.
“The only good German, man or dog, is a dead one” he said to a man whose Schnauzer lunged at our English bullterrier.  I was shocked.  My reasonable father, who taught me that there were always several sides to everything!  When I asked him about his remark, he said levelly “Twice.   They came for us twice.”   And I carried that around with me for years until I began to read at roughly the same age as he was then.

I have always read about war, part of a desire to understand something about my father I couldn’t verbalise and he couldn’t tell me.  The war that was current when I was growing up was in South East Asia and it seemed to affect a generation of Americans as the Great War affected my father’s peers.    It was however in historical fiction, set in much earlier times, that I began to see war as a constant, a way of getting territory or holding it, distinguishing yourself, getting enough to eat and having adventures.  The perception of damage – psychological or physical, personal or geographically general – came later.
Although I knew that the trench warfare of the First War caused terrible wounds, I didn’t see it until comparatively recently in an edition of The Culture Show featuring the work of a contemporary artist who made a record of early facial plastic surgery (see also a French film called The Officers’ Ward).  It is humbling.

Of course I could have fallen with equal enthusiasm upon the history of clothes or gardens or agriculture.  I read about war, about its inevitability, that it was a way
of proving yourself a man or a king:  how, no matter how widespread and destructive, war changed so little and (see a poem of Carl Sandburg called “I am the grass”) and how the greatest obliteration was absorbed.

Or read about another kind of war – germ warfare, plague war – in John Kelly’s
“The Great Mortality” about the Black Death and see how the greatest losses the world has ever documented, involving China and Russia as well as the Middle East and Europe up to Iceland and recurring during a hundred years – “rested” the overcrowded cities, allowed wild land time to recover and rehearsed the
desolation of the Holocaust several hundred years before Hitler.
History is less about war and peace than it is about human nature, at it worst and best, its strongest and weakest.  We are rarely nice but we are always interesting and history proves it.

Sometimes you are very aware of what separates you from others.

There is a new drama on television about a man who killed the women he was close to, described by the estimable David Chater in The Times as “hideous and detached from any normal human behaviour”.  But somebody thought he was normal |(it’s a dangerous word) and of course we often do, until it is proved otherwise.  There are painful examples of the gap: a woman sent to an experimental school as an orphaned ten year old, discovering 30 years later that both her brothers were abused by it, in the name of liberation: or the man giving evidence of his wife’s mistreatment of their child.
Sometimes the gap is about culture: as a European woman smiling at an Islamic woman and being met by a stony glare.  One is not to know if her shoes hurt or she feels badly about anyone who is not discernibly her own, but we have to start somewhere and the start is almost always personal.
I suppose the gap is really another way of saying how separate we may feel, one from another.   The above are highly coloured examples.  You may just be very different people. And for some reason, the gap is unbridgeable.

I met a woman of my own age through a mutual friend.  She came to supper and then returned the hospitality.  I am fine when I am with her.  Apart from that
I have an overwhelming sense of being marked – as at school –  “ must try harder”.  However the treasured mutual friend (treasured by us both I may say) simply remarked, “ I like strong elderly women but they don’t always like each other.  Indeed sometimes you can just see the “No thank you” ballooning above the head.”   No harm done there then.

If you live alone, closing the gap can be a formality.  You are not looking for (ghastly but expressive phrase) a new best friend.   You just want to speak to somebody, and if Dame Fortune smiles and you are lucky, you can natter about where you got your gloves or what’s in the paper.  The sense of belonging in the world can be reaffirmed without difficulty on either side before you say goodbye and let each other go.

After years and years of getting up and going into a workplace, and living in a family, it is in the mornings sometimes, not always that I long for a human voice.  This is not anything grand or complicated, not incipient depression or a crisis of identity..  I just want somebody to tell me I am still there.

Deeply self-sufficient people never feel like this.  So-called moderns will find an app to meet the need.  Sounds like cold comfort to me. I prefer to take my chances with the postman, somebody in a shop, or I meet in the street. And the meeting can be very brief, as short as almost brushing shoulders with somebody and sharing a grin.  The manners of greeting are dented by being plugged in, tired and often horribly dissociated.  It is noticeable that as technology becomes more and more common, people are not only switched off from other people because they are switched on to some machine, but the sense of space we used to call body territory is being damaged too.  People push past, walk too close, slam into you – ranging from unaware to hostile by virtue of self involvement.

