In which I struggle with another dress code

I recently made my first visit to an orthodox synagogue. The son of a friend of Mr B's was having his bar mitzvah and we were invited to attend. Happy to be included in this celebration, we of course accepted the invitation.

However, as the event drew nearer, I started to suffer from some misgivings. Some of you may remember that on a previous occasion I put myself through considerable (and eventually unnecessary) worry on the subject of what to wear. At that time, it was a mixture of insecurity, vanity and previous experiences of frock buying which worried me. My anxiety on this latter occasion, however, was of a completely different and frankly more alarming nature: the possibility of dressing entirely inappropriately and offending people.

Then the inevitable happened, as any busy mother of very small children will confirm: I completely forgot about the entire event until the day before. I had taken the Inexhaustible and the Infant Phenomenon to spend the afternoon with my dear parents and Mamma asked me towards the end of the day whether we had any plans for the weekend. I went through that strange paralysis of the mind, knowing we had an important engagement, but unable to remember exactly what it was. Then suddenly it burst upon me - and you can only imagine the mounting swell of panic which I now started to feel.

"What were the rules? Where would I go? What would happen? Did I have to keep the children completely silent?" Mr B filled me in on the basics: that the men and women would sit separately and I would have to take charge of both children, in an unfamiliar place and no means of getting Mr B out to give me a hand, should one or other of them require an extraordinary amount of attention. We didn't think Mr B would be able to take the Infant Phenomenon into the men's section and were absolutely certain that the Inexhaustible Baby would be too disruptive. This was somewhat alarming but the Infant Phenomenon has superb company manners and I was confident that with her on her best behaviour, I could keep the Inexhaustible Baby under control. That is a mistake I shan't make again...

We then came to what - at that moment - seemed like the most important issue: how was I to dress? I had some idea of where to start: as a married lady, I would be expected to cover my hair. This I think we can honestly agree would be the greatest challenge for me. If you look at the photograph of me at the side of this page, you will see at first glance that I have rather a lot of rather unruly hair. I have over the years come to consider it as a 'crowning glory' but for many years it really was rather a difficult matter. It now reaches my waist and is both voluminous and noticeable when unrestrained.

I simply couldn't think what to do with it. Nor did I know exactly how covered up it was supposed to be. Should it be completely invisible? Was that even humanly possible? In increasing nervousness I discarded one idea after another. I tried tying it all down and putting a striking coloured headscarf on - and nearly burst into tears when Mr B could scarce restrain his laughter. "Don't you dare laugh! It's easy for you!" I shrieked in increasing despair. But I could see well enough that it was not a  becoming style on me.

We had already been in telephonic communication with another friend who would also attend and had more experience of this than we. Until my conversation with her, I had thought that I would know fairly well how to dress smartly and appropriately. I could not have been more wrong: long sleeves, long skirts or dresses, no trousers and no sandals. I was saved from committing a whole series of sartorial solecisms by this conversation, yet nobody could solve the problem of my hair for me. I had to tackle that one alone.

Finally at 11.30 that night, in a state of desperation I finally remembered that I owned a couple of hats which had originally been bought for weddings and scarce worn. Retrieving them from the airing cupboard, they were a little squashed, but capable of rescue. However, I had bought them a considerable time ago, when my locks were shorter and much easier to manage. Nonetheless, it was my only option. Exhausted I betook myself to bed.

The next morning I still was in a quandary. If I put my hair in its usual plait, it would be extremely visible all the way down my back and I simply had no idea whether this would be acceptable or not. Also the mass of hair rendered the hat tight fitting and uncomfortable. So in a final attempt to solve all my problems, I divided the hair into two, made two plaits and looped them up so that the barest minimum was visible at the back beneath the hat brim. It also solved the problem of volume so I would be able to keep the hat on for as long as necessary. I must have stood in front of the glass for fully five minutes by the clock, checking different angles and using a small hand mirror to see how it looked at the back.

Mr B was matter of fact, but unenthusiastic about the style, which I had actually started to rather like. I suspect he was simply exhausted by the subject and my anxieties. Then came the terrible doubt, of which I still cannot free myself: had I managed to get my hair into an elegant, almost 19th century style, or did the plaits just make me look like a rejected extra from an especially bad cinematographic adaptation of Miss Spyri's Heidi?

The most important question of course, was the one I didn't think to ask. "How long will it last?" And that makes two mistakes I won't make again... 

In which Mr B surprises me

I think that by now it will have become apparent to my regular readers that Mr B and I are what might be called Manchester Radicals. We are adamantly on the left wing of the political spectrum. Further (as readers of my last posting will remember) we are not only left-leaning but frankly republican.

