Those of you who have read my post about the Market Cross ghost know that I am not worried by ghosts at all, never having seen or been bothered by one, except for those two times when there were objects flying around the bathroom, and that was totally inexplicable.

One night, not very long ago, I was close to falling asleep when I realised that the bed, or rather, the mattress and duvet, were moving in a strange way. I will stop telling the tale for a moment while I explain a few things and set the scene.

Eight and a bit years ago I had my knees replaced, one at a time, six months apart. At that time, Julian had a part-time job which meant that he got up at 5 in the morning. Recovering from the ops meant I didn’t sleep well as I couldn’t lie on either side but only on my back which I don’t normally do and which makes me uncomfortable. With Julian going to bed early and getting up super-early and my not sleeping well, plus the fact that Rosie used to sleep on our bed with us (I know, I shouldn’t allow it!), eventually I moved into the smaller room next to our bedroom where there was a single bed and where I could sit up reading or listen to music without disturbing Julian. But, instead of sharing a king-size bed with Jules, Rosie insisted (!) on sleeping in a single bed with me. So, I moved into one of our two guest rooms – the one where there is a nice French double bed.

After I had recovered from my knee ops and Julian had retired from his job, I decided to stay where I was, in the guest room, after all, I was seventy-ish by then and, anyway, it was nice not to have to prod Julian in the side two or three times a night to stop him snoring! Also, the bed being a double meant that Rosie had her side and I had mine!

Back to the story: The mattress and duvet were moving. Rosie had died some months before, so it wasn’t her making the bed move and I was pretty certain it wasn’t me. I lay quite still, in order to try to understand what was happening. I was on my side, facing the windows, and I could feel the duvet being pulled sideways, very gently over my legs. At the same time the mattress was very subtly moving — I could hear, through the pillow, a spring or two moving occasionally. The longer I lay there, without moving, the longer the strange movements went on. Silently and lying very still, I went through all sorts of ideas in my head.

“Could Julian be playing some sort of trick on me? No, Julian doesn’t do things like that. Could it be thieves in the house playing a trick on me? Don’t be stupid!”

And I suddenly realised that what I was feeling was very similar to how it felt after Rosie had made herself comfortable on the bed. (When she got on the bed, she used to ‘flop’ down, causing the entire mattress to bounce once or twice, as she weighed several stone.)

And I thought, “OMG, it’s Rosie’s ghost!”

After a little while I turned to face the other direction and there was, of course, nothing there.

Last night I fell asleep after a long day. At about 2am I suddenly woke up to that same subtle movement of the bed, only this time, the movement — the slightest, most delicate, movement of the duvet — was over my ankles and feet. I lay there, at first trying to work out what had woken me and then to question the feelings around my feet and finally to think, “Could it be Rosie’s ghost?” If it is, I guess she misses me as much as I miss her!


My sweet Rosie

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Back in the seventies, Pam Ayres wrote a ditty about her teeth and how she wished that she had looked after them properly. That little ‘poem’ struck a chord with many, many people, I imagine, and I was definitely one of them!

I was born in 1943. Dentistry, while not in its infancy, was – compared to today – still in its toddler-hood. As I have intimated before, my mother was not exactly ready for motherhood and, before I had many teeth (maybe six?), I had a baby sister. Childcare was not my mother’s strong point and, though I’m sure each of us had a toothbrush, I’m not entirely sure she helped us to use it, nor did she nag us to use it, even when we were older. (Though she did have the terrible habit of asking us loudly, even when we were adults, “Have you brushed your teeth today,” just as you were going into a shop or – this is true – getting into a cab to go to one’s own wedding!)

So, my sisters and I didn’t grow up with the most hygienic ideas and rules and achieved our twenties with a lot of fillings between us. Our first dentist was one of our grown-up cousins (at least that’s what we were told although I can’t see any family connections when looking at a family-tree). He was older than our mother, most likely in the generation above hers, and he had his dentist office (dental surgery for my British readers) in downtown Zanesville, not far from my great-grandmother’s wonderful house.

My first visits to the dentist must have been traumatic because I can still remember the noise and feel of that gigantic drill he used and the taste and smell of the bits of tooth left in my mouth afterwards.