You can be very grateful for a gap.  It can separate you from somebody you really don’t want to be close to.  You may know why, you may have to think about it (or not want to) and an answer isn’t guaranteed.
I am eternally grateful to my mother for telling me when I came to London at 17 telling me “Play your hunches, play your hunches, play your hunches.  Work out why you feel what you feel later on if you can but don’t ignore your feelings. “  Years later an American writer called Gavin de Becky wrote a book called The Gift of Fear, on just the same subject.

I spent years acknowledging there was a gap (school taught me that) and then bridging it.   Invited as a speaker to an association of assertiveness trainers, late in the meeting one of them commented that I was a bridge.  I loved that label then and I love it now.  I loved the idea that people could make use of a voice on the radio to resolve difficulty, face the music and go forward, be happier, do better.  And I speak as a woman who walked beside another much taller younger Brazilian down a dark street in a section of the city I don’t know and we talked, she on her way to a party, me on my way to supper with friends.  In farewell she kissed me goodbye on both cheeks., thus giving me an early birthday present.  She crossed the gap.

We used to laugh when the late great Claire Rayner called someone “lovey”.Perhaps we laughed in sympathy because we feared it put the person to whom it was addressed down, which put her up, so the idea wasn’t thrilling and we were glad it wasn’t us.  I am sure it was supposed to be benign but I wasn’t alone in suspecting it.

I once listened to Mick Jagger say “Y’know what I mean” in interview 26 times (I counted) and I couldn’t have cared less what he meant, I had earache.  The new verbal culprit is “well” which has been suggested to soften the beginning of a report direct to camera.  It quickly becomes a cliché and when you have heard it repeated throughout every new rejoinder to camera, I want to scream.

In radio terms, when the clarity and speed of what you broadcast is of the essence, you learn to take the corners of your presentation with the odd endearment – not many, not general, targeted – and the odd word, a bit of old slang, a neat phrase, anything to keep the warp and woof of the woven broadcast changeable, brightly coloured, flexible, moving.  But you have to watch it with endearments.  They often place you the user more than the person you use them on.  And there are fashions in endearments as there are in swearing or operations.

I don’t call people “darling “ because I am pseudo-grand or assumedly theatrical, although I suffer from both (very effective cover).  It’s what I was called at home by two thoroughly down to earth and unassuming people, “marked” on me at an early age.  Discovering darling was from “dearling” brought me up short – the earlier form has quite a different impact.   Though one woman I know tells me she can never use the word darling.  It is the word her husband used to her throughout a long and cruelly unhappy marriage and she has struck it out of her vocabulary, having heard it used to mean the opposite of what it says one time too many.

Nowadays “sweetheart” is rare, my mother used to say “sweetness” which I have never heard anywhere else.  “Sweetie” is rare and “duckie” or “ducks”, the Victorian embodiment of Cockney sparrowdom, is almost gone.  Many people are sparing in their use of endearments so, when they use such a term or offer a tender nickname – it becomes important, perhaps less to the giver than the receiver.  It seems a marker of special feeling, perhaps intimacy, even if only fleeting.

I was in the supermarket where I buy less and less (hooray for street markets, the wonderful local convenience store and the time for opportunistic shopping) and when my favourite assistant said goodbye, she called me “honey”. She is not given to endearments, isn’t Ann, and as she was clocking off, we walked together through the shop and I told her why that term is special to me.

Opposite my childhood home was Cleveland Avenue and at the top on the left lived Mr. and Mrs. Moss, not just old in the eyes of the child I was then, but very old even then, dry as leaves, she with fluffy white hair under a hat with pearl handled pins and he with a pipe, a flat hat and rheumy eyes, both with sweet smiles.  They were gentle people, rather good with the neighbourhood children to whom they always spoke.  They gave me a book of dog stories and legends called Tails and Tales, which I have just passed on to somebody equally appreciative after a lifetime of cherishing.  And Mr. Moss called me “’unny” (as in honey, no “h”, longish “u”).   Once.  I felt it to be the greatest compliment.  I was under ten, he was an adult.  It’s all in the tone.

