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Lucy’s column for March 25
Parklo..1
There has been a petition bearing over 2,000 signatures against it. The Lib-Dem trio who represent the suburb on the City Council have been vociferous in their fight against it. Letters, decrying the idea and asking for answers, have poured into this very double-page platform for readers’ views. And every shop, business, Tom, Dick and Harriet has taken up the cudgels against the unfairness of it all.
So how come Derby City Council has ignored everybody’s views, and decided that Littleover is going to be awash with parking meters?
I don’t often get political in this column, preferring to leave that sort of thing to those with a greater knowledge of the inner workings of the local authority – in our case, the council that listens! But, I have to ask why , in heaven’s name, do we need parking meters in the village? What jobsworth dreamed up this ludicrous scheme.
Everybody in the village I have spoken to has agreed that we just don’t need them, so how does Councillor Ranjit Banwait justify his remarks that there have been requests from the locals for such a scheme? He says that congestion will get worse. Of course it will get worse because of his council’s policy of approving ever more indiscriminate housing development which produces more traffic. Come of it, councillor.
OK, they say they will review it after six months - a totally disingenuous statement. Are we really to believe that after paying ten of thousands of pounds to install the meters, hiring traffic wardens to "police" them and needing more staff to empty them, that the council are going to drop the idea?
The arrogance of some of these elected "servants" is sometimes breathtaking to behold. Perhaps a few shocks in the local elections might not come amiss
Derby City Council says it consults with the people. Consults, perhaps, then rides roughshod over the very people who vote them in and steams ahead with unpopular plans anyway.
A letter in Opinion last week summed up the ludicrousness of the parking meter system generally. Janet Tristram has received three parking tickets in Derby in the space of six months because on each occasion she was stuck in meetings – meetings with the Derby City Partnership which were a vital part of her job as a charity worker in the voluntary sector.
Janet came up with the five-point "charter" citing longer parking times, reduced "fines", and a bit of leeway if the car owner is perhaps a few minutes late. None of her ideas are beyond the wit of man, and as she points out, would make Derby a nicer place to live.
Back in Littleover, currently thriving small businesses will suffer, residents unfortunate enough to have a meter stuck outside their homes will have to curb visits from friends and family, and if there is any humour to be found in the whole sad and sorry situation, it’s the vision of any number of clients in this hairdressing haven, running around in perm curlers and highlights foil, feeding the machines as their curls and colour take hold.
But I have a cunning plan. If everybody could see a way to boycott the dratted devices, even if it means walking a few hundred extra yards, then let’s join forces and beat the powers-that-be at their insidious, spiteful, revenue-inducing game.
End
Brenlo…1
The popularity of feisty Derby daughter Brenda Grogan will never diminish – not while her family and friends, led by daughters Wendy Shipp and Karen Gittins, son John, sister Joyce, and friends Lil Bancroft and June Newton are around to keep her memory alive.
Brenlo..2
A year on from her untimely death, age just 60, they organised a night of fun and frolics at Mr Grundy’s, Ashbourne Road, Derby, which raised nearly £900 for Cancer Research, a charity close to Brenda’s big-as-a-bucket heart, and an amount well beyond their expectations. But, they insist, it wasn’t just down to them.
Thanks go to Carl Haspel, who owns the Georgian Hotel which houses the venue, gave them the run of the place out of the goodness of his own heart, and paid the special fee for Derbyshire’s favourite Elvis tribute act Aaron Badwal and his "roadie", Gurd , who provided their superb brand of entertainment; To the Costco Girls, who contributed in excess of £150; and to Chris Thorewill and Andy Lee, who have just taken over the Duke of York, Burton Road, and sandwich-maker supreme Spencer Phillips, who provided the refreshments, and assisted with a table-groaning raffle, with prizes coming in from all and sundry.
For the past two years, Wendy and Karen have taken part in the Run for Life cancer charity on Darley Park, and this year, May 11, will be no exception. The first year, their precious mum was on hand to cheer them on. Come May, she will still be there in spirit.
end
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
"Eye" can see clearly
Lucy’s column for March 18
Eyelo…1
It’s been a traumatic few weeks, a time to dwell on and worry about the real possibility of losing my sight. And, dear reader, you’re going to share the drama whether you want to or not!
For a couple of months now, there has been impaired vision in my right eye, like the eyeball had been smeared with Vaseline, blobbed with make-up remover which was taking its time to shift, or I’d had too many late nights, even a surfeit of the grape or juniper juice – as if. A 40-minute visit to the optician at least put a name to it – macular degeneration – and a follow-up trip to the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary eye clinic confirmed that. And it was progressing in my left eye, too.
Naturally, the scary stories ensued, not only from people who were sufferers, but from that chamber of medical and surgical horrors – the Internet, which has been my live-in silver-surfer’s daily port of call ever since those initial diagnoses. Almost hourly, he came up with definition, description, causes, risk factors, treatment. What treatment? The dry type which they suspected I had, as opposed to the wet type, was untreatable, apart from, wait for it, some Italian-initiated operation, still in its infancy, and still not generally available in this country. So what was the worst case scenario? Gradual loss of vision.
Now, my eyes have long been the glory of a lifetime’s profession of writing, of reading, and doing four crosswords a day. The prognosis conjured up visions – pardon the pun – of an end to writing and reading, the two joys of my existence. But in such times of trials and tribulations, a sense of humour, somewhat warped in accordance with my family and circle of friends, kicks in. Himself, not noted for his lavish spending, offered to paint the current walking stick white, with friends Andy and Jane Pallett claiming they’d write rude stuff on it like folk do on a leg plaster – as the equivalent of a nursing sister, midwife Jane should know better.
