Athens - Wrong Time -Wrong Place

Was talking to someone who lived in Athens. It reminded me of when we were coming back to England from Saudi Arabia many years ago. We had flown to Beirut, then got a boat which ended up in Crete, had a holiday in Crete then got another boat to Athens. We were due to sail to Sicily, but stopped off to visit Athens.

All was well for a few days, we ate in tavernas and looked around, ending up with a son et lumiere on the Acropolis.

Next day we were wandering about and suddenly saw quite a few soldiers with guns and lorries. In no time at all there were guns going off and loud bangs which turned out to be tear gas bombs. Discretion being the better part of valour, we hotfooted it back to the hotel, where we stayed, tearful and exhausted, in our room. It is amazing how vile tear gas is, your eyes absolutely pour, and you feel totally exhausted and have to lie down for hours.

The next day things were relatively normal, but we were not unhappy to be taking our leave. I think this was the night of the military coup.

Tizi Ouzou in the Sixties

Tizi Ouzou was where we moved next after Algiers. My husband got a job as an interpreter and translator for the FAO agricultural programme. I occasionally gave him a bit of a hand. Basically you had to translate from English to French to give instructions on how to grow stuff which was supposed to help keep the soil from eroding. Also from French to English for the American agricultural specialists. At the time Tizi Ouzou was a largeish village in the Atlas Mountains. It is now a huge town.

Ben Bella was in power at the time, but there were so-called counter-revolutionaries in the mountains, and the Algerian villagers who worked for the programme would be regularly picked off by snipers overnight. Shopping in the village could be a little unnerving, as army trucks regularly trundled through, full of soldiers facing us with fixed bayonets, looking very nervous. They were black guys from the desert, conscripted because presumably the mountain guys would not shoot each other.

One night was quite dramatic as there was more shooting than usual from the hills, so we got up and looked out of our window (with lights off naturally), at the military camp and prison below us. People dashed about shooting a bit and it became rather scary, but fortunately did not develop into a very major incident and all was quiet again by the next morning. Things became much worse later, and Ben Bella didn't last in power very long after this.

Googling and Algiers

The internet is indeed wonderful. Having time on my hands, I was vaguely Googling various places for property to buy. Looked at Trinidad, but the websites are a bit pathetic and the properties none too cheap. Then Algiers, where if it was politically stable, would be my choice for a happy retirement.

Amazing how much property has been built in Algiers over the last thirty years despite civil unrest and war. There are several large hotels in the area, including one just outside town where we used to drive to a remote and empty beach called Sidi Ferruch - now a huge hotel complex. If I am not mistaken in my interpretation of property prices, there seem to be large villas for sale dotted around the capital for under £4,000. However my maths may be incorrect. Or again, the low prices may be due to the civil unrest and low local salaries.

When I lived there in the early sixties after the war with the French, and Ben Bella was in power, civil servants, including an Irish architect friend of ours, were sometimes only paid once or twice a year, meanwhile living on credit from landlords, facilities companies and local shops. I wonder if it is still like that? My husband graduated from Oxford and went there to teach English. I worked in various embassies.

It really is a beautiful city. We lived in Golfe, which was in the hills on the left looking inland from the sea. We looked out every night over the bay, lit up all around. There were several village-like suburbs, with old low-rise white Arab style houses, the roofs in certain seasons covered in stork's nests.

The seaside part of town was full of old colonial buildings and ornate gardens, these rather grand areas and squares next to the small bustling streets, with one larger, wider, smart shopping street. The most exciting part was the casbah, which wound from the lower part steeply up to the top with great views, tiny cobbled streets with donkeys transporting goods, and mysterious buildings with huge wooden doors.

At one point we lived in a marvellous apartment further into town, but still with magnificent views and a large terrace. This was owned by an architect, a pied-noir who returned to France. The apartment consisted of one huge room with a tiny kitchen and bathroom off, tiny windows in the huge walls, a fourposter bed against one wall, all leading off to the white terrace. There were two or three supporting pillars in the flat. The floor, walls, ceiling and pillars were all covered with absolutely fantastic tiles. When old buildings had been demolished, this guy collected all the ancient tiles and put them inside his flat. It was like the Arabian Nights. Photography never seemed so important in those days or I would have some snaps.

Colonial Childhood Years

I was eight and my sister three when we set off on the SS Golfito to meet my mother's second husband in Trinidad. Nibby was his daughter, and as my father had left to later remarry when I was about two or three, this was effectively my new family. We had lived in Cambridge for about two years. My stepfather was finishing his degree in Geology after service in the RAF, and there being no grants for families, my mother worked as a ward orderly in a hospital, then set up in business for herself, making school uniforms at home.

My stepfather got a job in the oil business and had sent for us to join him. I don't remember much about the boat but it was certainly an adventure. When we finally arrived a couple of weeks later, the heat was stunning.

It was a humid heat, necessitating several showers and clothes changes every day. We lived in a wooden bungalow on legs. Underneath were the servants quarters - a couple of rooms, papered in old newspapers or magazines, where I spent many an hour reading disconnected and cut-off parts of articles. There were no washing machines, just a huge stone tub under the bungalow, and washing was done with grated soap and washboards, before being hung to dry over bushes in the garden.