I must therefore confess to some surprise at finding the interest which Mr B showed in the recent royal wedding. I will start by ceding several points to Mr B at once: it was exceedingly hard, nay impossible to avoid (he did after all get an extra day off work); one had to have a view on it, one couldn't simply pretend it wasn't happening. One would really have to be some kind of monster to actually feel actively hostile to a young couple on their wedding day. It would be inhuman not to at least wish them well, whatever one's view of the appalling system of constitutional monarchy of which they are part. And as I have previously mentioned, everyone loves a bride and there was some considerable curiosity as to what this particular one would wear.

Even allowing for all this, and adding in Mr B's notorious softness of heart, which would rather multiply his good feeling towards any young couple on their wedding day, I was somewhat surprised at the eagerness with which Mr B and his mamma discussed the possible titles and correct form for addressing the new Duchess of ... Cambridge (I had a momentary forgetfulness, I beg your pardon).

Mr B - with whom I have shared every thought, whose political views are as well known to me as my own - a secret royalist?

I ought to admit that the sheer pleasure of describing him thus (in some ways accurately, but on the whole doing him less than justice) has been great, if somewhat illusory. Who knows better than I that Mr is no royalist? Nonetheless, marriage being what it is, I have garnered much amusement from teasing him with the idea that he is a closet monarchist.

A tale of two nuptials

Today the Infant Phenomenon and I stood waiting - she clutching a posy of flowers - to wave to the bride: one of the young ladies from the house next door. No, we were not in London, waving to Miss Middleton (as she was), now the Duchess of Cambridge. We were at home in Brighton, waving to another bride, whose nuptials were planned and announced some time before those of the royal couple were made public.

Those of you who know me will not be shocked by my frank confession that I am no royalist; one might almost say that my Irish blood rather leans in the other direction. I have huffed and puffed like a big bad wolf ever since the announcement of the royal engagement. Those who troubled to listen might have heard me chuntering about 'real news'. I have muttered about the cost to the taxpayer (should I present myself at the Circumlocution Office and demand to know?); I have sneered at the overblown sentimentality of some of my compatriots (the references to the late Princess Diana have much in common with the popular misquotation of East Lynne 'Dead, dead and never called me mother!'); I have advocated the abolition of the royal family though have as yet no thoroughly well-considered alternative to offer, though I am sure that some exist.

Suffice it to say, my refusal to engage with this so-called national event was not uncommon (Mr B was a great deal louder in his protestations, it must be noted). And then our kind neighbour Mrs D told us that one of her daughters had planned her own wedding for the same day. We were vociferous in our exclamations about 'real brides'. I am sure you can imagine our comments and our unwearying (and frankly tedious) repetition of them.

However, as the moment has arrived, my mood has softened. And do bear in mind, that I am a hardened republican who despises 'Majesty' magazine (the existence of which I discovered as a humble bookseller at Harrods). This does not indicate any softening of my republican attitude (I still have a qualm at the thought of the cost of all those policemen). No, it is simply that a bride is a bride, all the world over.

Why did I ask lovely Mrs D at what hour her daughter the bride would leave the house, so that the Infant Phenomenon could wave to her? Because everybody loves a bride. Miss D looked wonderful, glowing with the radiance proper to a bride. And thus emotion clouds politics. Whatever one thinks of constitutional monarchy and the British version of it in particular, when the day came I was delighted to see that both brides looked beautiful and radiant.

And then, the London bride entered Westminster Abbey to the stirring music of Mr Parry: I Was Glad. This is the same as Mr B and I had for our exit from church at our own wedding. I looked at Mr B, the Infant Phenomenon (on my lap) and the Inexhaustible Baby (fast asleep in the perambulator) and grew misty-eyed. And while the royal couple have a very grand evening indeed ahead of them, our neighbours will be holding their reception at a pub owned by some friends of the bride and groom. And I am sure that hearts and heels will be as light in the pub as at Buckingham Palace.

I feel I cannot do better than finish with the words of my own dear Mamma. She 'texted' me thus this afternoon: "I am not a staunch Royalist but I do wish them well. There is nothing as nice as seeing a happy couple on their wedding day." Well said Mamma! In fact, with or without benefit of clergy, a happy couple is a happy sight. And however grand a wedding might be, it is, in the end, a wedding: neither more nor less than the most important decision two people can make about how they spend their lives.

In which the Infant Phenomenon is in for a penny

I mean the title of my latest instalment quite literally: she swallowed a penny and ended up in hospital. The next stop after the awful event (Mr B was on duty with her and I fear was sadly shaken by her somewhat melodramatic screaming) was the Accident & Emergency department of our local infirmary (again! As if a broken leg  last year wasn't enough for her, let alone the other alarums and excursions of recent years involving the Royal Sussex County Hospital). 

