What has happened to general knowledge? There used to be so many things that *everyone* knew. The capitals of countries. How many yards in a mile (a bit out of date, perhaps, but I wonder just how many know how many metres in a kilometre, even if the clue is in the name). Who wrote Oliver Twist and Daffodils. The date of the French Revolution and when Caesar invaded Britannia. When I was at junior school, we used to have tests in General Knowledge. You were supposed to know who Venus was and what was her Greek equivalent. How many inches in a hand, and at what height a pony became a horse. You couldn’t revise for these tests, you either knew it or you didn’t. I was lucky, even at ten I was a voracious reader and used to browse Encycopaedia Britannica for pleasure, and I usually did quite well. I also liked knowing that sort of thing – I had little practical knowledge or ability at anything, but I knew all about it in theory.

Now, only a generation or two later, no one seems to know any of this. It’s gone. With nursery rhymes and a sense of history. I understand nowadays that girls don’t ‘get’ Jane Eyre – “Why doesn’t she just go out and get a proper job?” – without any sense of what it was like to live in the 19th Century. Even people of my age, largely, seem to have forgotten.

After the Anglo Saxon lectures last week, we chatted to the lecturer. She mentioned the complete ignorance of the heritage of Christianity that she finds nowadays among her university students. She was not talking about religious faith, but about basic ignorance of the facts, legends, fallacies, call them whatever you like – this is not a religious post. She said that it is impossible to teach history of European art to someone who has literally no concept of either the stories of the bible or the importance of religious faith in times gone by.

When I was a child, I read, for pleasure, stories of the Greek and Roman gods. A little older, I read Homer and Virgil. If I had not, when I took Latin A Level, how would I have known my Aeneas from my Elbow*?

The lecturer, Anna, said that the first thing she has to do is give students a copy of the New Testament and tell them to read the Gospels. And they find it really hard to understand, or to remember the references. Especially the students from countries such as (I am sure she said) Canada, where religious teaching is not allowed in schools. But without it, there is little chance of them getting to grips with Renaissance or pre-Renaissance art.

People are interested, more than ever before, about researching the past. Their personal heritage. And it is vastly interesting. But so is history, and culture, and what has made us who we are, and this seems to have been almost lost. I’m not being nostalgic, I don’t automatically think that ‘the good old days’ were better, but I do feel that there is some loss in our lives.

*no need to worry, Anon, about lowering the tone (comments, yesterday)

Tonight, there was a meeting to plan this year’s Christmas carol service. This is always held at 6pm on Christmas Eve, by which time, if you haven’t bought something it’s too late, and you should be starting to relax as everything has been done*. However, for the last few years, and I suspect it is since Meetings have been held to plan them, they have been getting increasingly tricksy. With themes and playlets and things. A couple of years ago, I said that all people really want is to hear the Christmas story, listen to a gently uplifting talk and sing the carols they have known all their lives. But I was ignored, except that they agreed to have carols sung by everyone instead of only a choir.

This year, only four of us turned up. And two of them wanted to go down the simple route. So we are.

Not that I said much. I have no bent for this sort of thing really. I chipped in mainly to check on practical matters. I may well have got out of playing the organ – not that I mind doing that, the only thing to remember is to play a bit slower than usual as it takes longer for sound to go all round a full church (when someone is trying hard to be polite about my organ playing, the most truthful thing to say is that I don’t hang about. Slow hymns are real dirges and most depressing, so I brisk them up a bit) and to hold the first note for them all to join in. Anyway, someone else certainly will play some of the carols. I have offered to accompany carol singers greeting people as they arrive, by playing the clarinet outside the church before the service …. or, if wet, I’ve claimed a spot in the porch.

Anyway, this has all been arranged and some people will not be happy, as they are deprived of their bits of drama. But, as I said to my traditionally-minded friend, they should have come along to the meeting then, shouldn’t they.

*in my case, everything has been done** except the present wrapping, the cake icing and some of the cards delivering.

**Meaning, will have been done by then. I have not started yet. Obviously. It’s not half way through November yet.

I mentioned Miss Hopper yesterday, whose snappy remark hung over my mother’s life. And, in the comments, said that teachers, in those days, would not have apologised to their pupils, even if they knew well that they had been unjust, unkind or plain wrong. They would have thought that it would undermine their authority. For that matter, many people are still unwilling to apologise, and only too willing to judge more harshly than they expect to be judged themselves. Many people…..to be frank, all of us on occasion and most of us sometimes.

If you know you’ve done something wrong and can put it right, that’s one thing. But an unquiet conscience is a troubling thing. The biggest thing on mine? Not the worst thing I’ve done by any means, but the thing that I’m sorriest for happened more than thirty years ago. I was driving along a road in Lowestoft in my little Morris Minor, in the pouring rain one winter’s day. I rounded a corner and was confronted by a vast puddle in front of me. No time to slow down, a car coming the other way so I couldn’t drive around it, and an elderly man in a raincoat on the pavement. I can still picture the scene I saw in my rear-view mirror – a wall of water, head-height, engulfing him.