There were many families in the oil business from the UK and other places, all in these bungalows on legs, with largeish gardens cut out from the bush. It was compulsory to have a nanny, and our cook, Olga, doubled in this role. A matter of pride was to have a nurses uniform, so our mother got out the sewing machine and ran up a uniform which would have done Guy's Hospital proud.

Childrens lives consisted of breakfast, school, supper and bed, except at weekends when the families would drive to the beach with a picnic, and many hours were spent in the sea.

We had holidays 'down the islands' where we took a boat to I think, Gran Gasparee, where we rented a bungalow only reachable by boat, for there were no roads. We had to take all of our supplies with us, and went fishing every day.

Once a week, a large dark sailing boat with black sails would pass the island. Apparently this was the boat taking lepers and supplies to the local leper colony on another nearby island. Many years later I met a woman who told me she had been brought up there: Chacachacare was the name of the island, and her father had been in charge of the colony, he was a medical missionary. She said the men and women lived separately, and the women made beautiful lace cloths, which were taken to the mainland and sold to help purchase food supplies for the colony. She said she had a very happy childhood there, and the inmates were happier than on the mainland where they would be shunned because of the disease. We found the boat very scary and disturbing.

Other passing boats were passenger liners, and we amused ourselves by waving at the passengers.

Back home again the adults were often at the Club, where they would socialise, no doubt drink far too much, and play tennis. We sometimes played tennis in the evenings and weekends.

But mostly, children hung about in tribes, wandering around in the bush, finding unusual fruit, trying to catch parrakeets and so on. I had a strange childhood habit: While Olga was taking Nibby out to the local playground to show off her smart uniform and chat to the other nannies, I used to go on marathon walks alone. If thirsty I would call at peoples' houses to ask for a glass of water. In this way, I discovered a whole world of lonely middle-aged (or so they seemed to me) ladies, who were delighted by this dubious diversion. I would be chatted to for hours, shown collections of embroidery, dolls, cactus, stamps, or whatever they had been doing, and plied with snacks and fruit.

Thinking back, it was an idyllic childhood, with almost total freedom to wander around, a lovely hot climate and because of the tropical rainstorms, endless greenery all around. The main downside was that Olga fed us baked beans for supper (eaten separately from the parents) for so long that I still cannnot look at a baked bean.

When we asked why we were not always allowed to play with the black children and we went to different schools we were told that this was the way things were. It was generally accepted that black people worked as servants and white people were the bosses. Though this was not always true: I saw at least one black couple as guests at the Club at Forest Reserve, and our schoolteacher, Miss Sinnanaan, was Asian. Once we were driving home and met with some carnival stragglers, all 'jumping up' i.e. dancing in the street. 'We don't want no white people here' some yelled, jostling the car rather hard, before we managed to drive past safely.

Back in dark postwar rainy England, even though attending a smart Torquay boarding school with plenty of green, lovely gardens and views, memories of Trinidad seemed like paradise to us.

We had worn very short pastel organdie dresses in Trinidad, all made by mother,far from the knee length heavy English materials, and we had spoken with strong Trinidadian accents and some local patois learned from the servants, all of this was to change by the time we had been 'back home' for a year or two.

Books and Uniforms

A bay leaf in home-made rice pudding is very nice. Especially a young bay leaf from your own plant.

Was just thinking about favourite books to try and describe myself. I used to read a lot and could have named so many, but now just a few, probably because I normally watch too much TV. I did forget to mention one which I really thought was brilliant and read over and over again: 'Nothing if not Critical' by Robert Hughes. Although I read this many times when I was at art college, about twelve years ago, it now seems like thirty years ago.

Reading something about school uniforms recently made me think about my old school uniform. Starting underneath, we all wore woollen vests and white knickers (known as 'linings'). Over this went a strange garment called a liberty bodice, a kind of waistcoat thing with rubber buttons down the front, and a pair of red (uniform colour) knickers over the white ones. Up to age eleven we wore long beige wool socks in the winter, white short ones in the summer. Over that age we wore white short socks in the summer, and in the winter, thick cotton lisle stockings, held up with suspender belts. These were chocolate brown, deeply unsexy, and wrinkled at the knees and ankles. We always wore black lace-up shoes outside and changed into brown sandals indoors.

Our winter uniforms for daily wear were: white long sleeved flannel shirts with red shiny ties under bright red gym slips. A silver and enamel school badge (cross with a crown of thorns in red enamel) was worn as a tie pin. At weekends or for formal occasions the gym slip was ditched in favour of a red pleated skirt. Outside, in winter, we wore either bright red tailored woollen coats, or if rainy, red hooded gabardine macs. Topped with black felt school hats with the same silver cross in the front of the hatband.

Summer was different in that we wore red tailored dresses with tiny white spots, and red blazers with the school pocket badge embroidered in silver wire, this time with cream panama hats. For special occasions, the pleated skirt reappeared, this time with cream shantung shirts.

