In Good Company: Wet, And Wetter Yet
...Those of us untouched by the continental sun are beginning to look a bit mildewed. Thank goodness for my waterproof hairstyle – frequent watering gives we curlies extra bounce...
Enid Blackburn wrote this column a number of years ago during one of England's prolonged summer downpours.
Bookies are offering odds of five to one that it won’t stop raining for more than 48 hours at a time and weathermen are warning that to take up the offer would be a waste of money.
What caused this prolonged soak? Did the ash beat the oak? ‘The earth is going through one of its wobbly periods’ is one explanation being expounded. Apparently it tilts on its axis from time to time, which presumably shakes up the elements and wets us all through.
Other scientific experts who don’t know either are also blaming Canadian ice floes. No one seems to be blaming ‘the bomb’ I notice.
Over optimistic York health officials must be feeling sick after splashing sun warnings all over the city. ‘Expose your skin in small doses’ and ‘Don’t let the sun ruin your holiday’ are now being hurriedly removed.
Those of us untouched by the continental sun are beginning to look a bit mildewed. Thank goodness for my waterproof hairstyle – frequent watering gives we curlies extra bounce.
Knitting and sewing addicts can carry on regardless, but how do the rest of us cope with this grey outlook? ‘Just ignore it’ was one tip at our last bowling match, as we sploshed our woods across a rising lake that used to be a bowling green.
One can indulge in a ‘What’s the point?’ routine. This damp excuse can cover any job you don’t like leaving the fire or a good book for, like polishing furniture, cleaning windows and steps – and it’s no good turning out the bedrooms, they are full of children sheltering from the rain.
There’s a constant rumble of dissent from mums during the summer break, especially those who are no longer available to share their offspring’s leisure hours and who consider it an outrage to have them plonked on their own doorstep to become their sole responsibility for six weeks.
Whatever the weather, I could not survive without our week away. Paris couturier Pierre Cardin confessed recently ‘I travel a lot but holidays are a nuisance – I prefer work.’ Hard work brings satisfaction, but a change is necessary from time to time if one is to function properly.
Without my break I should go bananas. I am looking forward to a long weekend in the Lake District, which cannot come soon enough. Last night I called our daughter’s new father-in-law Dorothy three times, instead of Donald.
During our family’s younger days we always managed a holiday even if it meant just a change of kitchen sink. In my opinion, the family who go away together – stay together. This year we hope to bask in the semi-luxury of bed and breakfast. Awakening in someone else’s bed, to the crackling of someone else’s cooking, is the acme of gracious living for me.
On one occasion when our children were younger we did put all our savings into a week of full board. Our Blackpool landlady was one of the best, catering especially for families. This was in May, but if the evenings were chilly the days were sunny and warm – lucky because spending money was almost non-existent after putting aside the board money.
When the children were tucked up in bed we looked forward to a free and easy chat in the cosy lounge and the informal tea and biscuit supper round the fire, but our hostess had other ideas. ‘Come on, off you go, I always baby-sit for parents. Get out and enjoy yourselves. Take a late key.’ Gazing covetously at the glowing embers, we were forced into a choice between a battle with gale force winds on the front or a draughty shiver in shop doorways.
Another advantage of away days is the chance to meet new friends. One year we met Peter and Nellie. She was in her early sixties, rather sedate in her white crocheted beret and Victorian shoes. ‘Pe’er,’ as her Scottish accent christened him, looked younger with his denim cap and twinkling eyes. A diffident pair, they were often still sitting on the same garden seat sharing a newspaper when we returned to ‘the front’ after lunch. What did they do all day? Did they ever move off that seat? One evening we found out.
Despite our gallant protests, we were persuaded to visit ‘this little place round the corner’ where in between pouring the hard stuff down her throat like it was going out of fashion, Nellie told us that besides being her favourite railway porter, Pe’er was that terror of the bookies – a racing expert!