The intervention of my birthday led son Simon to suggest a crystal-encrusted eye patch, for the mother who has everything (except her eye-sight). And grandchildren Jacob and Grace were overjoyed at the prospect of a guide-puppy in the family – a fat Labrador, could they name it and take it for walks? And as a bonus, did you know you don’t have to pick up guide-dog poo? Talking newspapers, tape-recorded books, the idea of having to learn Braille at my ripe old age, being let loose in a frock shop without the ability to decipher the pattern or the price, have all added to the mayhem and mystery of living with impaired vision.
This jesting is in no way intended as disrespect for those out there who do suffer from macular degeneration, wet or dry. We, in Derbyshire, can be secure in the knowledge that our NHS eye clinic at the DRI is rated as one of the finest in the country. I was treated with such respect and reassurance all the way, and guess what? The over-riding problem isn’t MD at all – although there are signs of it in both eyes.
No, the major problem is cataracts – straightforward, treatable, and with the prospect of improved eyesight once the deed is done, on D-day, courtesy of top consultant Mr. P. Puri, who many local eye problem sufferers know and love.
Dear readers, over the past few years, you’ve supported and seen me through me the death of my son, a near-fatal car crash in Mallorca, and breast cancer. The gory details of having needles in my eyeballs, lenses inserted, eye drops four times daily for a month, and dicky vision for a few weeks, will be the doddle you’ll be sharing when the time comes.
And there is an up-side. No gardening, housework or decorating, for at least eight weeks in case little "foreign bodies" get into my eyes. Why, I console myself, spoil the habit of a lifetime?
***
Limblo…1
One such reader of this column is George Wride, of Hollies Road, Allestree, who writes in response to my recent article on a one-armed window-cleaner in Matlock. He has two tales to tell, one involving a one-legged high-jumper, who he saw, as a child around 1933, at the annual Tone Vale Hunt point-to-point. "He dressed in sports gear, set up a pair of poles with a bar on pegs, and would throw his crutch to one side, hop forward, and make a perfect clearance, raising the bar, and repeating his spectacular performance." He had an assistant passing through the crowd with a collection box , and George reckons he made a bob or two out of it.
Another one-limbed chap was the caretaker of a billiard hall, with three tables and a table tennis table. He had only one arm, but kept the place immaculate, brushing the tables, putting new tips on the cues – and was no mean table-tennis player. This, says George, was 1936 – 38. He believes both men were survivors from the First World War. And George? He signs himself : "1921 – and still coming back from the Crem!" What a character.
end
Eyelo…1
It’s been a traumatic few weeks, a time to dwell on and worry about the real possibility of losing my sight. And, dear reader, you’re going to share the drama whether you want to or not!
For a couple of months now, there has been impaired vision in my right eye, like the eyeball had been smeared with Vaseline, blobbed with make-up remover which was taking its time to shift, or I’d had too many late nights, even a surfeit of the grape or juniper juice – as if. A 40-minute visit to the optician at least put a name to it – macular degeneration – and a follow-up trip to the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary eye clinic confirmed that. And it was progressing in my left eye, too.
Naturally, the scary stories ensued, not only from people who were sufferers, but from that chamber of medical and surgical horrors – the Internet, which has been my live-in silver-surfer’s daily port of call ever since those initial diagnoses. Almost hourly, he came up with definition, description, causes, risk factors, treatment. What treatment? The dry type which they suspected I had, as opposed to the wet type, was untreatable, apart from, wait for it, some Italian-initiated operation, still in its infancy, and still not generally available in this country. So what was the worst case scenario? Gradual loss of vision.
Now, my eyes have long been the glory of a lifetime’s profession of writing, of reading, and doing four crosswords a day. The prognosis conjured up visions – pardon the pun – of an end to writing and reading, the two joys of my existence. But in such times of trials and tribulations, a sense of humour, somewhat warped in accordance with my family and circle of friends, kicks in. Himself, not noted for his lavish spending, offered to paint the current walking stick white, with friends Andy and Jane Pallett claiming they’d write rude stuff on it like folk do on a leg plaster – as the equivalent of a nursing sister, midwife Jane should know better.
The intervention of my birthday led son Simon to suggest a crystal-encrusted eye patch, for the mother who has everything (except her eye-sight). And grandchildren Jacob and Grace were overjoyed at the prospect of a guide-puppy in the family – a fat Labrador, could they name it and take it for walks? And as a bonus, did you know you don’t have to pick up guide-dog poo? Talking newspapers, tape-recorded books, the idea of having to learn Braille at my ripe old age, being let loose in a frock shop without the ability to decipher the pattern or the price, have all added to the mayhem and mystery of living with impaired vision.
This jesting is in no way intended as disrespect for those out there who do suffer from macular degeneration, wet or dry. We, in Derbyshire, can be secure in the knowledge that our NHS eye clinic at the DRI is rated as one of the finest in the country. I was treated with such respect and reassurance all the way, and guess what? The over-riding problem isn’t MD at all – although there are signs of it in both eyes.
No, the major problem is cataracts – straightforward, treatable, and with the prospect of improved eyesight once the deed is done, on D-day, courtesy of top consultant Mr. P. Puri, who many local eye problem sufferers know and love.
Dear readers, over the past few years, you’ve supported and seen me through me the death of my son, a near-fatal car crash in Mallorca, and breast cancer. The gory details of having needles in my eyeballs, lenses inserted, eye drops four times daily for a month, and dicky vision for a few weeks, will be the doddle you’ll be sharing when the time comes.
And there is an up-side. No gardening, housework or decorating, for at least eight weeks in case little "foreign bodies" get into my eyes. Why, I console myself, spoil the habit of a lifetime?