It does make today's uniforms seem pretty simple. I forgot to mention all the sports gear and uniforms, but I think these are still required nowadays.

Bermondsey, Heels and Skulls

Just reading on the SE1 forum about Tommy Steele's autobiography. I must read it. As I was at school nearby for a couple of years I remember the area quite well. Though we lived in the comparatively smart Blackheath, in the Paragon, a lovely georgian crescent, I went to school at St. Saviours and St. Olave's Grammar School.

I remember particularly a visit to Bermondsey Market where, due to parental intervention, I was unable to buy a) a genuine human skull, and b) a beautiful pair of antique shoes, with silk ribbons and china or earthenware heels. Both of these items were absolutely fascinating to me.

I have never yet seen another pair of shoes with china heels, but have a cast of a skull. This I decorated at art school in the Mexican Day of the Dead style, with paint and glass beads, in 1994. I now see Damien Hirst is rather more expensively casting and decorating skulls.

Stilton Lace, Little Black Dress and Parisian Chic d'Antan

Have now taken the snaps and sent them off. I hope they will be ready for the audition. The Stilton lace looks rather fine in small pieces dotted about a white square plate.

Yielded to temptation and bought another little black dress from Marks & Spencer. I think I shall start collecting black dresses. With any luck I can stick to these for life, rather than trying to find tops and skirts or pants which match. I can just change the accessories.

Reminds me of France many years ago when I lived there. I used to wonder why the French girls always looked so chic. After observing them for a while, wandering from cafe to cafe, I started to notice that they had very few clothes, often all in the same or similar colours, but regularly changed their accessories: bags, belts, shoes, sunglasses etc.

One girl wore a dress for a week (presumably washing it at night) but it looked different every day because of the accessory change. One day she wore it with a narrow white belt on the hips, white flat sandals and white sunglasses with a black and white bag with a chain. The next day it was with large red beads around her neck, no belt, a red sunhat and high heeled shoes, and so on, with not only different colours but different accessories from tiny neck scarves, stoles, hats, bold earrings, very wide belts, low slung narrow ones, bags of all styles and sizes, and on her feet, anything from stilettos to flat toepost sandals. Some of the colours were plain, some patterned. This was many years ago when clothes were very expensive, but accessories could be cheap and cheerful. Perhaps I shall take up this idea. Mind you these days there is such a label obsession, and people are more interested in how much an accessory costs and who makes it than what it actually looks like. Especially bags it would seem this year. I shall definitely buck the trend here!

Nibby and Mothy - My Far Flung Family

Not a word from Erma Crump since I described her here. Being mysterious I expect.

I had a long conversation with my sister, telling her about all the help I have had from Dorothy and Julian. She reminded me that her childhood name was Nibby. Apparently she used to spend many a happy hour leaning over a fence chatting with a large black bull named Nibnob - hence we renamed her Nibby.

Well, Nibby is having a great time in Kangaroo Valley, and won first prize for her mask at a masked party last night. She has also sold another painting and is getting the workmen in to her new and delightful tiny traditional Australian bungalow. She is having a new bathroom and kitchen put in and is looking forward to being able to move in. She will come to England in August or early to mid September, so I shall book some annual leave when I know the dates. I shall probably go to Spain for a bit before Christmas.

Nibby is five years younger than me, a very talented artist and designer. She is immediately able to convey a tasteful English look to any room, so I am really looking forward to seeing some snaps of her house when completed, as I suspect it will have the very best of a combination of traditional old Australian and English design.

Just had a surprise call from our very much younger brother Mothy in New Zealand. He has changed jobs and is now working in personnel with a friend. He loves his new job and thinks he should have been doing this years ago. Mothy is very happy in New Zealand. His son (above, when much younger) is coming to England as part of his last school year and doing a history project visiting war fields and sites in Europe. He will be around mid July and I shall meet up for a meal in London.

Marriage and License

I was looking for my Tate membership card which seems to have disappeared when I unexpectedly came upon my parents' marriage license. It seems that on the date of their marriage in February 1940, my mother was 17 and my father 29 years old. They were married in Wolverhampton where my father was a fireman in the ATS??? and a saxophonist in some orchestra. His father was an ornamental plasterer. My mother's address was in Paignton and her father was described as a manager of a general store - actually I think he managed Woolworth's during the war, got a lot of good deals for the local convent, Stoodley Knowle, as a result of which we all obtained reduced boarding fees - rather wasted on me as I managed to get expelled - I never quite knew why except that I was a most difficult child. My younger sister however soldiered on there until the end of her schooling. My mother pleaded for me with various local schools, eventually succeeding in getting me in to a local grammar school which I left as soon as I legally could.

My son and his wife left to go to Spain for a short holiday. I do hope they are all right. I am hoping they will ring or email me soon.

Yesterday I attended the licensing of a new vicar and the church was packed. It was quite a successful event certainly in terms of attendance, and the local MP was conspicuous by his presence, as always. Also there was Jo Brand, the comedian, a friend of the new vicar. I hope this means that he has a great sense of humour, always a good quality in a vicar or anyone else.