Speed forward to the 1960’s:

I don’t remember visiting a dentist again until we had moved to London. That’s not because we didn’t have treatments (we must have, judging by the number of fillings in my mouth) but they obviously were not memorable and I have put them and the anxiety they must have caused, out of my mind. In fact I barely remember visiting a dentist until the mid to late sixties. Then it got bad! We lived in Chiswick from around 1965 and I can remember, vividly, having a terrible toothache. I found a dentist just a short walk away, in the High Road, and walked into his ‘torture chamber’, certain that there would be five or six holes needing filling. That dentist checked my entire mouth then told me that he would not be able to do that amount of work on the National Health! He said, “There are three, maybe four, to be removed and eleven teeth needing filling and the National Health will not pay me for doing such a lot of work. I can, however, do the work privately.”


I made an excuse and left without treatment (we were not at all well off at the time and couldn’t afford to have private dentistry). I managed my toothache with oil of cloves until I had, obviously, convinced that tooth it didn’t hurt any longer! In fact, I didn’t go to a dentist for several years until that same cavity redoubled its efforts and the oil of cloves had no effect. I went to a dental practice in Goldhawk Road (a bus ride from my house in Chiswick) and found,there, an ethical dentist who pulled that one tooth and filled six more, all on the National Health. He was horrified to hear my story of the unethical dentist in Chiswick, who had actually closed his practice during those two years. This was the first dentist (an Australian, as it happens) who worked so painlessly that I determined to go to the dentist regularly. My determination lasted for a year or so and then petered out as life got hectic.

During the following years, British dentists realised that their patients were often scared, anxious or even terrified and started working on their ‘bedside manner’. Dental schools and dental tools were upgraded, thankfully! The injections, which helped dull or remove the pain during dental work, were given via much slimmer needles; the drills became much faster and cooler and there was the ‘sucker’ that took away excess saliva and old bits of tooth and filling. None of this made a difference to my sister, Judy, though.

She had to have a couple of teeth out and arranged with a surgery in Ravenscourt Park to have the work done under a general anaesthetic as she hated the novocaine injections. To have this done, she needed me to take and collect her, so ‘Veronica’ and I accompanied her in my old Cambridge A55 and waited outside while she went in for the work. We waited and waited…..and waited but she didn’t come out. An hour and a half went by and, finally, I went up the stairs to the receptionist to ask about Judy. The receptionist said that Judy was resting as she had fainted just as they were going to give her the anaesthetic and that she couldn’t have the work done that day! Eventually, Judy joined us and we all went home. I imagine she had the work done another day but don’t remember any further upsets.

Speaking of ‘Veronica’, when she was about eighteen months old she fell against a coffee table and knocked one of her front baby teeth out. We waited some years and, finally, the adult tooth appeared. One day she had an upset stomach and was being sick. She leaned over the toilet and, at the same moment, I lifted the seat so she wouldn’t be sick on it, and knocked her tooth out! She has hardly forgiven me for that, and I can’t really blame her!

Now that I am an old woman I look after my teeth really well! I brush, I floss, I visit the dentist twice a year and still have a surprising number of my own teeth still in use. Not many years ago I debated getting a ‘plate’ so that I have less chance of getting to a point where I can’t chew with my back teeth. On one side the top back tooth has nothing to grind against which means I have to chew on the other side. The top back tooth on the chewing side was damaged badly (and painfully) when I bit down on one of those little silver balls that was decorating a Christmas cookie which I had bought at Ashford station on my way home after visiting Patty in her old folks’ home. I was sure nothing could be done to save it but I was wrong! Where the remains would just have been yanked out forty years ago, the dentist I was seeing at the time worked exceedingly hard to make me a crown to replace it.

It wasn’t long before Christmas and he made a temporary crown to take me over the holiday, leaving the dreaded root canal work until the holiday was finished. When I went back to have the temporary crown removed and the rest of the work done, he found that it was on so strongly that it couldn’t be removed (and he really tried for quite a while to remove it!) So, he left the temporary on and drilled through it to do the root canal work and I still have the same one!


I had to change dentists a couple of years ago and went to the one Julian uses. He is, I believe (from his accent) a South African and he knows how to treat nervous patients – (Julian was a much more nervous patient than I!) The new dentist is very impressed by my ‘temporary’ crown but has given me an even more impressive filling! For years the back tooth (below the temp crown) was a gorgeous gold (crown) and when it needed to be removed was replaced by a more mundane ‘white’ but it needed to be replaced about two years ago. There was very little tooth for it to be attached to but, miracle-worker that he is, he made a filling that did the job. Then, three weeks ago, I was eating my Sunday dinner when part of the filling fell out. Eating and drinking didn’t cause any pain so I wasn’t too worried but the edge of the tooth was sharp and kept annoying the side of my tongue so I went to see my ‘new’ dentist. He was pleased to see that it was only a little bit of the original filling and it was easy to replace it. I was more than pleased! No drilling, no injection, no pain and, when he had finished, no catching on my tongue, either.