We have all heard endearments used to contain or diminish but there are as many rules for as against and at least some of this is to do with personal perception.  One nurse will call you “dear” and make you feel a fool.  Another will do the same thing and you feel absurdly comforted, as if all can be fixed and will be well.  Today, we have the first name used as a comma, every other phrase, or even your title used the same way, in the false intimacy of somebody trying to sell you something you definitely don’t want  – and even if you did want it, you won’t after that patter.
That’s not what the words are for and why selling is still an art, even if you are only selling an idea.      

When I was younger I used to think that the short sight (plus astigmatism) with which I was born was an affliction, a flaw, a curse.   Now I am not so sure.   If you can’t see, you have to look.  You have to focus, screw up your eyes, reach for your glasses or other magnifying instrument and concentrate.   And of course it becomes a habit.  In my case, I notice a lot – colour, gait, hands and feet (shape, disposition, what is on them), hair, complexion – and on and on.   It is a standing joke to those who know me well that the first time my son ducked away from me in a store into the men’s room, I eyeballed everybody who came out till he emerged safely.  I could have done police descriptions.  I am endlessly fascinated by what people notice and perceive  – and of course, what they don’t.

The first time I saw a film about ballet 50 years ago, I noticed all sorts of things but particularly the shoes.  The dancers were from the Bolshoi and it seemed to me that the shoes were a different shape.   The last time I saw a film about ballet was 48 hours ago and I thought all over again how very few dancers move agreeably unless they are dancing.

Watching what I call “Sunday night tripe”, I was fascinated by the change – or lack of it – in outfits.   I am sure that, were I to tackle the costumiers of the second series of Mr. Selfridge, I’d get a wonderful rationalisation.   But while I can accept the floorwalker Agnes Towler daily in the same hat and coat, I don’t think Mrs. Selfridge is sufficiently familiar with any privation in the early stages of the Great War, still less poverty street, to be wearing the same outfit throughout an episode and for the second week running.  Is it presumed we shan’t notice  (though it is quite a noticeable colour) or has the budget run out?

Films and television programmes offer rich pickings for this.  Judging by the
You Say  (radio and TV) column of the Sunday Times Culture section – one of the best reasons to buy the paper – there are men all over Britain just thrilled to be able to tell you that the car or the uniform or the train or the weather was wrong in this episode or that.  I go for broader brushstrokes myself and shall never forget Jeremy Northcote as Thomas More in some unbearable pastiche of Tudor England, lined up with his wife and daughters to receive Henry VIII on the riverbank at Putney, and only the men were wearing hats.   At that period of history no decent woman of any walk of life waking had her head uncovered.  And this persisted for a long time: in an underrated novel of the American Civil War(1860/5) called Enemy Women, Paulette Jiles (correct spelling) described her heroine escaping from capture, driven to cover her head with something – anything – knowing that a bareheaded woman would be immediately noticeable.  

Fashions of the past are adhered to, reinvented, hinted at or ignored in productions, depending upon the actor, the costume designer, the producer/director and the sense of the thing. Sometimes the clothes really don’t matter and sometimes the actor is so terrific, you don’t care any way.  You are observing a person and are held and interested by what is going to happen next.

A medical student I knew had a wonderful professor who used to take his students out in the street or into the pub with him and demand that they observe this man or this woman and tell him everything they could see – what sort of work the subject did, the consequences of that work medically, the age of the subject, their social class (and therefore predisposition to certain medical conditions), their general health.  Now that we know TB is not dead but has become more subtle and pernicious, and HIV patients live a long time, I find myself ear wigging coughs and observing serious underweight with a wary eye. I am not obsessed about health and I am not more than averagely wary of ill health but I am interested in people and in what so often goes unnoticed – the repetitious movement of hands indicating (often) distress, the body language that says something quite other than the words offered, in some cases just watching and waiting to see the truth of something you think you perceive emerge.
It’s called people watching.  Those of us who practice it do it with commitment.  Those who don’t care might learn something.