***
Limblo…1
One such reader of this column is George Wride, of Hollies Road, Allestree, who writes in response to my recent article on a one-armed window-cleaner in Matlock. He has two tales to tell, one involving a one-legged high-jumper, who he saw, as a child around 1933, at the annual Tone Vale Hunt point-to-point. "He dressed in sports gear, set up a pair of poles with a bar on pegs, and would throw his crutch to one side, hop forward, and make a perfect clearance, raising the bar, and repeating his spectacular performance." He had an assistant passing through the crowd with a collection box , and George reckons he made a bob or two out of it.
Another one-limbed chap was the caretaker of a billiard hall, with three tables and a table tennis table. He had only one arm, but kept the place immaculate, brushing the tables, putting new tips on the cues – and was no mean table-tennis player. This, says George, was 1936 – 38. He believes both men were survivors from the First World War. And George? He signs himself : "1921 – and still coming back from the Crem!" What a character.
end
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Sunday School days
For the life of me I can’t remember when I last went to church when it wasn’t an occasion – christenings, weddings, and all too often in recent years, funerals. But I recall my Sunday School days as if they were yesterday.
As one who was educated in primary and secondary schools with strong religious ethics, with morning assemblies, going-home prayers, pre-meals Grace, encouragement to be confirmed, boarding school ritual of stomach-rumbling, pre-breakfast Holy Communion, little wonder it crossed my adolescent mind that it might be fun to be a nun. At the last school I attended, which started out as an educational establishment for daughters of the clergy, we even had our own chapel, to which we trooped every morning.
I grew up with Catechisms and Creeds coming out of my ears, word-perfect in every popular hymn and psalm in Hymns Ancient and Modern, and the fact that our school chaplain was the late, former canon of Derby Cathedral, the very dishy Paul Miller, only added to our schoolgirl religious fervour. But I digress.
For at least six years of my childhood, I found joy at Sunday School. From singing Sunshine Corner, oh it’s jolly fine, it’s for children under ninety-nine, at Tansley C of E when I was staying with my cousins in that village, to Hear the Pennies Dropping as they took the collection at Two Dales Chapel, I was in heaven.
I actually wasn’t very faithful to just one place of worship, and would often attend two in a day. The local Methodists had super Whitsun anniversaries, also known as the "sittings-up", where we’d dress up in, in my case, home-made finery, and each do a "turn", in front of proud parents. It was certainly worth the morning attendance to qualify. Who could forget my Stir Up the Pudding oh Diddle-Diddle Dough? Certainly not my mum.
But then, at St Helen’s Parish Church, down the road, Sunday afternoon sessions lured us with little booklets, and colourful, iconic stamps to stick in. A full booklet at the end of the term was the stuff today’s university –ology degrees are made of.
It’s so sad that today’s children are no longer encouraged to go along to these gentle little sessions, a fact brought to light recently with Derby City Council’s rejection of would-be foster parents Eunice and Owen Johns, because of their religious views. Sunday School teacher Mrs Johns wanted the children in their care to go to church on Sundays. As the Johns, from Oakwood, explain quite clearly, it’s not as if they’re going to cart off kids, kicking and screaming, to a church service if they don’t want to go, but they would like the option for the youngsters in their care to choose.
Even more worrying is the same Council’s issue on homosexuality. Mr and Mrs Johns, parents of four, and with 20 successful fosterings under their belts, also had their good intentions banned because, through their Christian beliefs, they refuse to tell children as young as ten that homosexuality is an acceptable lifestyle. Like Derby Mayor, Pauline Latham, who has taken up their case, I’m appalled. So, too, are friends in the gay community in Derby, who have discussed this with me.
Blow quoting the Equality Act (Sexual Orientation) which makes it illegal for any business or organisation providing a public service to discriminate against anybody because of their sexuality. And spare a common-sense thought for the chronic shortage of foster-parents nation-wide – 8,000 needed right now.
Back to those halcyon Darley Dale days, there was a chap who knitted the most intricate Fair-Isle, made all his own shirts, and iced totally exquisite wedding cakes. And a woman who dressed in dungarees, worked in a local factory, and drank pints of beer. And guess what? Nobody questioned their sexuality, and I didn’t know what a homosexual was until I was in my 20s.
It’s political correctness gone mad. And as my mother would have said, we’re all going to hell in a hand-cart.
**
My friend Rose Kennedy was awoken from a deep sleep, fearing a plane had crashed on Shardlow Road, Alvaston, and found the cat, Smokey, clawing his way under the duvet on the spare bed. Another pal, Lil Bancroft of Chaddesden, was roused from her slumber by the clanking of the beads on her bedroom curtains, and a Victorian jug-and-bowl rattling on her chest-of-drawers. Elsewhere, in Ferrers Way, Allestree, niece Cindy Alcock and husband Steve joined their neighbours in the street, all donned in night attire, all wondering what an earth had happened.
Was I, who screeches "insomnia" at the sound of our milkman chinking his bottles, Ower Annie de-fleaing herself on the bed, or himself sneaking downstairs for a pre-dawn cuppa, and can time the mail plane on its way to East Midlands Airport to the very second, the only one for whom the earth didn’t move at around 1 am on February 27 when the quake struck?
***
As one who was educated in primary and secondary schools with strong religious ethics, with morning assemblies, going-home prayers, pre-meals Grace, encouragement to be confirmed, boarding school ritual of stomach-rumbling, pre-breakfast Holy Communion, little wonder it crossed my adolescent mind that it might be fun to be a nun. At the last school I attended, which started out as an educational establishment for daughters of the clergy, we even had our own chapel, to which we trooped every morning.