I recently saw in a news report that scientists are working on cell stimulating medications that can trick teeth into repairing themselves or even growing again!!! I do hope, for the younger generations’ sake, that this can be done in a safe and cheap way. It’s really too late for my teeth, far too late for those people who have mouths full of dentures, I imagine, but not too late for my beautiful grand daughter who, as it happens has no fillings yet and is nearly 23 years old! She has no memories of huge (pneumatic) drills taking up every bit of space in her mouth and drilling down as far as her chin; no memories of gigantic hypodermic needles approaching her mouth and tearing into her gums (or even worse, the roof of her mouth!); only memories of a nice white office where some fairly disgusting but rapidly disappearing paste was spread over her teeth leading to no fillings.

I realise I’ve been fairly lucky with my teeth, that other people have had much worse problems, and I am thankful for that. But, generally, for most of the population, there is no other part of the body that has to be worked on, sometimes with pain and certainly with anxiety and I hope that in the near future, these scientific miracles happen and teeth cause no more problems than a scraped kneeor broken finger-nail.

(While these aren’t real dental tools, they certainly look like they are. I used them when making jigsaw puzzle pieces from a resin.)

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Somehow, I deleted my post.

In order for people who have not signed up to receive this (Oh, I’m so envious..), I’ve had to put it online again. Apologies to you if you’ve already received it!

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Oh, I’m so envious of my husband! He has a wife….

Julian puts the rubbish out, if I ask him to. I doubt if he knows when the bin-men are due and I’m sure he doesn’t know whether it’s general-rubbish-week or re-cycling-week. Once a year he goes on-line and does my tax return for me, he’ll vacuum downstairs or upstairs if I ask (occasionally) and has been known to dust his own bedroom – if given a duster. Once in a while he empties and refills the dish-washer and he has been known to cook his own meal, as long as it is a “ready-meal” which he can put in the microwave. If he’s not doing anything else, he will take me to the supermarket and – given a list – will go around one end of the shop gathering up things we need. He makes me a coffee, if he’s having one and, most evenings after dinner, he’ll say: “Let me know when you want a coffee,” though he knows I usually don’t because I feel a bit guilty if he’s watching a programme or doing something on his laptop. (Ready meals are for nights when Julian is going out early and needs to eat before he goes. I am not keen on eating at five thirty and he is quite happy with ready meals!)

img_3392The bins

A typical day

Julian gets up before me, gets washed and dressed and goes downstairs for his breakfast. He goes to the cupboard, takes out the cereal of the moment, finds a bowl, a spoon and the milk and sits down to eat. Because I’m taking amitriptyline in order to prevent a return of the dreaded sciatica, I tend to sleep late – but, as the doctor asked when I complained about it some years ago, “Does it really matter?” the obvious answer is, “No, it doesn’t really”. I may get up at eight or nine or even ten in the morning unless I have something important to do then I can force myself to get up earlier. I wander down still in my pyjamas at whatever time suits my sleep pattern and have my cereal, fruit and coffee.

Then my day begins. I go upstairs to wash, dress and tidy my room, then – depending on what I’ve planned for the day – I get to work. Twice a week I wash clothes. If I leave it for a day or two, it is difficult to get a load of washing dry. British weather being completely unpredictable and, not wanting to add to climate change, we don’t have a tumble dryer. Instead,we have an old-fashioned hanging contraption in the downstairs ‘loo’, which has four long slats and is pulled up/let down by means of a rope and pulley. I learned long ago not just to drape clothes over the slats as individual items take up too much room so I hang anything I can on a hanger (they breed like rabbits in our cupboards!), and use those special hangers with the sprung clips for trousers and for pairs of socks. I know it isn’t the kind of work my grandmother (or her servants) would have had to do and of course, it really doesn’t take that much time out of my day, but Ido it.