When “everybody” tells me that I must see this film/play/exhibit, I run the other way, react against the prevailing opinion. I’m not proud of this but I acknowledge it.

People don’t push music at you so much because musical taste is very personal.  But film, the most expensive medium, is shoved at you, through a mixture of hype and consensus.

The only actor I knew thought Steve McQueen’s first film “Hunger” was wonderful.  I found it had some nice shots, one fine sequence (in which political prisoners go to a permitted church service to exchange information) and for me, starving yourself isn’t acting.  I don’t like to see actors acting.  I want to believe in the spell they weave, even if only for the duration of the piece.   It didn’t happen.
Currently “12 Years a Slave” is hailed all over the press and I have only heard one dissenting voice.

I once extolled the painting of Jean Francois Millet to a bright man. “Pretty pictures of ugly things” he said drily.

‘Boys netting songbirds for food’

That haunted me. For ugliness is not necessarily reduced by the exercise of another’s art.  So what is the role of art?  I think it is to help us understand the outmoded, the distasteful, the incomprehensible – understand better, maybe in a different way.

In 2012 a former agent and video king John Brewer (affectionately known as Mr. Rock ‘n Roll) made a film about bluesman BB King, christened Riley B King.  Launched to praise, the film didn’t hang around in cinemas (though you can buy it) and it certainly wasn’t up there with the big cinematic boys.  Although blues is the underpinning of all modern beat music, those who love it are used to its lack of drumroll.  Blues just is, like the sea or the sky.  The rest takes its turn at party piece popularity.

I saw Life of Riley on BBC4 (22.02.2014).  Apart from the music, there were all sorts of vignettes of the great and famous endorsing Mr. King and his guitar Lucille, but it was the opening featuring rural life in Mississippi in the 1920s (BB was born in 1925) and the facts of his early life that hit me at half past two in the morning.

His parents were in there 20s when they had him, their union did not last.  His father left, his mother who loved him died of diabetes when he was very young.  There was a school but kids were not encouraged to education when they might be chopping cotton: he started when he was seven.  He said he was always staying with somebody, he conveyed desolation.  He spent time briefly with his father before coming back to where he began, to live alone at 15, driving the plough and lifting cotton sacks on a farm.  The white owner was a fair man and he bought BB his first guitar.  He began to lay and sing whenever he could and after WWII, he became a dj in Memphis, the party town of his youth.

An early wife said gently no marriage could survive a man touring 360 days a year.
A later wife said equally quietly that, 20 years later, he was still touring 300 days a year.  When you listen to the roll call of acts and producers with whom he put together packages of recordings and performances or both, you began to realise he worked as he had always worked  – unceasingly.   With great dignity and without a whimper he told the camera:   “When you kill a mule, buy another.  When you kill a hand, hire another.”  BB is 85; his present manager says they are currently working three weeks on, three weeks off.  |Post slavery, life is still a long sentence so music and those other good things just take your mind off the unendingness for a while.

As a schoolgirl, I was shown drawings of how the bodies of people were packed into slavery ships, chained there in their own and everybody else’s filth, to survive if they could.  I understood that slavery meant the end of everything.  It’s very easy to be sentimental about the value of life but what kind of a life with no choice, no independence, and no breath uncounted?

When I saw Life of Riley I saw how the long fingers of pain and loneliness and want found gifted expression through the strings of throat and guitar to become beautiful – if only in passing – and only if reinvented again and again and again,
lack made into celebration through unending toil.
A heart in love with beauty never grows old.

You can miss the smallest or most mundane thing about yourself if it is out of action for any period of time.  You forget – until your back is bad – that all movement hinges on it.  You forget – until you fall on/ break/sprain a toe or a finger – that such an injury puts the whole hand or foot out of action.   What it is currently fashionable to call “wellbeing” is smothered – in my case literally – by a heavy head cold.  No this is not that old argument about the difference between colds and flu, men and women, let somebody else do that.  I am here to tell you that I lost my sense of smell for just inside a week and am glad to welcome it back.

