My area continues to yield small wonderful things:
- Schleiper, a gorgeous art shop
- A supermarket that stocks Hovis fruit scones
- A sandwich shop called La Petite Fanny
- A single very prostituty shoe on the pavement
I love my adopted city.
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Jam Today
Today I handed back the keys to my old place, after having cleaned it. Those who know me will be slightly amused at the idea of me cleaning but it had to be done. I am now a bit wrinkled and lemony. There were dust-bunnies under the bed that surely pre-dated me. I could not have produced that much fluff if I were a Persian cat. Satisfying to walk out for the last time and scribble over my name on the bell, two keys lighter. I'm slightly dreading the bill for breaking the hob-knob but who knows, maybe it will be easy to replace...
My area continues to yield small wonderful things:
I love my adopted city.
My area continues to yield small wonderful things:
I love my adopted city.
Friday, 30 March 2012
Kneediness
I could have done with Big Bertha's help just now.
If your adult child ever leaves several tons of books, magazines, shoes and clothes with you, I suggest - in the nicest possible way - that you burn them. I've had custody of them for the last two and a half years. Nine boxes, and I felt my knee nearly give out taking the first one downstairs tonight. So the following eight boxes were tackled with a scarf tied round under my knee in case it went completely. I haven't dared untie it yet in case my knee cap is round my ankle. We have dodgy knees in this family. (I wonder if Bertha had dodgy knees. We have exactly the same horizontal lines round our neck.)
The final box I could not pick up at all and slid it down the stairs one at a time like a bad murderer. Fortunately a neighbour appeared and helped me down the last bit.
Tonight these sodding boxes will be collected and dispatched to the outskirts of Paris and I can put my (raddled) knees under the table again.
If your adult child ever leaves several tons of books, magazines, shoes and clothes with you, I suggest - in the nicest possible way - that you burn them. I've had custody of them for the last two and a half years. Nine boxes, and I felt my knee nearly give out taking the first one downstairs tonight. So the following eight boxes were tackled with a scarf tied round under my knee in case it went completely. I haven't dared untie it yet in case my knee cap is round my ankle. We have dodgy knees in this family. (I wonder if Bertha had dodgy knees. We have exactly the same horizontal lines round our neck.)
The final box I could not pick up at all and slid it down the stairs one at a time like a bad murderer. Fortunately a neighbour appeared and helped me down the last bit.
Tonight these sodding boxes will be collected and dispatched to the outskirts of Paris and I can put my (raddled) knees under the table again.
Meet Great Great Aunt Bertha
Today I want you to meet a formidable woman.
The Capon family has been based in London for at least two hundred years and as far as I can tell they were not ever wealthy. My great-great aunt Louisa Bertha Capon was born in 1871 in Devon, where my great-great-grandparents had moved. From the 1871 census they appeared to have been working in service together. Bertha, as she was known, married a much older man when she was 22, who eventually left her a widow. I'll let Bertha's daughter take over the story. This was written [with my slightly sarky asides] by Sister Marie de Piro in 1997, shortly before she died:
Daddy, as we children always called him, was born in Mdina, Malta in 1879, and Mama, as Daddy called her when he did not use her name, Bertha, was born in Torquay, England in 1871, the eldest of seven children. Daddy had 6 brothers and 2 sisters.
I know little about my Parents' childhood except for references from family members. Before meeting my Father, Mama had married an older man, whose surname was Larard. He died after a short terminal illness, leaving his wealth on temporary agreements. Within three years Mama lost husband, her Father and Mother. A breakdown in health followed these sad losses. The solicitors in charge of her affairs followed the doctors' advice and arranged a sea voyage on the P. & O. to Australia. As children we heard many stories of this three month voyage which restored her health. [hmm, I bet...]
On her return to England she leased a flat in Handel Mansions, Brunswick Square, leaving the family home in Chelsea to her brothers. [This sounds awfully grand. The family lived in the Kings Road, where the fire station now is. I suspect it was rented, as they were solidly working-class.]
Daddy, after his M.D. in Louvain, came to London to continue his medical studies: surgery and tropical medicine. His modest apartment was also in Brunswick Square.
Uncle Carmel, Daddy's eldest brother was, at that time a well known consultant - I think in a large hospital in Birmingham. When possible the two brothers met in London. I do not know the circumstances, but Mama said that both in turn proposed to her. [Foxy Mama]. She said she refused Uncle Carmel, for she and Guido (my father) had already fallen in love.
I was born in Brunswick Square in my Mother's apartment in 1908, when Daddy had finished his studies. My Parents moved from the heart of London, leasing a house in Kew, Surrey where my sister was born in 1909.
The Guido that she mentions is Guido De Piro D'Amico, a Maltese nobleman. When he became ill with TB they moved back to his native island and he died there in 1921. Bertha stayed there until her death in 1942 - one of her daughters became a nun, the other a children's author.