I grew up with Catechisms and Creeds coming out of my ears, word-perfect in every popular hymn and psalm in Hymns Ancient and Modern, and the fact that our school chaplain was the late, former canon of Derby Cathedral, the very dishy Paul Miller, only added to our schoolgirl religious fervour. But I digress.
For at least six years of my childhood, I found joy at Sunday School. From singing Sunshine Corner, oh it’s jolly fine, it’s for children under ninety-nine, at Tansley C of E when I was staying with my cousins in that village, to Hear the Pennies Dropping as they took the collection at Two Dales Chapel, I was in heaven.
I actually wasn’t very faithful to just one place of worship, and would often attend two in a day. The local Methodists had super Whitsun anniversaries, also known as the "sittings-up", where we’d dress up in, in my case, home-made finery, and each do a "turn", in front of proud parents. It was certainly worth the morning attendance to qualify. Who could forget my Stir Up the Pudding oh Diddle-Diddle Dough? Certainly not my mum.
But then, at St Helen’s Parish Church, down the road, Sunday afternoon sessions lured us with little booklets, and colourful, iconic stamps to stick in. A full booklet at the end of the term was the stuff today’s university –ology degrees are made of.
It’s so sad that today’s children are no longer encouraged to go along to these gentle little sessions, a fact brought to light recently with Derby City Council’s rejection of would-be foster parents Eunice and Owen Johns, because of their religious views. Sunday School teacher Mrs Johns wanted the children in their care to go to church on Sundays. As the Johns, from Oakwood, explain quite clearly, it’s not as if they’re going to cart off kids, kicking and screaming, to a church service if they don’t want to go, but they would like the option for the youngsters in their care to choose.
Even more worrying is the same Council’s issue on homosexuality. Mr and Mrs Johns, parents of four, and with 20 successful fosterings under their belts, also had their good intentions banned because, through their Christian beliefs, they refuse to tell children as young as ten that homosexuality is an acceptable lifestyle. Like Derby Mayor, Pauline Latham, who has taken up their case, I’m appalled. So, too, are friends in the gay community in Derby, who have discussed this with me.
Blow quoting the Equality Act (Sexual Orientation) which makes it illegal for any business or organisation providing a public service to discriminate against anybody because of their sexuality. And spare a common-sense thought for the chronic shortage of foster-parents nation-wide – 8,000 needed right now.
Back to those halcyon Darley Dale days, there was a chap who knitted the most intricate Fair-Isle, made all his own shirts, and iced totally exquisite wedding cakes. And a woman who dressed in dungarees, worked in a local factory, and drank pints of beer. And guess what? Nobody questioned their sexuality, and I didn’t know what a homosexual was until I was in my 20s.
It’s political correctness gone mad. And as my mother would have said, we’re all going to hell in a hand-cart.
**
My friend Rose Kennedy was awoken from a deep sleep, fearing a plane had crashed on Shardlow Road, Alvaston, and found the cat, Smokey, clawing his way under the duvet on the spare bed. Another pal, Lil Bancroft of Chaddesden, was roused from her slumber by the clanking of the beads on her bedroom curtains, and a Victorian jug-and-bowl rattling on her chest-of-drawers. Elsewhere, in Ferrers Way, Allestree, niece Cindy Alcock and husband Steve joined their neighbours in the street, all donned in night attire, all wondering what an earth had happened.
Was I, who screeches "insomnia" at the sound of our milkman chinking his bottles, Ower Annie de-fleaing herself on the bed, or himself sneaking downstairs for a pre-dawn cuppa, and can time the mail plane on its way to East Midlands Airport to the very second, the only one for whom the earth didn’t move at around 1 am on February 27 when the quake struck?
***
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Lucy blogging in
It’s a bit like the beginning of a Ken Dodd joke. "Have you ever been blogged, missus?" is the sort of thing he’d say as he twizzled his tickling stick and pulled out his hair at odd angles.
Well, I’ve come up against this chap, Andy Darlington, who’s a bit of a comedian. In real life, he’s Web Editor of the Derby Evening Telegraph www.thisisderbyshire.co.uk which, if you’re IT competent, means you can actually read the DET without having one shoved through your letterbox every afternoon.
It must be ever so clever because I have friends world wide – Florida, Mallorca, even Rob Skivington, who works in Reading – who can read our paper without having to pod out the necessary 35p, plus delivery charge.
For all his posh title, though, Ower Andy must be a bit of a wag. Why else would I receive the following missive from him over the e-mail air-waves : "Starting soon, we’ll have a new blogs page on the website, and what we’ll need you to do when you’ve written your columns is add them to your own personal webpage at www.blogger.com. It’s easy. I’ll send you a guide. Don’t worry….."
What a joker. As the original technophobe who can’t, won’t, and don’t want to get to grips with computers, the woman who craves an old Imperial manual typewriter, a sheet of carbon, and a bottle of Tippex, he wants to turn me into a blogger. And says "Don’t worry."
It wasn’t so much worry, as panic and paranoia, which set in, especially when the second note arrived, thanking every other columnist, contributor, journalist, writer, for their co-operation, before adding, tellingly, : "Lucy – please let me know when you get your Google passwords." Naughty Lucy. You can ignore it, but it won’t go away.
There are rare times when I think "Thank heaven for husbands". But even he, who boasts not only an e-mail address I’ve been denied all these years, but the ability to log on, log off, find me a tub of Madame Rochas Body Lotion, or an I’m-running-away-from-all-this-hassle air flight, and can down-load whatever it is folk down-load, ran around like a scolded cockerel for ten minutes before getting to grips with the idea of a blog for a wife. And he did the necessary, via an SOS call to fellow-columnist Anton Rippon, who was as useful as a chocolate teapot, then on to the aforementioned Mr Darlington, who blinded him with science before talking him through it.