A former SI (special interest) in my life went into the police as a cadet, was seconded to Special Services, had wonderful tales to tell and two discernible injuries: a stab wound in the stomach (one of the first personal things he ever let me in on was that he had adhesions – where the gut sticks to itself – the pain was terrible and if this should happen, I was to get him to hospital fast) and a shotgun blast down one side.   As a result of being blown over and bashed about he also had bad back pain.  And it was he who described aroma therapeutic massage as

the best relief from it he had ever had (other than that obtained by the long suffering physio who put him back together twice and then told him “I’m not doing that again, do your exercises” thus giving him something else to fixate upon.)   The masseur had great hands for him – touch is personal – but she was also very gifted at mixing oils and she nailed a smell that let him let her in, so she could really help him.   This was someone specialising in unreachable so that was a breakthrough.

In her wonderful book A Natural History of the Senses, Diane Ackerman tells you that smell is one of the oldest senses, and one of the most imperishable.  You may forget the name and the face but you will remember the smell.    And in a new sheriff-as-private-eye on Five Star called Longmire, there was an incident (and some very shrewd product placement) when our hero drove to break the news of her husband’s death to a woman, though when she opened the door, he was completely unmanned.  Later he explained himself (this was, take my word for it, well written).  It was the anniversary of his wife’s death and when she opened the door wearing the same perfume (Jo Malone), he couldn’t speak.

Years after my father’s death a man walked up an escalator wearing that mixture of tobacco, carbolic and Ingram’s Shaving Cream that was my father and I walked against the down moving stair like a bird dog – in the hope that all reason told me was wrong. I’ve done programmes about the recognition and association of smells which ranged from Granny’s hotpot to Yves St. Laurent, with all the stops along the way – from “scented cushions” – highly scented fat shiny sweets – to babies’ heads and death.

In the midst of the worst British flooding for years, news media have been loath to talk about the sewage in the floodwater, the health hazard and stench.   Though when Canvey Island became a byword for death and destruction by water in the 1950s, my mother remarked, “Oh those poor people – and what they never tell you is that even if you dry everything out, it will smell horrible.”   Makes you want to put lavender in the sandbags, a truly specious thought.

That we don’t all like or dislike the same smells, that they smell different in different circumstances, on different skins is well known to us.  Some natural smells don’t translate though the naming of a perfume may influence how you perceive it.   Did the founder of the House Of Guerlain who invented perfumes (what is called a “nose” – a very strange mixture of chemistry, alchemy and horse sense) name the perfumes too? . . . Though whether we call it effluent, sewage or muck, I fear the smell of the floods will linger, augmented by the terrible damp.  A whole generation seems not to know that standing water smells.

Will smelling it make us any more efficient about dealing with it?

There is a lot of it about, both smoke and mirrors – sleight of hand, deception great and small, some connived at, some glaringly obvious.  Take Putin – oh do, do take Putin .  Away.  Sadly the walk says it all, cock of a lucrative dung heap.  Political watchers will say, “Could be worse” or “Same old, same old” but poor Mother Russia – £31 billion for the Winter Olympics?  People driven out and dispossessed, Cinemascopic corruption, the beating of gays endorsed by state decree (nothing like acting out your fears), dogs destroyed en masse – please invest in The Last Man in Russia by Oliver Bullough published by Allen Lane about how the gross over centralisation of goods and services in Moscow and environs leaves tracts of a continent without trains, petrol stations, work, medicine or food – in a word, dying.

Look at the vast pestilential cloak draped over Jimmy Savile and see how it brushed against the innocent, the would-be innocent, the probably guilty and the caught-in-the-crosshairs – and remember, mud sticks.  I have only heard one person speak publicly about statute of limitations, that beyond a certain passage of time, a case cannot be brought.  She was unappealing but the point was valid.  I don’t remember what I was doing on 5 August last year, let alone 5 years ago and I bet you don’t either. Memory is selective.  We are looking at men of some influence and power who may or may not have behaved in a certain way and memory being what it is, probably don’t remember or chose to forget.  Men and women alike, we all like to be heroes in the bathroom mirror.  The courts are asking people to recall over 20, 30 years.  And there is money on the table and the lure of money is very strong.  If we want to change the culture of sexual elitism whereby the weaker are exploited by the stronger, it will take a much more difficult route and a much greater degree of intention.  Not being able to bring such a case outside an officially recognised period of time may be the only way forward.