img_3396The clothes drying rack

Perhaps, on washing day (or some other day) I’ll do the half-weekly shop. (In order to have fresh food, fresh fruit and veges, fresh bread, I have to go twice). At the supermarket, which is huge with an enormous parking lot, I try to park as far from the doors as I can so that I get some walking done (!), I put my pound coin into the slot on a trolley and race round the market, picking up fruit which should last for four or five days, two loaves of bread, one of which I can freeze, fresh sprouts, carrots, peas, asparagus or whatever is in season, fish, meat etc and all those other things I didn’t remember I need the last time I came. I love how I can go round, in this particular supermarket, with a hand-held scanner, pack my items into bags and just point the scanner at a machine at the end of my shopping expedition and be told, by the machine, how much I owe. Then I insert my debit card, put in my PIN, take my receipt and go. Occasionally, I am chosen by the machine, and a member of staff will check that I have been truthful in my scanning. Also, if I buy alcohol, the machine flashes a light to tell a member of staff to ascertain that I am over 25. If I am feeling in a ‘fun’ mood, I will assure the young person that I am, indeed, over 25 – as if he would think by looking at me that I may not have reached that age. My hair, as you can tell from the name of my blog, is white (though I suppose it could be dyed) and my skin is no longer that of a young woman, though it’s not bad for a woman of nearly three quarters of a century!

img_3397The food cupboard. (The sweet tins hold candles, not sweets!

If I haven’t planned anything for a particular day, there will still be things that should be accomplished like the washing of pots and pans which don’t always go into the dish-washer, sweeping and even (heaven forbid) washing the kitchen floor, emptying the various waste paper baskets that are around the house, cleaning basins, the bath, the shower, the loo floor, the loo (see footnote!), and any one of dozens of other little jobs that have to be done – eventually.

img_3404Writing this blog

My mother, as I believe I have mentioned before, was born into a wealthy family. Her mother did very little all day besides dead-head a rose or two, check on her tomatoes, lie on her bed chatting to friends on the phone and ordering weird stuff from the shopping channel (which already existed in Zanesville in the late fifties, I think). As a result of her mother’s lack of knowledge of the housewifely arts, my mother also had that lack – alas, she also had no money for servants, either, so learned about being a housewife by sheer necessity. This meant, of course, that there were many things that she didn’t even know were ‘necessary’ and as a result, she didn’t bring us girls up to know about these things, either. I remember, when I was teaching at The Malling School in around 1992, one of the boys was telling me about his week-end. He said that he had been helping his mother with the cleaning and had had the job of dusting the skirting boards. 😳 I didn’t let on that I had never dusted my skirting boards and, in fact, had never even thought of looking at my skirting boards for dust! I’m fairly sure that I have reached my (near) milestone age still not knowing everything I should be doing in the way of housekeeping!

img_3400A small bit of skirting board.

Back to the point of this post:

When I have finished whatever housework I consider necessary on any given day, I might write a blog post, paint a picture, do some gardening – if the weather isn’t too bad or go to a class or a film. Meanwhile, Julian will have possibly been out with his painting pals at a local beauty spot. This is what happens at least three days a week and often more, if the weather isn’t too off-putting. He’ll come back with a water colour or two, or an oil painting of places he has been, photograph them and add them to his web-site. If he’s not out, he’ll be preparing boards to paint on, tweaking paintings he did earlier or painting from a photograph.

Dinner is usually ready about seven. We sit down, usually with Emmerdale(!), and eat the meal which I will have chosen, shopped for and prepared. After dinner I do a swift tidy while Julian goes into the living room to watch more tv or into the studio to look at Facebook or Youtube or an artist talking about painting. I usually stay in the kitchen to watch the small tv, do a puzzle or two, read The Spectator or chat with Jennie or Caroline or Myrna on the phone. If Julian is in the studio, I might go into the lounge to watch a boxed set (Mr Robot, series 2 at the moment or, for light relief, Californication which is rude and so funny).

Having read this, can you guess why I envy Julian? He has a clean house, clean clothes, tidy (if not spotless) rooms in which to sit and eat, me to talk to if he wants to chat, food lovingly(!) prepared, and Kitkats in the fridge for when he’s peckish. I would love to be looked after in such a way and in another life, I might have been. When he’s read this, I’m sure Julian will point out that he mows the grass, goes into the cellar to turn the electricity back on if the trip-switch puts out the lights, and does some of the jobs that I just can’t manage. I’ll do an update!

Footnote: When we were growing up in Cincinnati, before we came to England, Patty (my mother) was at university studying to become an architect. She hired a woman to come in, clean and look after us. Her name was Jones. (“My name is Jones. My first name’s Jones and my last name’s Jones. My name is Jones Jones,” she said upon our first meeting.) Jones did all the cleaning except the commodes (what she called toilets) which she refused to do. For some reason there don’t appear in my memory any toilet brushes. Whether they didn’t exist or my mother hadn’t realised they existed, I don’t know but Jones Jones gave Judy, Jennie and me the job of cleaning the two toilets in the house. I don’t think we did much toilet cleaning though and Jones Jones didn’t last more than a week!

img_3399A loo.