I’d like to report that I’m now a fully-paid-up member of Blogs R Us but I’m not quite sure what the whole rigmarole means, if it’s going to enhance everybody’s life, and what’s in it for me, me, me. You see, among the reams of jargon come six more pages, under the heading of Administrator Guide, which had my eyes glazing over by the end of the welcome introductory sentence.
It’s encouraging to note that, once my blog is created, I can use it as I wish. "You can also play about with adding pictures and videos." Are these people real? Himself has written out, in words of one syllable, with the appropriate dots and coms, what I’m supposed to do once the column is written, and if I get stuck, then there’s another young man, Darren, to call on. Andy and Darren know not what they’ve let themselves in for. Within a week, they’ll wish I’d just blogger off.
It was the top man himself, John Kirkland, of nationally-renowned building company Bowmer and Kirkland, who told me : "You’ll never find a prettier Sainsbury’s – go and see for yourself." Which led me, the other week, to join his PA and press officer, former journalist Sarah Congui, and contracts manager Mark Ife, for a coffee stop in…….Sainsbury’s, Matlock.
Now, I’ve seen a few supermarkets in my time, of boring brick build, or simply white boxes. But to sit, sipping coffee, in what resembles an enormous conservatory, admiring the views across the Matlock Bank hillside, was a joy.
It nestles in the site of a defunct quarry, and is built of mainly wood, glass, and Derbyshire stone hewn from nearby Birchover. And it’s unique in not only its attractiveness, but the way it blends sympathetically with the environment.
As one who was raised in that area, I recall only too well the limited shopping facilities. We had posh shop R. Orme and Co Ltd, the Manchester Stores. And there was the ubiquitous Co-op.
This new Sainsbury’s has caused some controversy, which it would, considering people don’t like change. Planning took over ten years of shilly-shallying. Bowmer and Kirkland started on it in January 2007. It opened in September the same year. Christmas trading was a knock-out. And so it continues.
If Sarah and Mark were at one with their company’s success, my Darley Dale County Primary School friend Pauline Worthy was ecstatic. "I come here nearly every day. I love it. It’s what Matlock needs." And the fact that it’s provided her son Wynne, and dozens of other Matlockians, with much-needed employment, is beside the point. It’s delightful.
Well, I’ve come up against this chap, Andy Darlington, who’s a bit of a comedian. In real life, he’s Web Editor of the Derby Evening Telegraph www.thisisderbyshire.co.uk which, if you’re IT competent, means you can actually read the DET without having one shoved through your letterbox every afternoon.
It must be ever so clever because I have friends world wide – Florida, Mallorca, even Rob Skivington, who works in Reading – who can read our paper without having to pod out the necessary 35p, plus delivery charge.
For all his posh title, though, Ower Andy must be a bit of a wag. Why else would I receive the following missive from him over the e-mail air-waves : "Starting soon, we’ll have a new blogs page on the website, and what we’ll need you to do when you’ve written your columns is add them to your own personal webpage at www.blogger.com. It’s easy. I’ll send you a guide. Don’t worry….."
What a joker. As the original technophobe who can’t, won’t, and don’t want to get to grips with computers, the woman who craves an old Imperial manual typewriter, a sheet of carbon, and a bottle of Tippex, he wants to turn me into a blogger. And says "Don’t worry."
It wasn’t so much worry, as panic and paranoia, which set in, especially when the second note arrived, thanking every other columnist, contributor, journalist, writer, for their co-operation, before adding, tellingly, : "Lucy – please let me know when you get your Google passwords." Naughty Lucy. You can ignore it, but it won’t go away.
There are rare times when I think "Thank heaven for husbands". But even he, who boasts not only an e-mail address I’ve been denied all these years, but the ability to log on, log off, find me a tub of Madame Rochas Body Lotion, or an I’m-running-away-from-all-this-hassle air flight, and can down-load whatever it is folk down-load, ran around like a scolded cockerel for ten minutes before getting to grips with the idea of a blog for a wife. And he did the necessary, via an SOS call to fellow-columnist Anton Rippon, who was as useful as a chocolate teapot, then on to the aforementioned Mr Darlington, who blinded him with science before talking him through it.
I’d like to report that I’m now a fully-paid-up member of Blogs R Us but I’m not quite sure what the whole rigmarole means, if it’s going to enhance everybody’s life, and what’s in it for me, me, me. You see, among the reams of jargon come six more pages, under the heading of Administrator Guide, which had my eyes glazing over by the end of the welcome introductory sentence.
It’s encouraging to note that, once my blog is created, I can use it as I wish. "You can also play about with adding pictures and videos." Are these people real? Himself has written out, in words of one syllable, with the appropriate dots and coms, what I’m supposed to do once the column is written, and if I get stuck, then there’s another young man, Darren, to call on. Andy and Darren know not what they’ve let themselves in for. Within a week, they’ll wish I’d just blogger off.
It was the top man himself, John Kirkland, of nationally-renowned building company Bowmer and Kirkland, who told me : "You’ll never find a prettier Sainsbury’s – go and see for yourself." Which led me, the other week, to join his PA and press officer, former journalist Sarah Congui, and contracts manager Mark Ife, for a coffee stop in…….Sainsbury’s, Matlock.
Now, I’ve seen a few supermarkets in my time, of boring brick build, or simply white boxes. But to sit, sipping coffee, in what resembles an enormous conservatory, admiring the views across the Matlock Bank hillside, was a joy.