Listen to the outcry over the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, a fine actor, apparently a likeable man but you know and I know – and if you don’t , I will tell you – that anybody whose weight swings as much as that man’s did – is a soul in trouble, regardless of sex or occupation.  (Food is misunderstood as a drug of choice).  And, no matter how unhappy you are, at the top of the heap called show business (forget about the show, never forget about the business) you can do and have anything as long as you continue to generate revenue.  (Think back to our own Knight of Darkness Jimmy Savile).  It isn’t in either case that nobody saw, it’s that nobody wanted to see.  In both cases, gifted people often have money, money buys almost anything you want or might want to try.  It is noticeable that US news media, no matter how sympathetic, is now pointing to the prescription of a painkiller so powerful and addictive that it is “the gateway to heroin” – the latter an opiate first isolated by a British chemist in 1874.   We must wonder – what is the pain, the unmanageable pain?

So once again, as we do every so often, we begin to examine through general media stories of addiction and unhappiness, the nature of pain and how different personalities respond to it, the abuses of power we permit to those who rise to the top of our convoluted society – although Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry pointed out 40 years ago  (in Helter Skelter the story of the Manson Murders) that the crossover is sex and drugs, and drugs and sex. It isn’t an accident that they are twinned because both may be expressed through addictive behaviour which is hard to understand unless it possesses you, difficult to treat and almost impossible to convey unless you the researcher wish to understand and will put in the time and effort.  Tabloid headlines addiction is not.  Less time being cosily appalled and more trying to understand the nature of smoke and mirrors, how things appear to be compared to what they are, would be immensely constructive on all sorts of levels.   It might even bring the disaffected back to politics.  It is no accident that the phrase was coined by an American journalist, describing his country’s political crisis in the aftermath of the Watergate Scandal, which looks set to run and run and run into tributaries of deceit and decadence all over the globe.

It has been a quiet weekend.  But not of my making.   I took my last call at about 8.30 pm and sent my last emails about an hour later.  A book called.  I took it and went to bed.
And the following morning I went briskly to check the telephone which sat, lights blazing, nobody home.  It was dead.   So I went to the computer, which lit up and took the print but there was no Internet connection.   Even people who have the latest and the best suffer this at sometime.  I was slightly put out by both playing up at the time but those are the breaks.
I consulted a neighbour who thought the batteries in the telephone might be at fault.  She gave me new ones but they were not rechargeable so
nothing happened.  I got the right batteries – no difference.  I went out to supper.  The following day I borrowed a phone to call my internet provider: no answer, cut off after 16 rings.  Nothing to do.
The hairdresser came on Monday and I borrowed her telephone to call Sean and say, “Help”.  He asked what was the matter, I told him and he said he’d be there
in a couple of hours.  When he arrived he said he didn’t know if he could fix it but he would try.  I made him a cup of tea.   He runs on tea. 

He says he doesn’t know what he did but the lights (once dimmed) came on again in some essential part of the machinery and suddenly we had lift off.  The telephone continued to sulk.  Sean is a radio person.  He has considerably more technical knowhow than I – no, wait.  That is misleading.  My friend’s new dog has considerably more technical know how than I.
Sean knows a great deal which he deprecates and he has long been around desks and screens and stuff.  He knows and I don’t.  He took the phone apart, cleaned it and said he thought something had leaked in it.  We waited.  He read, I sent emails.  The phone remained unchanged.  Sean looked up and said, “This is going nowhere.   You need a new phone.”
Shortly afterwards he pulled up a new model slightly cheaper than the old one and a back up for a fiver and announced we were going to Argos in Victoria.