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Really quick update!

Julian read a few sentences. He says he wishes that I had discussed this with him first as he is willing to do more if I just ask him to. He doesn’t see “mess” – and I know that – so is unlikely to do dusting or vacuuming or cleaning without being asked. He says he asks me if there’s anything he can do and I usually say ‘no’, which is true. And, importantly, he says he does appreciate what I do. I think women, particularly of my generation/age will understand what I said and how I feel more than men or younger people will or can.

After reading the post, my daughter rang to see if World War III had broken out in our house!

Life goes on😊

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When I was a kid in America, we occasionally had ‘art lessons’ which consisted of being given a piece of paper and told to draw whatever. We had pictures to colour-in and were encouraged to ‘decorate’ round the edges of compositions but there were, to my knowledge, no painting and no drawing lessons. I spent a year at a private girls’ school where we did have proper art lessons but I was six or seven years behind the other girls and my attempts weren’t much good.

Fast forward to London, circa 1960. My mother, who was good at drawing and had done some painting, hired a young person whose name I have forgotten, to come and give drawing lessons to my sister, Jennie – at least, that’s the way I remember it. Apparently, I drew something during one of those lessons, which was thought to be ‘good’ but I was far more interested in boys, dancing, pop songs etc and didn’t even remember doing that drawing until Jennie reminded me some time ago.

Fast forward yet again to the mid-eighties. Ralph (Julian’s dad) had found another project in West Malling (see earlier post about the Wine Bar) and had brought back to life a small courtyard of old buildings in Swan Street. He opened The Mill Yard Craft Centre where there were some really interesting businesses.  Dorothy, who hand-knitted gorgeous sweaters, a man who made wooden toys and other articles, a photographer who took black and white photos, husband and wife ceramicists, a silversmith, a great café and a few others which have slipped my mind. There was a slightly more modern building as well which had a room in which craft fairs were held occasionally and, upstairs, a large room which was used for spiritual-healing sessions and art lessons.

I thought I might like to paint (I don’t know why as I had never had that urge before!) My first painting teacher was Diane whom I knew from one of the schools I worked in. I chose oil painting as I instinctively knew that I hadn’t the necessary skill for water colours. I stayed with Diane for a year and enjoyed my painting but didn’t really feel that I was an ‘artist’. After that first year I didn’t carry on with lessons and forgot all about it for a year or two. Then, Angela, my lovely mother-in-law, started teaching a class with the title “I Can’t Draw, I Can’t Paint” and I thought, that’s the one for me!


One of my first paintings in 1985 -ish. It is Robin Hoods Bay, Yorkshire where we had gone on holiday.

In that class we were given interesting items to draw – scrunched up pieces of foil, fruit and vegetables, fabrics etc and I went so far as to go out and buy a small sketch book which I carried everywhere. If I had a little spare time I would draw what I could see. I can’t remember why I stopped going to that class but I got out of the habit of sketching and did something else….I’ve no idea what it was but it probably wasn’t as fun or as useful as sketching.


Two pages from my sketch book, dated 1990


Another page (sorry about the shadow) The drawing is of a small corner of our garden in East Malling. Aug. 91

Fast forward to 2007. Having retired and moved to Broadstairs two years earlier, I needed to find ways and reasons to go out and meet people. At first I went to a class on Roman and Greek history, then to a class on Baroque and Rococo art. Then, I thought, why not take up painting again? This happened because Julian, a much more out-going person than I am, came home from his art group meeting with a gorgeous set of Rosemary brushes. I lusted after the brushes though I had no paint or canvas. That set me on the path to becoming a real oil painter!

I signed up for an adult education class for beginners in oils. Although I had painted in oils about twenty years earlier, I thought I would start again. I bought a big sketch book, paints, some Rosemary brushes, a pad of oil painting paper, a pad of disposable palette paper and some turps. My teacher was called Judith and she was excellent at explaining how to get various effects and introducing us to the works of famous artists. After a year I had to give up because my knees were so bad but, after a year or so out for operations and recovery, I went back to Judith’s class. But, I still didn’t feel like an artist.


A rather poor photo of my painting of Battersea Power Station which I painted in Judith’s class c. 2014

Then Judith left to do some art of her own and Duncan came in her place. He introduced us to new techniques and to other painters – and, though I know I didn’t paint the things Duncan wanted me to, because I couldn’t, I began to feel like an artist!