It nestles in the site of a defunct quarry, and is built of mainly wood, glass, and Derbyshire stone hewn from nearby Birchover. And it’s unique in not only its attractiveness, but the way it blends sympathetically with the environment.
As one who was raised in that area, I recall only too well the limited shopping facilities. We had posh shop R. Orme and Co Ltd, the Manchester Stores. And there was the ubiquitous Co-op.
This new Sainsbury’s has caused some controversy, which it would, considering people don’t like change. Planning took over ten years of shilly-shallying. Bowmer and Kirkland started on it in January 2007. It opened in September the same year. Christmas trading was a knock-out. And so it continues.
If Sarah and Mark were at one with their company’s success, my Darley Dale County Primary School friend Pauline Worthy was ecstatic. "I come here nearly every day. I love it. It’s what Matlock needs." And the fact that it’s provided her son Wynne, and dozens of other Matlockians, with much-needed employment, is beside the point. It’s delightful.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
School Woodwork Lessons
Since my ramblings last week, extolling the virtues of cookery classes in schools, I’ve had a thought.
Are lads still being taught woodwork?
It’s probably known as something fancy, like organic technology, these days, or, in the case of most of the DIY merchants who pop up on telly, re-designing entire homes in the space of 60 minutes, a dozen ways with the sheet of MDF. And it’s not just jobs for the boys.
Plenty of women I know are pretty handy with the electric drill, and some I’m acquainted with carry little packs of screwdrivers in their handbags. I’m not sure why. I’d be hard pressed to know one end from another.
I stick to the culinary arts in this household, because guess what? Himself went to woodwork lessons as a lad – and reckons he knows it all.
In his defence, he quite enjoys a spot of doing-it-himself. Shelves have been known to stay on the wall, so well in one instance that, when it came to taking them down, he took away most of the plaster, creating such havoc and mess that we were down to the wattle and daub, let alone the bricks. And the cost of the re-plastering doesn’t bear thinking about.
He’s also handy with a paintbrush and a tin of silk finish emulsion, can hang a curtain rail in more or less a straight line, and has been known to lay the odd carpet. As the result, we have a very odd carpet. But in moments of nostalgia, when he’s wittering on about the magic of rawl plugs, and brandishing his late father’s prize chisel, he takes me through his prowess at the school woodwork bench.
And if we gels began our path to gastronomic delights with the humble rock bun, then the world’s future chippies, in the 50s, honed their practical skills on a teapot stand. This was, he recalls, a case of two pieces of wood, chiselled out and made into the form of an X. And, dear reader, if you’re holding your breath in anticipation of hand-made wooden nails to tack this work of art together, don’t bother.
"It was glued," he announces. Glued? Oh yes, but not your ordinary, everyday glue which has to be forced out of a tube. This was "proper" glue, boiled up in a metal pot, from ingredients too awful to think about. And the smell was horrendous.
This first-former’s pride and joy was held aloft to disinterested aunts and uncles for the first few weeks, and sat under the family tea-pot until it disintegrated. No doubt the glue wasn’t as sticky as it should have been.
Moving on into the second form, the class graduated to making book-ends. And this was to be his undoing. It required a knowledge of dovetail joints. And he never did get the hang of them. But, he says, he persevered gallantly, though boredom set in along the way. It took him five years – the rest of his schooldays – to finish them off. They wobbled. They didn’t match. His mum and dad thought they were wonderful. He’s not sure if the aunts and uncles enthused quite as much.
Meanwhile, his fellow-students returned home triumphant, holding aloft items of furniture of Sheraton lines and proportions, perfect in every dovetailed detail.
Along with a myriad of lathes, files, screwdrivers, hammers and screws, inherited over many years, the old man can’t resist the latest must-have gadget even though they rarely come out of the packaging, and people can be forgiven for thinking that our garage is Mr Chippendale’s very own workshop. Sadly, when it comes to craftsmanship, he ventures no further than a flat-pack, an Allen key, a tube of super-glue, and a packet of No-Nails.
Friend and fellow-columnist Anton Rippon joked recently that when he was a kid, he had a part-time job as a wringer-out for a one-armed window cleaner. And I can’t resist letting him know that as a child in the Matlock and Darley Dale area, such a window cleaner existed.
I recall his name was Philip Willets, and he was a familiar sight atop his ladder, outside businesses, banks and shops, as well as private houses, for years. He must have been good because he was always working. And as far as I know, he rung out his own window leather. And unlike today’s breed, who probably call themselves glass hygiene operatives, who pocket their fiver, promise to see you in a month, and never darken your patio door again, he was regular, reliable, and probably did the insides as well as the outsides for the equivalent of today’s ten pence.
Even at that price, hiring a window cleaner was a luxury. Housewives’ backsides perched on bedroom window sills as they polished the outside glass within an inch of its life, was a familiar sight where I came from.
There was also a one-armed painter and decorator operating in Derby a few years ago. And I’m always tickled when I see the window cleaner’s van advertising his business. It’s called Mister Bit.
Are lads still being taught woodwork?
It’s probably known as something fancy, like organic technology, these days, or, in the case of most of the DIY merchants who pop up on telly, re-designing entire homes in the space of 60 minutes, a dozen ways with the sheet of MDF. And it’s not just jobs for the boys.
Plenty of women I know are pretty handy with the electric drill, and some I’m acquainted with carry little packs of screwdrivers in their handbags. I’m not sure why. I’d be hard pressed to know one end from another.
I stick to the culinary arts in this household, because guess what? Himself went to woodwork lessons as a lad – and reckons he knows it all.