We left the house, directed to a station I knew of but had never used. He said he thought he remembered where the Argos was and he was right.
He had brought the serial number of the new phone and we looked up the number of the stand-by in the catalogue.  I wrote the numbers down.
“Now” he said, “are you paying cash or card?”  “Card ” I said.  “Oh good” he said “then we can use the machine.”  Which he directed and I complied.
When we went to the counter, where a young woman put the boxes down in front of us, I told her “I am no longer an Argos virgin.”
Grinning, she said, “I hope that wasn’t too painful.”  “Painless” I said.  “So you might be back?”  I said I thought so, hoping not too soon.

When we left I asked Sean if I might please pay him, knowing how tight money is.  He refused.  I said “But I would have paid to be rescued.
Why can’t I pay you? ” “You can pay me in buns” he said (he has a sweet tooth).  I protested but he was determined and then on the way home he stopped and pointed.
The line of his finger led to a boxed Panettone, an Italian speciality left over from Christmas.  “Can we have that?”
I was already opening the shop door.  “Is this a frightful cheek?” he asked.  “No” I said.  “It’s called having what you want.  I am delighted.”
The proprietors were too.  So home we came, he set up the phone, I heated the oven to warm the cake and made tea.  And as we took our
first reflective bites, we agreed it was good and I said I had feared it might be dry.  He had had the same thought but it wasn’t.  So we sat, companionably
scoffing, till I wrapped up the last piece for his breakfast and he put the discarded unit into a separate bag to be disposed of in the electronics recycling facility near his home.

“How can I thank you?”  I asked.
He shrugged gently.  “What are friends for?”  

…I am the sheep!

It’s odd to bring up a child born in that place saying “we are not from here” but by the time I was born in Yorkshire, my parents (both southerners) had been there for years and their experience was that “others” were not easily accepted.   They made me expect not to be.  But like all children I have private memories of my childhood (as well as the shared family ones) and when I saw a new book entitled called Apple Tree Square (Louise Doughty, Faber& Faber) I saw only the first two syllables and I thought of Appletreewick.
During WWII my mother made friends with Mary and Cicely Waddington who drove the equivalent of HGVs to deliver whatever wherever, two women in men’s overalls pulled in tight at the waist, with all the trimmings – makeup, pretty hair, jewellery, high heels and perfume  – which announced unequivocally
“female and perfectly capable thank you.”   Later both married, Cicely to Jim, Mary to Walter.

I was born in 1944 as the war ended, sickly and pictures of me down the road of a lung shadow show why my parents worried.  They longed to get me away to the healing countryside, which is how I was invited to Appletreewick, where Mary and Walter lived.  I don’t remember getting there but my first sight of the original farm kitchen opens before my eyes as if it were yesterday.

It was a big square room you entered at the corner.  On the left was a window and sill sunk into a deep wall, covered with plants.  Beside this was a table and wooden chairs.  To the right was an open fire framed with a full set of kitchen regalia – trivets, hobs, hooks, bread ovens and meat ovens, beautifully blacked and in working order.  In front of this lay a red and black rag rug, reflected in the copper kettle.  A tall clocked ticked in the shadows and above my heads hung great bunches of lavender and other herbs, drying and things, wonderful things … There was a modern kitchen added at the left but I didn’t give it more than the time of day.  I remained fascinated by this room, its depth and shape and the focus of this wonderful factory of a fireplace.  Alone, I ran my hands respectfully over every bit I could reach.

I also remember that the lavatory was an Elsan in a hut across the yard and along the field.  The paper was Izal, which never knowingly dried anything, and I had to be dissuaded from sitting on the larger of the two openings with the risk of falling in.  There was a black and white collie called Chippy round whom I wrapped my arms in the back of the old jeep when we went to Grassington or Fancarl and we hiked to the side together as we went round corners, as if in a yacht. I watched a man drink milk from a cow’s teat and when he playfully spurted me with it, I was shocked to discover it was warm.  “Blood heat,” he said knowingly.   While another man, a householder down the road whose wife ran the sub-post office, handled with wary pride a fierce pungent creature, my first ferret, and bar the red eyes, remarkably redolent of Demi Moore.