Last year I quit going to classes and started painting in a makeshift studio at home, sharing what should be the dining room with my husband at one end and me at the other. He paints things that he sees and his paintings are usually good or, even excellent, and are in a more-or-less impressionist style. Me? My paintings don’t seem to come under any label I can find. They are certainly not realism, nor are they impressionism, cubism, fauvism etc. The nearest is abstract, but I think an abstract has to start out as one thing from which a painter abstracts something and ends up with another thing. My paintings don’t start with a picture in my head (read my post on APHANTASIA or look it up on Google) nor even with an idea. I stare at my tubes of paint, choose the ones I’ll start with, get a large brush and PAINT. I keep looking at it, adding bits, wishing I hadn’t put that colour there, turning the canvas on its side, applying more paint, intertwining lines of colour, and eventually, I decide I’ve finished – for now. I might go back to a painting weeks or months later and change it by adding one or more colours or painting over it entirely!

A month ago I entered two of my paintings into a well-known exhibition and I am now waiting to hear whether either has been accepted. The two I’ve entered are two that I worked on over a year ago then added to, more recently. I am very pleased with them but I know liking a painting is subjective and no-one else might like them as much as I do! I’ll let you know if one or other is accepted and, if they’re accepted, I’ll add photos of them, then.


One of my first ‘post class’ paintings which, actually, was started in Duncan’s class but finished at home. 2016


” There are quite a few elephants in this painting but most are hiding. c Oct. 2017.

The paintings above are about 36″ long

The title, of course, refers to the mess I make as an artist. After an hour of painting, my hands, my apron and sometimes my clothes are covered with paint. Some people are very tidy and you wouldn’t know they had been painting (I’m not talking about you here, Andrea!!). And too, often my paintings look to me like just a mess of paint but I can deal with that. What I dislike is cleaning brushes. They cause so much mess!  Just a swift cleanse is fine – swish in spirit (I use Zest-it), a wipe on cloth, another swish, another wipe and it can be used again, at least for a similar colour but for a really clean brush you have to swish it in spirit quite a few times and get as much of the oil and pigment as possible out of the brush then wash with soap and warm water. Just when you think there’s no more pigment left, the water turns slightly pink (or blue or green) and you have to soap it up again, By the time the brushes are clean, the sink needs a good clean as do the splashback, wall and floor!

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My latest post – University, At Last is about my continuing education, even through my 70’s.

Go to

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When I was young and still at school my greatest desire and ambition was to be a teacher. At the time, in the UK, one had to go to a Teacher Training College where one studied loads of educational subjects (child psychology, art, maths, a bit of philosophy, history, physical education, etc) and one subject in depth. Having failed some of my school exams, I failed to qualify for a place at a Training College although I was employed for a year by the now-defunct London County Council as a ‘pre-trainee teacher’.

If you’ve read my earlier posts you’ll know that I had my brilliant daughter without being married to her father which, in those days (1964) was a societal no-no, so I was busy looking after her with the help of my mother and sisters. I was lucky to have had her in London where people were a little more broad-minded than people in some other parts of England, where a lot of girls, who would have been happy to keep their babies, were sent off by their families to ‘mother and baby homes’, which provided a place for girls to ‘hide’ until the baby was born and placed for adoption. As a new mum I couldn’t go back to school to re-study for the exams I had failed, straight away and I put my ambition to one side – happily, I might add, as I enjoyed the job of looking after and bringing up my gorgeous girl.

Seven years passed. I was working as a secretary for a sign-manufacturer. The boss decided I would make a good salesperson, going out on the road to sell our signs to architects. He obviously didn’t know me very well as, at the time, I was very shy and unconfident (I still am in large groups of people that I don’t know). After a few months of being a ‘rep’ as well as the secretary, I was made redundant. (He wanted an excuse to get rid of me!).

About a five minute walk away from my work-place was Acton Town Hall which, at the time, housed a Teacher Training College named after a man called Thomas Huxley. I went into the college office and found that I was just in time to apply for a place for the next term and, that very day, to take a short exam. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have all the proper qualifications as I was considered a ‘mature’ student, had basic ‘O’ levels as well as French ‘A’ level and, happily, I passed the entrance exam.

I became a teacher and was employed as such for the next twenty or so years, in various ways – as a class teacher, as a ‘supply teacher’, as a part-time French teacher and as a Saturday morning French teacher for small groups of eight to ten year olds. I’m sad to say that I didn’t love teaching as much as I thought I would though there were some wonderful days.

After I started as an antique dealer I carried on the supply teaching as it brought in more money than the antiques but after a while schools started using agencies to find supply staff and I didn’t want to go on an agency’s books as I would probably have been expected to do more than the occasional day.

