September 29: Great-granny’s magic sheet

The sheet must be at least 60 years old – probably  bought in the early years of my parents’ marriage  before my mother’s fancy turned to coloured  sheets  and patterns.

This sheet is plain white, made of thick, heavy cotton, worn soft by endless washings in the old wash boiler,  hung to dry in the Welsh sun  on the  line between the apple trees, then aired on the rack above the Aga.

Because my mother always believed in keeping anything that might be useful, it came to our house in a huge bag of linen after she died.  Some of the sheets I used, others I gave away. Some I cut up into tea towels, some  I turned into Hallowe’en ghosts.  This sheet  just stayed in  the bag at the back of the wardrobe, still  immaculately folded by my mother, goodness knows how many years before.

Then our first grand-daughter arrived.  Her parents brought a travel cot for when she stayed with us, complete with cheerful sunshine yellow cot sheet. But the baby never settled. She was a restless baby anyway but the travel cot seemed hopless.

Until one day I took the old cotton sheet, folded  it in four, and tucked it into the travel cot.

Maybe it was the thickness of it after the slippery polycotton yellow, maybe it was the snugness, the softness.  Maybe even it was the memory of Welsh sunshine and a great grandmother she never knew.  Either way, the baby slept soundly.

Much relief all round.

The trick worked for her little sister too.  Then this week  it was the turn of  our grandson Fred, nine months old and a hurricane force of robust energy and restlessness  after his parents had moved out of their flat before going to America.

He wasn’t a great fan of strange cots but hurtled into this one and instantly crashed out every time.   “Mmmm….” said my son, wonderingly.

And that’s why Great-granny’s magic sheet is going to America tomorrow. In a swish apartment in a swish part of Washington, Fred willbe sleeping on a 60 year old sheet.

My mother would have been thrilled to bits.



September 13: Romancing the past

I love this picture of fisherwomen on Holy Island in 1857.  They are dressed  for work, assorted layers for warmth and practicality.   Their feet are probably soaked through and cold. And their expressions as they look at the photographer clearly say “We’ve got work to do. Haven’t you anything better to do than take pictures of us?”  Even the donkeys, laden with heavy baskets of fish, look fed up.

I’m sure – I hope – that these women had some fun and love and laughter in their lives but everything about them seems to reek of   stoicism, of relentless keeping on keeping on, a daily grind that had little opportunity for treats and jollity. And they were the lucky ones who could make a living.

With all due respect to them both, they do not have the appearance of women who indulge themselves with creams and lotions or  run through hay meadows with their glorious hair blowing free in the sunshine.

This is what the past looked like.   It wasn’t picturesque and pretty.  It was for many a world of work and care, of managing on very little and having to settle for less, when girls might have been gorgeous at 16 and ancient by 30.

Just remember this when you watch Poldark.

September 2 2017: New Year Resolutions

Well that’s it.  Summer’s over. No more lazy days making the most of the sun.  School starts next week.  Time to swap flip flops for boots, order logs and get back to the real world.

There are spiders’ webs on car mirrors  in the morning and a hint of chill in the air, refreshing, energising.

Holidays are over.  Back to work again.

It’s a time to dream of new exercise books with all those clean untouched pages, new pens and pencils to make our mark.  Even for those of us who left school a long time ago, the September air has a tantalising tang of new beginnings.  This year will be different. All sorts of possibilities…

January has always seemed a daft time for a year to start.  In the bleak midwinter we just want to hibernate and get through the dark until the spring comes round.

But September is  much more crisp  and purposeful.  A good time  for a fresh start.

This time we won’t mess up our execrise books.  This time we’ll try harder.  This time we’ll get it right.

All this and new boots too.

Happy New Year!





August 24 2017: Kabul grannies


These girls striding out  confidently in the 1970s  could be anywhere in the western world.  In fact, they were in Afghanistan in the days  when the country was relatively liberal.  Until the Taliban took over – then  these  happy young women  and their daughters and granddaughters were forced to wear burkas, covered up from head to toe in a bid to make them invisible, second class citizens with precious few rights.

So what did these women tell their daughters and their daughters’ daughters of how life used to be?

We in the west are used to our grannies telling us of how life used to be harder, of how  they used to work harder, dress more modestly and generally behaved better.  They remind us of how lucky we are, of all the opportunities  we have for education, freedom and ambition.

But  Kabul grannies must tell their granddaughters a different story.  When the Taliban were at their most oppressive memories of mini skirts and music and university must have been like fairy tales from some long-forgotten age.

That’s one of the ideas I explore in  Amity and the Angel .  In a society where religion rules and girls are just meant to be subservient to men, marry young and have lots of babies, it’s the granny with the long memory who’s the rebel, reminding people that there’s another way to live, a society with music and stories, where men and women are equal and free.

Well, someone has to keep the ideas alive.  And you can always rely on Granny…