In his defence, he quite enjoys a spot of doing-it-himself. Shelves have been known to stay on the wall, so well in one instance that, when it came to taking them down, he took away most of the plaster, creating such havoc and mess that we were down to the wattle and daub, let alone the bricks. And the cost of the re-plastering doesn’t bear thinking about.
He’s also handy with a paintbrush and a tin of silk finish emulsion, can hang a curtain rail in more or less a straight line, and has been known to lay the odd carpet. As the result, we have a very odd carpet. But in moments of nostalgia, when he’s wittering on about the magic of rawl plugs, and brandishing his late father’s prize chisel, he takes me through his prowess at the school woodwork bench.
And if we gels began our path to gastronomic delights with the humble rock bun, then the world’s future chippies, in the 50s, honed their practical skills on a teapot stand. This was, he recalls, a case of two pieces of wood, chiselled out and made into the form of an X. And, dear reader, if you’re holding your breath in anticipation of hand-made wooden nails to tack this work of art together, don’t bother.
"It was glued," he announces. Glued? Oh yes, but not your ordinary, everyday glue which has to be forced out of a tube. This was "proper" glue, boiled up in a metal pot, from ingredients too awful to think about. And the smell was horrendous.
This first-former’s pride and joy was held aloft to disinterested aunts and uncles for the first few weeks, and sat under the family tea-pot until it disintegrated. No doubt the glue wasn’t as sticky as it should have been.
Moving on into the second form, the class graduated to making book-ends. And this was to be his undoing. It required a knowledge of dovetail joints. And he never did get the hang of them. But, he says, he persevered gallantly, though boredom set in along the way. It took him five years – the rest of his schooldays – to finish them off. They wobbled. They didn’t match. His mum and dad thought they were wonderful. He’s not sure if the aunts and uncles enthused quite as much.
Meanwhile, his fellow-students returned home triumphant, holding aloft items of furniture of Sheraton lines and proportions, perfect in every dovetailed detail.
Along with a myriad of lathes, files, screwdrivers, hammers and screws, inherited over many years, the old man can’t resist the latest must-have gadget even though they rarely come out of the packaging, and people can be forgiven for thinking that our garage is Mr Chippendale’s very own workshop. Sadly, when it comes to craftsmanship, he ventures no further than a flat-pack, an Allen key, a tube of super-glue, and a packet of No-Nails.
Friend and fellow-columnist Anton Rippon joked recently that when he was a kid, he had a part-time job as a wringer-out for a one-armed window cleaner. And I can’t resist letting him know that as a child in the Matlock and Darley Dale area, such a window cleaner existed.
I recall his name was Philip Willets, and he was a familiar sight atop his ladder, outside businesses, banks and shops, as well as private houses, for years. He must have been good because he was always working. And as far as I know, he rung out his own window leather. And unlike today’s breed, who probably call themselves glass hygiene operatives, who pocket their fiver, promise to see you in a month, and never darken your patio door again, he was regular, reliable, and probably did the insides as well as the outsides for the equivalent of today’s ten pence.
Even at that price, hiring a window cleaner was a luxury. Housewives’ backsides perched on bedroom window sills as they polished the outside glass within an inch of its life, was a familiar sight where I came from.
There was also a one-armed painter and decorator operating in Derby a few years ago. And I’m always tickled when I see the window cleaner’s van advertising his business. It’s called Mister Bit.
Thursday, 14 February 2008
Lucy column Feb 12, 2008
Let’s hear it for rock cakes. And fish pie. And the sort of Victoria sandwich cake you took home in well-risen triumph, or lied through your teeth by pretending you’d dropped it on the kitchen floor when it sagged in the middle.
Start installing the kitchens, education departments, because according to the Government’s Schools Secretary Ed Balls, cookery is coming back on the school curriculum. And about time, too.
Because while, in my day, cookery was less to do with the healthy eating lark they bang on about today, and more a whizzo, bang-on, alternative to the dreaded maths and scary hockey, it was a learning curve. How else would I know that "a stew boiled is a stew spoiled", that pastry making calls for cold conditions, sponge cakes for warm ones, and that if you roast a chicken, or fry a bit of fish, belly-side down, it makes for a more moist meal?
It has stood me in better stead than unravelling the theorem of Pythagoras or working out the necessity in my universe of logarithms.
I’m not sure when the noble art of perfecting the tin loaf, made with stone-ground flour and proper yeast, went off the timetable scales. Certainly, my late son Matthew did at least one term on the, by then called, home economics front at what is now Littleover Community School, in the 70s, because I recall the usual Monday morning flap as I searched the cupboards for that day’s ingredients.
Like all teenage lads, he’d "forgotten" not only the class, but what they were supposed to be making. Which is why we had an endless run on quiches, because there was usually a supply of cheese, eggs, flour and butter, but in the case of cottage pie, we were usually fresh out of cottages. His fiancee at the time he died, Rose Kennedy, also recalls her days of domestic science, with a little bit of grief. Some lads sneaked in and turned off the ovens. Her melting moments emerged as one soggy slice. Cookery classes were no more.
Commendably for Mr Ed (Meat) Balls, this is a government gesture towards fighting spiralling obesity in our kids. Trouble is, it’s much more fun and interesting whisking up and creating a jam roly-poly, than dreaming up something artistic with a thinly-sliced carrot tied up with a French bean. It’s tastier and more satisfying to a teenage palate to boot.
But this isn’t going to happen overnight. As something called Food Technology took over from cookery lessons, in came the boffins and the designers, teaching kids the rudiments of an attractive-looking and carbohydrate-free sandwich, the advantages of the omega-3 oily mackerel, and how, with the right packaging, a packet of rich tea biscuits could resemble something sweet and succulent.