Having studied French in depth, I thought I’d like to get a degree in it as I hadn’t actually been to university. While I was still teaching I had done the ‘Arts Foundation’ course with the Open University and had enjoyed the challenges it set. A year or so later I signed up for a degree course in French with the University of Kent. The degree would take, I seem to remember, five years and I would go to their branch in Tonbridge one night a week for classes. I was thrilled!

I had thought the the Open University course was challenging but it was nothing compared to this! We had to read one full French novel a week, in French, plus pages of grammar exercises and learning new vocabulary. I enjoyed the reading, I enjoyed the grammar but I absolutely HATED having to speak in front of a large group of people IN FRENCH. (Again the shyness and lack of confidence).

What I didn’t know was that Judy, my sister who lived in America, would come home to die that year. I gave up the degree course and gave as much of my time as I could to helping by taking her to hospital appointments etc. After Judy’s death I didn’t seriously turn my thoughts to degree courses again. Julian and I carried on with our shop, I had a new grand-daughter on whom to lavish all those maternal feelings I still had, visiting her and her mum and dad in London at least once a week and, of course, there were auctions to go to where I could spend money on items I thought would sell in the shop. (I loved buying stuff I liked, knowing I would have to sell it at some point but having it to hold and look at for a while!)

Retirement and the seaside happened in 2005. Being quite happy with my own company I didn’t rush out to make loads of new friends but, as the years sped by, I joined classes where I used my brain, spent hours a week in the local swimming pool, meeting new friends, started painting classes again and met more new friends and convinced Julian that we needed to look into the U3A which we eventually joined.

The U3A – The University of the Third Age. If you are interested to know exactly what the U3A is, please Google it! I’ll tell you what it is, to me. It is a way of using my brain – at this moment I am attending a Latin group which is run by a member of the U3A and all my fellow ‘students’ are members, too. It is a once-a-week-for-seven-weeks course which will give us a taste of the language in a fun way (no Caesar de Bello Gallico or Vergil). At the end of the seven weeks I assume we’ll either be offered a further course or will be able to carry on alone. Perhaps there are Latin classes in the adult education centre….if I’m interested, I’ll find out!

I’ve also joined the Armchair Critics, a group of members who go to the local cinema (110 seats or thereabouts!), watch a film, then go off to a local pub to discuss the film and have a coffee or something a little stronger. Another of my favourite groups is the Lunch Group. A U3A member scouts out a good place to eat, sends out a newsletter with menus, a date and the cost and we send back our menu choice and a cheque for the right amount. This month we are going to a Greek restaurant in Ramsgate.

Julian is more gregarious than I am and is always out, painting or singing and last year he went to a four week drama course which is totally unlike him! This term he’s doing the History of Blues course which I attended last term and which is run by our next door neighbour who is, coincidentally, the husband of the woman who started the Armchair Critics.

I used to co-run a group of people interested in antiques and ‘collectables’ with my friend, Myrna. The first week there were four or five people who came but after that people dropped away and we gave that group up. There is a very successful Collectors Group run by my friend Margaret who also runs a few other groups. That’s the good thing about the U3A. You can do as much or as little as you want. You can run a group for small or larger groups about something that interests you, or about something you are expert at. You can eat with the Lunch group, do country dancing, join the gardening group, read poetry, write prose, learn about computers or – and this is more like me – do absolutely nothing for a while then find a course that interests you, spend a few weeks or months doing that until it finishes, then do nothing again for a while. I would like to run a group but I have no expertise (except, maybe, in old jigsaw puzzles) and, anyway, at the moment I am concentrating on Tai-chi (local adult education) Latin and my oil paintings.

So, I’m finally a member of a university – one from which I will not receive a degree, but from which I have made friends, learned smatterings of various subjects, seen films I might not otherwise have seen and eaten at some great restaurants! There are U3A groups all over the UK if you are retired and want something to do. (I’m not sure whether there are similar groups in the rest of the world.)

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Thank you Iris, for all your help and advice Part 2

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Rosie in the garden of our seaside home.

In 1994 we moved to a gorgeous little village about a mile or so away from East Malling called Wateringbury. Our new house was partly very old. The two-storey front of the house was built in the nineteenth century but the one storey back was much older (though no one ever told me just how much older!) There was a small front garden which was planted with shrubs and I didn’t really have anything to do in it but the back garden was huge and wonderful! It had been planned and planted by the previous owners who had been there for nearly 25 years. I think maybe they wanted to move into a different place so that they could start planning another garden.