I couldn’t help it. It was a true accident. But, and this is my wrongdoing, I didn’t stop. I would now, I would at any time in the past thirty years. But I was young, afraid of his anger, without the self-confidence to do the right thing and stop, take him home, pay for the dry cleaning. Say sorry. I drove on.

And the moment passed. Nothing I can do. Telling you doesn’t exonerate me. Poor man.

When I was about 15, I turned up at my school cookery class one day, complete with my apron and little gingham cap that I had made in dressmaking class, but with my long hair in a hairband rather than tied up. The teacher snapped at me for being untidy. She happened to be the sister of our next-door neighbour and, years later, I chatted to her at a party. She mentioned the incident. She said that she had regretted it ever since, that she had been so rude – she had said that I looked like one of the witches in Macbeth.

She apologised. I accepted the apology, saying that I had forgotten all about it and had not taken it as an unkindness. That was a polite lie, I had been upset and – whilst accepting that I had been untidy and deserved a rebuke – the hurt had, actually, lasted. But I so appreciated that she had remembered and been sorry, and had told me so.

I live in quite a small village. There are 400 houses, most of which have been built in the last 60 years – I should think fewer than 100 of them are older, although some may have been pulled down and replaced. The adult population of 720 has probably trebled in the last hundred years – more children were born, undoubtedly, than nowadays, but many of them did not survive to adulthood.

So, it hits me every year. In our church, the roll of honour, the list of those soldiers who died in the two world wars (no one from the village has died in the other wars that besmirch the world with such casually destructive regularity), is read out. And, in the 1914-1918 war, 25 men died. Roughly one tenth of the adults and, since that includes women and old men, this means a much higher proportion of young men. Most of that generation.

I wonder if we would be at war now if the elected leaders of our country had to lead the troops into battle nowadays. Or if President Bush’s daughters and Mr Blair’s sons and daughter were in the armed forces, on active service. It might have made them think twice.

My mother was born on 11th November 1923. Remembrance day. She said that her birthday was affected by sadness throughout her childhood – the war was still fresh in many peoples’ minds. But it was only a few months before she died that she told me her shameful secret, as she saw it, that she had been afraid to tell, for fear of ridicule, all through her life.

And now I’m telling you. Not in disrespect of her, but for love and pity, that she was ashamed because of the thoughtless cruelty of her teacher, on her first day of school, as a motherless child already aware that she was different from the other children, sensitive and anxious.

She was asked her name. “Poppy,” she replied. “Don’t be stupid, that’s a nickname. What’s your real name?” My mother didn’t know what to say, that was what she had always been called. Her second name was Jane, so the teacher called her that. And, from then on, she insisted, so did everyone else.

Her aunt’s son, her only child, had been killed in the war. When the baby was born on Remembrance Day – Poppy Day* – she asked to name her.

I don’t know why mummy (I know that is a childish name, but she hated mum and mother, and to her ma was her mother-in-law – not a compliment) took this so much to heart, but she was awfully upset when she told me. The only other people she had ever told were my father and stepfather, and my sister, W, found it out by chance – by coming upon her birth certificate – when in her teens. Mummy was so angry when she saw her reading it that W never dared tell anyone. “Don’t laugh, don’t mock me,” she begged, when she told me. I was bewildered – “but it’s a sweet name and anyway, how wickedly cruel of the teacher**. Don’t tell me that she didn’t have a list of the new children, of course she knew it was your real name. And it was nothing to be ashamed of anyway.”

My mother, because she had never discussed it with anyone and was too upset about it to have thought it through for herself, had never thought of that. I wish she had confided in me before. It had only become shameful because it was a secret – and a secret because she was ashamed. If she had only talked about it, to a friend, to a daughter, she would have had it in perspective and been happier for it. So, in telling you, I’m freeing her. If she were still here, I’d ask her first, but she isn’t.

*I’d like to make it entirely clear that her surname was not Day.
**Miss Hopper, also known as The Flea, teacher at Melksham village school in the 1920s, I am outing you. How could you have been so unkind?

I expect you all read Salvadore Vincent already? If not, do read his Bathmatwatch, currently on Day 11. Go back to the start, also read all the comments – it is getting funnier by the day.

I see that someone’s muesli exited their mouth onto the monitor. The other day I spat porridge onto my keyboard while reading JonnyB. It is not a good idea to read funny blogs whilst eating breakfast.

“I’ll have some more of those Comice pears*,” said a customer. “They are delicious. All that’s wanted to make them perfect is to be unsprayed and English.” “Don’t know whether they are unsprayed,” replied Al. “It’s very expensive and demanding of record-keeping to be Soil Assured or Organic so lots of people don’t bother, even if they don’t use artificials. But they’re English all right, they are from Kent. I can only get them for a few weeks each year and they work out expensive as they are so large, almost a pound in weight each so they cost about 50p. Well worth it though, they are the best.”

He paused. Then he added “I wooed Dilly with these pears, you know. I met her in October and used them to impress her. She said that she had never seen such a big pear.”

*Doyenne de Comice, as they are properly named.