Knowing my family as I do, and that my grandfather worked in the sewers in Barnes and would come home to eat his dinner without washing his hands, this story fascinates me. I know nothing about Bertha other than she chose to vault out of the class into which she was born in the only way possible at that time - by marrying "well". Interestingly in the 1911 census she is nine years younger than she had been previously, although her daughter seems to be aware of her true age.
The Capon family has been based in London for at least two hundred years and as far as I can tell they were not ever wealthy. My great-great aunt Louisa Bertha Capon was born in 1871 in Devon, where my great-great-grandparents had moved. From the 1871 census they appeared to have been working in service together. Bertha, as she was known, married a much older man when she was 22, who eventually left her a widow. I'll let Bertha's daughter take over the story. This was written [with my slightly sarky asides] by Sister Marie de Piro in 1997, shortly before she died:
Daddy, as we children always called him, was born in Mdina, Malta in 1879, and Mama, as Daddy called her when he did not use her name, Bertha, was born in Torquay, England in 1871, the eldest of seven children. Daddy had 6 brothers and 2 sisters.
I know little about my Parents' childhood except for references from family members. Before meeting my Father, Mama had married an older man, whose surname was Larard. He died after a short terminal illness, leaving his wealth on temporary agreements. Within three years Mama lost husband, her Father and Mother. A breakdown in health followed these sad losses. The solicitors in charge of her affairs followed the doctors' advice and arranged a sea voyage on the P. & O. to Australia. As children we heard many stories of this three month voyage which restored her health. [hmm, I bet...]
On her return to England she leased a flat in Handel Mansions, Brunswick Square, leaving the family home in Chelsea to her brothers. [This sounds awfully grand. The family lived in the Kings Road, where the fire station now is. I suspect it was rented, as they were solidly working-class.]
Daddy, after his M.D. in Louvain, came to London to continue his medical studies: surgery and tropical medicine. His modest apartment was also in Brunswick Square.
Uncle Carmel, Daddy's eldest brother was, at that time a well known consultant - I think in a large hospital in Birmingham. When possible the two brothers met in London. I do not know the circumstances, but Mama said that both in turn proposed to her. [Foxy Mama]. She said she refused Uncle Carmel, for she and Guido (my father) had already fallen in love.
I was born in Brunswick Square in my Mother's apartment in 1908, when Daddy had finished his studies. My Parents moved from the heart of London, leasing a house in Kew, Surrey where my sister was born in 1909.
The Guido that she mentions is Guido De Piro D'Amico, a Maltese nobleman. When he became ill with TB they moved back to his native island and he died there in 1921. Bertha stayed there until her death in 1942 - one of her daughters became a nun, the other a children's author.
Knowing my family as I do, and that my grandfather worked in the sewers in Barnes and would come home to eat his dinner without washing his hands, this story fascinates me. I know nothing about Bertha other than she chose to vault out of the class into which she was born in the only way possible at that time - by marrying "well". Interestingly in the 1911 census she is nine years younger than she had been previously, although her daughter seems to be aware of her true age.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
A Two Woman Invasion
I have lost count of the number of people who have said I am brave to have chucked everything up and moved countries. Each time I say that I'm not, and truly I do not feel brave.
There is a story I'd almost forgotten until I moved here. In 1842, Charlotte and Emily Brontë left the parsonage at Haworth for Brussels. For two respectable young women to leave the family home, trek across England (in February), to take the packet steamer to Oostende (like a ferry, but with more sick), and then the stagecoach to Brussels, to take up secular work with foreigners in a foreign country, that must have taken some considerable balls. Brussels would not have been like it is today where English is in some places the default language. It was proper foreign.
They returned to Yorkshire in October of that year because their aunt was dying, and then Charlotte returned alone to Brussels. There followed a passionate but sad attachment to the married Principal of the school where she worked, and then Charlotte returned home.
Her time in Brussels was in all just two years, but given that Charlotte was born in 1816, it was an adventure of audaciousness and incredible bravery. I just got on a Eurostar.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Tinkerbell
'Whenever a child says "I don't believe in fairies" there's a little fairy somewhere that falls right down dead.'
Moving to another city, or in this case another country and city, there are a lot of things you leave behind. Equally, there are a lot of things that come with you - some of which I've covered. What you leave behind is your myth. You leave behind the lovely friends and family who reflect back a good and legendary version of you. You leave behind their belief in you. In a new place, nobody believes in you because they don't yet know you. In a sense we are conjured from what people believe about us.
Of course, it was my choice to come here and there are no regrets. But it's quite a lot harder than I thought it would be.