In ours there were plants from all corners of the world. There was a wonderful old cedar tree, a eucalyptus, a lovely wisteria growing near the back terrace, an arbour which was covered, when we moved in, with some sort of vine, and myriad other shrubs, trees and perennials which I can’t now name as well as bulbs and evergreen ground cover plants. There were two ponds. The biggest was just beyond the terrace and it was fed by the smaller pond via a waterfall as the small pond was on a higher level. This bigger pond was stocked with some gorgeous fish. It had an electric filter. It’s wiring was all underground and it had a little door in the ground where you could find the on/off switch and the plug and socket.

Now, I like all animals but I can’t bring myself to get emotionally attached to fish (after a traumatising occurrence way back in Cincinnati with a bowl of guppies), but I did feel that we should look after the fish and the ponds properly as they had been bequeathed to us (sort of) by the previous owners. During our second summer there, the big pond sprung a leak in its liner and we were having to add water every day. I won’t go into details about the very smelly business of removing all the fish to the small pond and emptying out the water and sludge, nor about the fitting of a new liner and all the travails the whole thing entailed but I have never again wanted to have a pond in the garden! (Unfortunately, when we moved to the seaside in 2005, we again inherited a large pond stocked with carp and other fish!)

The rest of the garden wasn’t such a problem but there are definitely downsides to a garden which is perfect – it doesn’t stay perfect because leaves fall, plants grow, plants die, stuff has to be got rid of in a garden that has no place for a bonfire or a compost heap. And, of course, the real problem with the Wateringbury garden was that it was already so beautifully planted, it wasn’t really ours.☹️

Around this time both Julian and I changed professions – Julian went to Wales and came back a fully fledged upholsterer (it took some months with gaps between) and I gave up full-time teaching and did some supply teaching (substitute teaching to my American friends) as well as started doing a little buying and selling of antique linens and sewing tools.

After a year or so of doing upholstery jobs in a crowded garage and the house getting (slightly) overwhelmed with the loads of linens I was buying to sell, we decided to find premises where we could do furniture restoration, upholstery and sell antiques. We were really lucky and found an old pub which had been turned into offices with living accommodation above. It was the old Rose and Crown which was just opposite my old home, Market Cross Cottage (see earlier posts) in West Malling High Street. The Rose and Crown became Rose and Crown Antiques and J&C Furniture Restoration.

We moved into the premises in 1997 and spent the next seven years or so having a great time, buying and selling antiques of all sorts – I had spread my buying wings to include ‘smalls’ and Julian bought and sold large pieces of antique furniture, though he carried on with the upholstery. One thing that The Rose and Crown didn’t have, though, was a garden. During those seven years I occasionally planted pots of flowers but, on the whole, my interest in gardens subsided. I gave away almost all my gardening books, stored most of my tools in Julian’s dad’s garage and put all my effort into buying and selling. (Don’t let anyone tell you all antique dealers are rich, by the way. One thing you need as a dealer is contacts, none of which we had. Another thing you need is ruthlessness when it comes to buying privately and, I found out rather quickly, neither Julian nor I had that ruthless streak.)

All good things come to an end and so it happened that after seven years we realised we were living hand-to-mouth and we were getting too old for the life we were living so we decided to retire and move ‘to the seaside’.

Here, we have a good-sized garden which we have made our own – with the help of a local garden design company who dug out almost everything, removed the blasted fish pond, made us a level seating area in the part of the garden that gets the best sun, and gave me a wild-flower area to lure birds, bees and butterflies. I have bought and planted a few shrubs and trees and put annuals and perennials into the raised beds. I haven’t got the energy or agility that I once had and don’t do as much gardening as I would like to do but am happy pottering and watching things grow. One of my favourite bits is the ‘insect hotel’ which I put up a year or so ago. It’s great to see the ‘entrances’ of the holes bunged up with bits of leaf, curls of wood or what looks like mud.

Today is the kind of day that reminds you why you love getting out into the garden. From inside it looks sunny and warm. Outside, it is cold though, being only January. It’s nice to realise that it won’t be too long before the days are longer than the nights and I can sit outside with my morning coffee, watching the birds, bees, neighbourhood cats and Julian mowing.😀

So, once more I will say, thank you, Iris for helping me learn to dig, sow, reap and, especially, love my outside space!

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I would just like to thank all those new readers and followers from Bangladesh. I can’t imagine what drew you to my blog posts but am happy that you are here! Welcome!😀

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