I’ve been busy this week and I’ve not been at home much for the last couple of days; I’m dismayed to see on Bloglines that I have 186 marked posts unread. I think a few people must have republished or something as three of them each have 25 posts, so I hope it’s inaccurate, as there are also quite a few people bookmarked but not bloglined whom I want to catch up on.

Yesterday, I spent an interesting day being lectured about the Anglo Saxons. I will confess that it was becoming a bit deep by the end and I didn’t take it all in, but really enjoyed it all nevertheless. The lecturer was a rather lovely Italian woman and I am afraid that, once or twice, my mind strayed enough to wonder how old she was ….. I’m so rude. She had grey hair and a completely unlined, although mature, face – I mean mature in the sense that the dewiness of youngness with its subcutaneous fat (grotty expression, if you come up with a better one I’ll replace it) had gone, but all that did was to show to advantage her lovely bone structure.

I gave her a lift back to the station afterwards and she was lovely. Later, a friend was at dinner who had also been at the study day and she said that she and others had discussed the same subject – what did I think? I said that she must be older than she looks as her children are in their mid-20s. And she had been kind enough to be surprised that I was a grandmother. Ah, women can be so nice to each other. Pushing 50 but looks younger was the consensus (46-52, if you want precision).

Afterwards, I shopped purposefully and effectively, most satisfyingly in that I bought a pair of boots, which I really need, black, high heels (haven’t measured them, but I have to stand upright or I’ll tip over). Also a pair of red shoes, two pairs of gloves, one brown suede, one purple leather, a black hat (for warmth more than fashion) and assorted underwear.

Ooh, do you mind if I rant for a minute about bras? Gentlemen, stop reading now, this is purely technical and girlie and will not interest you.

Why are so many bras padded? Not underneath, to give a lift and increase cleavage, but all over, so that they stay rigidly in place and don’t move when you do? And why are so many in deeply unattractive colour combinations? I had half an hour by the time I reached the stage of buying such necessities, so I dived into M&S which was handily nearby. Knickers, fine – though gosh, how do they justify such prices in a mere chain store? Or am I just hopelessly cheap in begrudging £11 for a pair? After that I stopped matching up and went for the 3 pairs for a tenner option (look, never suggest that I tell you nothing about me). Anyway, I looked at these bras with increasing desperation. I am blessed with a 34D. Which is fine. Just right. They are not the first thing that anyone notices about me, but I can achieve an effective cleavage if the circumstances warrant it. I do not need a padded bra. Nor do I need a minimiser bra, which sounds uncomfortable. I do not want enough ornamentation to show through my clothes, but I was not after something entirely plain – I was in frivolous mood, after all.

Well, I did find a couple in the end. But I was only enchanted with one of them – which was why I bought the matching knicks.

Today, helped Al in the shop as his staff are engaged elsewhere, and then a concert with Dilly’s mum in Norwich this evening. So supper was bacon and eggs at 10.45 tonight. Plus a couple of glasses of chardonnay – will I sleep tonight?

Hope so, back in the shop tomorrow morning.

‘Night. Have a good one.

I mentioned that I don’t take it out on the Sage when I feel down. And I really don’t think I do, I make a conscious effort not to. If I am feeling edgy or bad-tempered but it’s nothing to do with him, I tend to apologise in advance – ‘sorry, darling, I’ve had a rotten day and I feel very irritable, so if I snap, it’s nothing personal, take no notice and I will say sorry afterwards.’

This is not, I hasten to add before my daughter issues a correction, to say that I am never bad-tempered with him, whether or not it is entirely his fault (for, surely, it is never entirely mine…..), though I do notice that when we are having a bit of a go at each other, my oldest and youngest child tend to side with him – my middle one doesn’t say anything. I can understand this, as I remember sympathising with my father (silently) if my mother was being snappy. And of course we have a ‘clearing of the air’ once in a while.

But, with this proviso, I aim to be good-natured nowadays. Until a few months ago, I quite frequently had several unhappy days at a time but, although people could make it worse, they could not make it better and so I kept quiet about it. You see, I can say this now as it’s over.

This long preamble – oh god, this is so like me, get to the point, woman – was setting the scene for what I’m really saying, which is that I have noticed many times that my bad mood might not upset the family, but my good mood certainly cheers it. Yesterday, as I said I would, I opened champagne, set out to charm, to engage Sage and Ro in conversation. And they responded at once. We all laughed, chatted, teased me when I said flutteringly that I wanted to be amused. Admittedly, my husband’s idea of amusing me was to bring a whole lot of silver spoons and get Ro and me to check the hallmarks and date them, but it was togetherness in its way……..and Ro told me lots of work anecdotes, which he rarely does….and we toasted marshmallows. They both complimented me, not only on last night’s meal but the night before’s too, which I had cooked but not been present to eat.

Is this the same in other families, I wonder? That the good mood of one person sets the mood of everyone? Not in a ‘thank goodness she’s not ratty tonight’ way, but in a positively cheerful, without necessarily realising why, way? Or is it just me?

Right. Champagne is in the fridge and butternut squash risotto will be prepared for dinner. I have had enough of drooping around and intend to laugh all evening. This will be very disconcerting to my family, who may well be tempted to lock me in the attic, but I intend that they will find me irresistible and have to join in.