Upstairs I discovered a green enamel hip bath and it was suggested that I might like my bath in it, in front of the fire.  I was seven or eight, with long coppery hair which was pinned up for me (oh the glamour) and pans of hot water were emptied unstintingly into this bath – only as an adult do I appreciate the effort.  I was transported, a queen with my own flannel and new soap.  There I sat in the warmth while the firelight flickered on the surfaces and the wind blew, Chippy sighed where he lay and the logs shifted and murmured.  For the rest of my life, luxury is an open fire in a bathroom and Appletreewick more than a small village in the Craven district of Yorkshire is an incantation to joy.

Sharon Stone has ugly feet.

Before you dismiss Ms. Stone as The Blonde or The Body or That Shot in Basic Instinct, see The Mighty directed by Peter Chelsom (1998).

She’s fab.  But not her feet.

She featured in a star sheet spread, usual thing, bikinis and ball gowns, but though immaculately planed and polished, the feet don’t have it.

I was fascinated.  I always am by the idea that if you do enough to an unfortunate feature, it is transformed through effort.  Like men draping long hair over the bald patch.   Doesn’t work.   But I notice feet.  Prevailing fashion holds that you have to have “beach feet” all year round, that not to, is to admit you haven’t tried (reflexology, massage, foot masks, etc) while the logical extension of trying so hard is achievement.  But feet are finite.  Strip sandals are an invention of the devil and only Tamsin Outhwaite has ever had the right feet for the right shoes and vice versa so I didn’t hear a word she said (sorry).  I couldn’t take my eyes off those feet in those shoes.  It was what it was supposed to be and in the last however long that naked feet with varnished toenails in sandals exposing as much as possible (a new nudity ?) have been in fashion – from couture to the Co-op – I have only seen it work half a dozen times.  My particular recoil is saved for slightly too long nails with pearlised polish and I am nothing like a foot fetishist.  I just wouldn’t score highly in the foot beauty awards.  Mine are just humbly plain.

My first husband called them umfazi feet.  He told me it’s a Shona (Zimbabwean language) word for woman.  I was a barefoot girl and as it says in one of my books about dance, dancers’ feet bear weight and barefoot dancers’ feet are hooves.   Under pressure to modify and conform, I attacked them with hard skin remover cream, too nervous to use one of the widely offered peelers or sanders.  Better.  I slapped cream on them.  It helped.  I have wonky toenails, no polish in the world becomes them.  I tried.  Twice.  Waste of everybody’s time and effort.  Clean, neat and think about something else.  No strip sandals, hate thongs.  Broad strap across the joint, sandal attached to foot.

25 years ago, arriving in Paris for a glamorous weekend with second husband, my left foot wasn’t comfortable.  Examination revealed something nasty in the woodshed between the smallest and the next toe.  I slipped shoes off at every opportunity and come Monday, went to see a chiropodist who reduced a soft infected corn to manageable proportions while trying to sell me on having the little toe broken and reset.  I declined.

For years the degree of discomfort caused by this small imperfection varied.  The best money I ever spent was with Bastien Gonzalez, foot man to the stars, a former skier, whose massage of the leg from knee to ankle and painstaking clean treatment of the foot really was as good as a week’s holiday.  In the sun.  And the after effects for three months.  Looked good, felt beautiful, lesion rested.

The only person who closed that lesion was Margaret Dabbs, former nurse retrained as podiatrist whose “medical pedicure” I found through The Independent.

But the product she used – an iodine based substance made for podiatrists called Ichthammol – is no longer manufactured.  And when I asked my current foot woman why, she answered “Because it is too cheap.  Not enough profit.”  I used surgical spirit every day between the toes after a shower.  Post-war child, I was used to nurses sponging their feet with it to refresh and toughen the skin.  Cleans white woodwork a treat too.

So – here’s what Santa put in my stocking.  It’s gone.   The soft corn I have had so long and whimpered over at intervals for years.  Gone.  I wear softer shoes and heaven interceded for me.

An odd girl I once visited at a Laingian refuge said I should try and make friends with my feet.  They worked hard for me.  I took them for granted, didn’t respect them and you can’t get far without them.   At the time I thought her remarks strange but time has proved her right.

You don’t have to flash feet about but you do have to take care of them.