 

I will be the first to admit that the 'ingestion of a metallic foreign body: non-hazardous' (that is the technical terminology, I saw it on the form) is considerably less vexatious than a broken leg, but I did experience considerable misgiving, as well as some not unreasonable annoyance, when we were advised to take her to the hospital.

With all the admiration I have for our marvellous health system, my experience of the Accident & Emergency Department indicates that a visit there is usually a matter of hours rather than minutes. Please, before you start to hurl offensive missiles in my general direction, remember that I am not saying that this is anyone's fault. Sometimes, one has to be monitored in a given situation, which is simply a medical way of loitering aimlessly, not doing very much and wondering how severely afflicted one/one's loved one actually is. At other times, it is a question for waiting for a particular member of staff who is fully occupied at that moment with someone much more in need of their care. When the Infant Phenomenon suddenly developed an alarmingly high temperature and a rash, we had to spend several hours simply loitering aimlessly - to ensure she wasn't developing meningitis, which might have killed her. When she broke her leg, we had to wait some while for the orthopaedic specialist who had been dealing with an injury far more serious than hers. I simply felt that we were in for a very long evening of waiting. Particularly in view of the fact that she seemed perfectly well and after the initial shock, perfectly composed. It was not an emergency.

I was annoyed with her, I will admit, on the one hand for doing something which at the age of four and a half she knows full well is ill advised; and on the other hand for doing it at bedtime. This meant I had a supperless, comfortless evening as a prospect. Our hospital is many wonderful things, but I don't think I could honestly tell you that the Accident & Emergency area is comfortable.

Imagine then my amazement when I found that we were in and out in just under half an hour. I was frankly amused when told that the first necessity was for the radiographer to examine the Infant Phenomenon with a metal detector. Yes, really. Similar to those with which one is examined at airports. And she bleeped in the right places, if I may be allowed to so express myself. The penny was safely lodged in her tummy, and thus was no immediate cause for alarm. This, though welcome news, was hardly unexpected: had it been lodged in her trachea she would probably have gone black in the face some considerable time before.

The radiographer was charming. The Infant Phenomenon had brought with her a favourite toy, her surest resort in all times of stress. The lovely radiographer tested the toy first with the metal detector and did her utmost to reassure my bewildered child that there was nothing to fear. Her previous experience of radiographers left her with an expectation that their function was to cause pain, so she was exceedingly suspicious. But all passed off smoothly.

We were then sent back to the nurse who had interviewed us on our arrival. It was at this point that I noticed the form 'Ingestion of metallic foreign bodies'. It turned out to be a kind of 'flow chart' of which the top two options were 'hazardous eg batteries or sharps' and 'non-hazardous eg coins'. This immediately made me feel better as I really couldn't contemplate the ingestion of metallic sharps with any equanimity. But to me, the most impressive thing about this particular part of the incident is that there actually is a special form for this exceedingly common, but for a parent still unnerving, incident.

I know many say that there is too much bureaucracy in the National Health Service, but I can honestly say that knowing that our particular accident was so common that it warranted its own particular form, was indescribably reassuring.

Perhaps my favourite moment of the whole trip was the puzzlement on the Infant Phenomenon's face when the nurse rather solemnly suggested that he hold her upside down by the ankles and shake her until the coin came out. She really couldn't tell whether he meant it or not.

The Infant Phenomenon is now perfectly recovered from this little mishap. I will not go into the revolting details, but suffice to say the penny has dropped. And I am so grateful to the kind and professional people who made this whole incident so much less alarming than it could have been - as well as faster.

In which I muse upon an anachronism

I feel as though I ought to apologise in advance, because I know full well I shall indulge myself in some unrestrained digression in this chapter. You will have to wait until halfway through to actually find out what the anachronism was.

The other day I was out and about in the town (I beg its pardon, the city of Brighton & Hove-actually) doing some of my usual errands. This generally consists of buying bananas for the Inexhaustible Baby, who has one for breakfast every morning. Note that I say advisedly 'has one' and not 'eats one'. Some mornings he devours his banana in the most gluttonous fashion as though he were indeed a starving million. On other days, most of it will 'adorn' the floor. And at this point I sigh for my previous life as a lady gainfully employed, who earned enough and was busy enough to justify to herself (and to Mr B) the employment of someone who obliged with the cleaning and ironing. Then I clean the rapidly decaying banana from the floor while the Inexhaustible plays watering cans on the table with his cup and the Infant Phenomenon takes half an hour to eat one extremely small apple.