Anyway, good things about today:
1. I picked up my 38 hour a week contract from Manpower. I am now very officially employed.
2. I picked up my national ID card. I am now very official.
3. I got asked out in the street. Which hasn't happened for about thirty years. I said thank you, but no.
4. I took some pictures of the glorious magnolia.
Moving to another city, or in this case another country and city, there are a lot of things you leave behind. Equally, there are a lot of things that come with you - some of which I've covered. What you leave behind is your myth. You leave behind the lovely friends and family who reflect back a good and legendary version of you. You leave behind their belief in you. In a new place, nobody believes in you because they don't yet know you. In a sense we are conjured from what people believe about us.
Of course, it was my choice to come here and there are no regrets. But it's quite a lot harder than I thought it would be.
Anyway, good things about today:
1. I picked up my 38 hour a week contract from Manpower. I am now very officially employed.
2. I picked up my national ID card. I am now very official.
3. I got asked out in the street. Which hasn't happened for about thirty years. I said thank you, but no.
4. I took some pictures of the glorious magnolia.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Curses
I started the evening last night by pouring red wine into a pint glass, and thought "this will end in tears" and do you know what? It did. When will I learn. When will I learn. When will I learn. If you are someone prone to depression and you imbibe a depressant, what happens? Well I can tell you this, it isn't like when two werewolves have a baby and their genes cancel out the werewolvishness. Oh no. Full moon or not, I'm going to howl. I like a drink. But you know, there are times when it probably isn't a good idea. At my advanced age, crying at night makes you look offal in the morning.
The Boy has said his first recognisable words this week. Prior to this he made do with "ugh" which serves quite a few purposes. His first words were "Oh dear!". Those of you who know me in real life can breathe a sigh of relief. It could so easily have been "You useless pile of cunt!".
When I walk home down my road, I see the sun glinting off the dome of the Palais de Justice. That's something you wouldn't see in Southfields.
The Boy has said his first recognisable words this week. Prior to this he made do with "ugh" which serves quite a few purposes. His first words were "Oh dear!". Those of you who know me in real life can breathe a sigh of relief. It could so easily have been "You useless pile of cunt!".
When I walk home down my road, I see the sun glinting off the dome of the Palais de Justice. That's something you wouldn't see in Southfields.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Clean and Green
Today was one of those days when you have a rub-down with a baby wipe and hope for the best. There is a reason for this. Last night I did something so spack-tastic I set the cause back for women several centuries.
The washing machine in the murdery cellar seems to be permanently engaged so I chucked a few things in the shower and ran it full on. Put my headphones on, watched a bit of pirate telly. Being Human. You can probably guess the rest. Some pantage got caught in the plughole and when I took off my headphones all I could hear was cascading water. I don't think I've been that frightened in years.
The shower room was completely flooded and it was going all through the floor to downstairs. Two twin and battling thoughts: if it gets in the electrics I'm fucked; if it goes down another floor I've fucked the neighbours. In a non-literal sense. Grabbing everything absorbant I swabbed and blotted till the cascade stopped. All that damp towelling and shit is now in the shower. So I couldn't really have a shower. What a complete blonde spack.
The neighbours haven't knocked, so it looks like I got away with it.
The forest this morning was full of trees (Really? Really?) blurting bits of green. Tiny green handkerchiefs. I walked and walked while The Boy slept and thought, as I do most days, about someone. A man who touched me only once, and that was to say goodbye. It is as if my body retains the diluted memory of the touch, like a homeopathic tablet. And like homeopathy, this thought is probably complete, utter bollocks. It certainly will not effect a cure. I think of him. And one cannot help these things. It will just have to find its way out my head in its own good time.
I am now going to search for a launderette.
The washing machine in the murdery cellar seems to be permanently engaged so I chucked a few things in the shower and ran it full on. Put my headphones on, watched a bit of pirate telly. Being Human. You can probably guess the rest. Some pantage got caught in the plughole and when I took off my headphones all I could hear was cascading water. I don't think I've been that frightened in years.
The shower room was completely flooded and it was going all through the floor to downstairs. Two twin and battling thoughts: if it gets in the electrics I'm fucked; if it goes down another floor I've fucked the neighbours. In a non-literal sense. Grabbing everything absorbant I swabbed and blotted till the cascade stopped. All that damp towelling and shit is now in the shower. So I couldn't really have a shower. What a complete blonde spack.
The neighbours haven't knocked, so it looks like I got away with it.
The forest this morning was full of trees (Really? Really?) blurting bits of green. Tiny green handkerchiefs. I walked and walked while The Boy slept and thought, as I do most days, about someone. A man who touched me only once, and that was to say goodbye. It is as if my body retains the diluted memory of the touch, like a homeopathic tablet. And like homeopathy, this thought is probably complete, utter bollocks. It certainly will not effect a cure. I think of him. And one cannot help these things. It will just have to find its way out my head in its own good time.
I am now going to search for a launderette.
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