Over the past few years, there has been nothing to point pupils in the direction of putting a square meal on a round table. Which means, along with kitchens being abandoned in favour of IT suites, there is also a shortage of specialist cookery teachers.
This could mean a whole new career for those traditionalists from the Women’s Institute, whose culinary prowess knows no bounds, and whose sponge cakes are never known to sag. Or those from my generation, who know at least fourteen ways with a pound of mince. Low fat, of course.
Brenlo..1
There’s good news for the family and friends of the late Brenda Grogan, for supporters of Cancer Research, and for fans of the famous and fabulous Aaron, Derbyshire’s premier Elvis impersonator.
A disastrous "do" a few months ago to mark what would have been the 61st birthday of one of Derby’s most popular daughters, Brenda, left her nearest and dearest with egg on their faces, the charity a considerable amount short of a donation, and Aaron out of pocket because he’d donated part of his fee to the cause, because the venue didn’t deliver. The promised food was a plate or three short of a cheese sarnie, and although we all trooped in with raffle prizes, there wasn’t a ticket to be had. But the ever-popular Aaron, in true showbiz tradition, delivered. And he’s prepared to put his money where his fee should be yet again.
To mark the first anniversary of Brenda’s untimely death from cancer, her daughters Wendy and Karen, son John, sister Joyce and very best friend Lil Bancroft, have organised a memorial night, this time at Mr Grundy’s, Ashbourne Road, Derby, which was one of Brenda’s favourite venues. It takes place on Saturday, February 23.
There WILL be food, and a prize draw, and lots of trips down memory lane as everybody recalls the life, times and anecdotes of the lovely, lively lady who was loved by so many. And Aaron, the Elvis impressionist who is noted for his charity work, will be there to swell the coffers of the cause so close to the heart of Brenda’s people. I look forward to seeing everybody.
end
Start installing the kitchens, education departments, because according to the Government’s Schools Secretary Ed Balls, cookery is coming back on the school curriculum. And about time, too.
Because while, in my day, cookery was less to do with the healthy eating lark they bang on about today, and more a whizzo, bang-on, alternative to the dreaded maths and scary hockey, it was a learning curve. How else would I know that "a stew boiled is a stew spoiled", that pastry making calls for cold conditions, sponge cakes for warm ones, and that if you roast a chicken, or fry a bit of fish, belly-side down, it makes for a more moist meal?
It has stood me in better stead than unravelling the theorem of Pythagoras or working out the necessity in my universe of logarithms.
I’m not sure when the noble art of perfecting the tin loaf, made with stone-ground flour and proper yeast, went off the timetable scales. Certainly, my late son Matthew did at least one term on the, by then called, home economics front at what is now Littleover Community School, in the 70s, because I recall the usual Monday morning flap as I searched the cupboards for that day’s ingredients.
Like all teenage lads, he’d "forgotten" not only the class, but what they were supposed to be making. Which is why we had an endless run on quiches, because there was usually a supply of cheese, eggs, flour and butter, but in the case of cottage pie, we were usually fresh out of cottages. His fiancee at the time he died, Rose Kennedy, also recalls her days of domestic science, with a little bit of grief. Some lads sneaked in and turned off the ovens. Her melting moments emerged as one soggy slice. Cookery classes were no more.
Commendably for Mr Ed (Meat) Balls, this is a government gesture towards fighting spiralling obesity in our kids. Trouble is, it’s much more fun and interesting whisking up and creating a jam roly-poly, than dreaming up something artistic with a thinly-sliced carrot tied up with a French bean. It’s tastier and more satisfying to a teenage palate to boot.
But this isn’t going to happen overnight. As something called Food Technology took over from cookery lessons, in came the boffins and the designers, teaching kids the rudiments of an attractive-looking and carbohydrate-free sandwich, the advantages of the omega-3 oily mackerel, and how, with the right packaging, a packet of rich tea biscuits could resemble something sweet and succulent.
Over the past few years, there has been nothing to point pupils in the direction of putting a square meal on a round table. Which means, along with kitchens being abandoned in favour of IT suites, there is also a shortage of specialist cookery teachers.
This could mean a whole new career for those traditionalists from the Women’s Institute, whose culinary prowess knows no bounds, and whose sponge cakes are never known to sag. Or those from my generation, who know at least fourteen ways with a pound of mince. Low fat, of course.
Brenlo..1
There’s good news for the family and friends of the late Brenda Grogan, for supporters of Cancer Research, and for fans of the famous and fabulous Aaron, Derbyshire’s premier Elvis impersonator.
A disastrous "do" a few months ago to mark what would have been the 61st birthday of one of Derby’s most popular daughters, Brenda, left her nearest and dearest with egg on their faces, the charity a considerable amount short of a donation, and Aaron out of pocket because he’d donated part of his fee to the cause, because the venue didn’t deliver. The promised food was a plate or three short of a cheese sarnie, and although we all trooped in with raffle prizes, there wasn’t a ticket to be had. But the ever-popular Aaron, in true showbiz tradition, delivered. And he’s prepared to put his money where his fee should be yet again.
To mark the first anniversary of Brenda’s untimely death from cancer, her daughters Wendy and Karen, son John, sister Joyce and very best friend Lil Bancroft, have organised a memorial night, this time at Mr Grundy’s, Ashbourne Road, Derby, which was one of Brenda’s favourite venues. It takes place on Saturday, February 23.
There WILL be food, and a prize draw, and lots of trips down memory lane as everybody recalls the life, times and anecdotes of the lovely, lively lady who was loved by so many. And Aaron, the Elvis impressionist who is noted for his charity work, will be there to swell the coffers of the cause so close to the heart of Brenda’s people. I look forward to seeing everybody.
end
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