I am no longer gainfully employed. Again, note that I say 'gainfully employed' not 'employed'. I am on the whole fully employed in trying to manage the household, persuade the Infant Phenomenon to eat and the Inexhaustible to sleep, as well as actually find a new avocation for myself. I look forward to the time when I will again receive those charming monthly billets-doux and corresponding augmentations of vulgar material wealth. In the meantime, in our attempts to master domestic economy and avoid expensive luxuries, I have changed the way in which I go about my shopping for groceries. Instead of simply doing one large Waitrose order online (as a lady in the 19th century would simply have ordered the cook to procure the necessary items for these dishes) and putting it away when the helpful delivery person has carried it into the kitchen for me, I now end up buying most of the crucial fresh foods in the usual way, but shopping for dry and tinned goods in less expensive emporia. The end result of this is that I seem to be perpetually shopping and - woe is me! - perpetually running out of something. So much for the Domestic Goddess. Perhaps I could aspire to be an Angel in the Home instead, that sounds much grander and one would expect such a lady to enjoy the ministrations of an excellent housekeeper...

Hence my frequent trips to the shops and we return at last to the day on which I spotted the anachronism. It was simply this: an elderly gentleman on a bicycle. I saw him twice and was incomprehensibly struck by his appearance. In an attempt to understand why I found him so noticeable, I have expended much thought (cooking, cleaning, ironing and shopping generally allow much time for such musings) on finding out why.

The first and most obvious reason is that he reminded me of one of my dear grandparents: my grandpapa in Ireland (the photo of Grandpapa below most kindly supplied by my dear aunt, Mrs F). He wasn't as handsome a gentleman as was my grandpapa, but he was dressed identically in the same kind of respectable overcoat and good flat cap. For some time, I put the strong impression down to this and indulged in fond memories of some of his inimitable sayings. ('He knows as much about that as a pig knows about a clean shirt' being one of my personal favourites.)

Then I started to reflect on what looked wrong about the picture because something was bothering me. I realised that in the not-entirely-appropriate wire shopping basket on the front of the bike (it should have been wicker), instead of the usual shopping bag there was a rucksack. I simply could not envisage this gentleman off his bike, in that garb and with a sports-type rucksack on his back. That was problem number one. Problem number two was that you generally don't see elderly people on bicycles any more. It used to be a common form of transport for people of all ages, but is so no longer. The omnibus and horseless carriage yes, but not the bicycle. Especially not in Brighton, which is excessively hilly and in consequence where you don't often catch me on my bicycle either (in spite of my former 'Urban Warrior Queen of Hyde Park Corner' status).

In fact, near my home you see many cyclists of the extremely dedicated and sporting kind: clad in all the correct accoutrements, which include helmets. Not flat caps. And so the list goes on. You often see people on bicycles without helmets (more fool them, frankly) but not in flat caps. They sport lycra shorts or tights and wraparound sunglasses, they glow in the dark like a Japanese nuclear reactor, they have particular shoes which clip to their pedals, specific kind of shirts with cunning pockets in odd places - and no shopping baskets on the front.

Some, myself included, will occasionally use the machine about daily tasks in the conviction that we are achieving our aims and getting the needful exercise as well. The bicycle, in the midst of our beautiful South Downs, is perhaps more of an extreme sport than a form of transport.

In which I am grateful for modern medicine

The Inexhaustible Baby has spent much of the winter in a state of copious mucus. I do apologise for my lack of delicacy but really, when one spends appreciable portions of every morning trying to clear his little countenance of the truly revolting bits left from the night and his nose of hideous blockages, one rather loses one's daintiness on the subject. It really has been very difficult for him, the poor mite has just gone from one horrid cold to another and he always struggles to get rid of them. One can hear his breathing and he develops a chesty cough each time.

What I find somewhat puzzling is that in spite of his being such a sturdy little ruffian, who eats as though there is an interval of days between each meal, he succumbs to every cold that comes along. This is in sharp distinction to his sister, who eats but poorly and looks so dainty and fragile that she might float away in a light breeze. She has the constitution of an ox and never seems to suffer from more than a mild cold. Certainly she has avoided the procession of phlegm that has afflicted her brother.

The Inexhaustible now seems to be recovering from his most recent bout and I am in hopes that the milder weather may give him some respite. I must confess though, that on this occasion, I was actually relieved that he had a cold - because the alternative was infinitely worse.

Some two weeks ago, my heart sank when on arrival at nursery, a new notice was to be seen on the front door advising parents that one of the children had contracted scarlet fever. The next day, the notice had been changed from one to three and the Inexhaustible seemed to be sickening with something. I was, I will admit, pessimistic. It seemed to me that with his tendency to absorb every form of bacteria within his orbit, his chances of escaping this were slim. On the day when he developed a temperature and sore throat, as well as displaying a most uncharacteristic lethargy, my misgivings were grave.

In retrospect, my reactions were probably somewhat extreme, because I remembered how many characters in novels that I have read have died of scarlet fever and similar illnesses. I couldn't help think with nervousness of Beth in Miss Alcott's Little Women who never really recovers her health and strength. Interestingly the grandmamma of one of the Infant Phenomenon's companions at ballet said that her own mamma was horrified at the mention of scarlet fever and earnestly advocated the incineration of all bedclothes, clothing and soft toys once the infection has reared its ugly head in any well-ordered nursery.

However, thanks indeed to modern medicine, this one-time killer has become a very treatable and relatively unimportant illness for the few who catch it. With that panacea for every childish fever, Calpol, to lower the temperature and antibiotics to kill the infection, the scarlet fever of our nightmares, does truly belong in the 19th century. And I, for one, am most content that it should so remain.

In which I suffer a culinary mishap

I have great pleasure in cooking. One could call it an inherited passion as my Mamma is a superb cook. She is entirely self-taught as in her childhood home, the 'Missy Sahibs' were not permitted to enter the kitchen. Rather like the Misses Bennet in Pride & Prejudice, the young ladies 'had nothing to do in the kitchen'. On the other side, Papa's family - most notably in the persons of my dearest cousin and my aunt, Miss and Mrs F - are also well versed in all the culinary arts. Indeed Papa himself, while not terribly at home amidst the onions and garlic, excels in his appreciation of Mamma's many works of art and may be considered a devoted worshipper at the shrine of which Mamma is the high priestess. In my own abode, I gladly share mastery of the kitchen with Mr B, himself no mean exponent of the hospitable art of cooking. Anyone who has eaten his cakes or his roast dinners will, I am sure, agree with me.

Mr B and I are both keen eaters as well as cooks (hence my earlier wails about my embonpoint) and enjoy experimenting with new recipes. Our greatest challenge in this wise is finding sufficient time. As a general rule, we eschew excessively faddy 'gadgets' about the kitchen and embrace only those which will stand a severely utilitarian test of  appreciably saving us time or labour. Thus the Magimix is a beloved replacement for a kitchenmaid, the dishwasher for the scullerymaid and thanks to the refrigerator, it is no longer necessary for the butcher to call daily at the area steps with the day's meat order. However, my electrical sauce maker, the juicer and the bread maker see the light of day no more.

The purchase of any new piece of culinary equipment is thus rather an enjoyable and absorbing pastime in our household and when the fiat goes forth in favour of buying something, there is usually a great deal of pleasant discussion and light-hearted debate. This was exactly the case with the slow cooker. One of Mr B's cousins, dear Miss I, was visiting and was eloquent in her praise of this particular piece of equipment. In view of the extreme utility of being able to prepare a meal first thing in the morning which will be ready to eat at the end of the day without further supervision, we agreed up on the purchase.

The device soon arrived by the medium of the post and eager was the desire of myself, Mr B and the Infant Phenomenon to sample the delights of this method of cooking. My first attempt I would call a qualified success. Using the receipt which came with book of instruction, I made what they called Hungarian Goulash. It was tasty and both the Infant Phenomenon and the Inexhaustible Baby ate to repletion, as did their parents. My only qualms were that my Hungarian sister-in-law Miss K might not recognise the dish as anything remotely resembling Hungarian Goulash. Nonetheless, leaving aside all such fussing over authenticity, it could be called a success.

My next attempt involved using a receipt from a new publication, especially written and bought for this device, by Mr Worrall Thompson. The book had been well- although not numerously reviewed and at first glance appeared to be the very thing I needed. Figure to yourself my distress and disappointment then, when I found that the end result of this receipt was foul-smelling and completely inedible. Mr B and I both had the fortitude to taste a sip of the sauce, but to no avail. Nothing would have induced us to sit down and actually eat the dish. Fortunately for myself, I had not used any ludicrously expensive ingredients, but the best part of a bottle of wine was wasted. It ended up as a very costly meal indeed, as we were obliged to send out for our dinner to the Indian eating house at the end of the road, which is pleasant but hardly economical.

I attempted to overcome this reversal by making another recipe from the book of instruction. This turned out tolerably well, but I am now plagued with the following question: Do I give Mr Worrall Thompson a second chance or should I simply forget all about him?