Middle class fruit machines: "I've got kumquat, ugly fruit and some rocket... what does that mean?"

Interesting beasties, those quizzes, weren't they? And interesting to see what random things lots of people think the same about you (if that sentence makes any sense to you, well done).

1. I can see why people might think I took French, English and History for A-level, but it is in fact a LIE. For I hated English with a burning passion at school. I was in a class with all the crap people in my year, and none of my friends (they split off the last bit of each form to create a new English group in the UIV because our class sizes were too big), and I've never really enjoyed English as a subject anyway, and JC on a stick, there are only so many essays about setting and atmosphere in Lord of the Flies that one can write. Well, I say one. I mean 'you'. As in, not me. I don't think I wrote that particular essay. Or, indeed, many other essays that I was supposed to. It was miracle that, when it came time to submit coursework for ye olde Language and Lit GCSEs, that I actually had enough work to submit. Also a bit of a miracle that... well, not that I passed, because, y'know, functioning brain, but that I managed to get an A* for both, espesh given that I hadn't actually read one of my literature set texts. A high point for bullshit over hard work, je pense.

Anyway, after that rant about how much I hated English, I shall reveal that I took Maths instead. I love Maths very, very much indeed, and have done since I was 9 and actually had a teacher who thought teaching it to girls was worth the bother. (Ooh, on that note, I get quite thrilled about the number 13 when it crops up. I actually squee. Because I'm a freak. I occasionally get excited about 22 because it's (a) my birthday date and (b) the number of my favourite hymn (I am the Lord of the Dance said he...) in the Come and Praise hymn book that we had in primary school, but not at all in the same way. But if you put 22, consider yourself more or less right.)

2. I do not have sugar in my tea. Yuck. Most of you clearly thought that the 'in a very small cup' option was a comedy answer, but no, it was not. I have three very small cups: two patterned ones from France, and a Beatrix Potter one. I never finish a full mug of tea, so I have a little bit in a little cup and it's all fine.

3. No Johnny Cash in our kitchen? Our world would crumble...

4. I used to dress up Chris as Evil Edna, from Willo the Wisp. Which, obviously, you're only going to know if I actually told you. I was always Mavis the Good Fairy. Clearly miscast, as I was a complete evil pain in the backside until I was about fifteen.

5. Many people seemed to get that Grandma had once combed a bathmat. I have clearly told that anecdote far more times than I thought. Don't go thinking that she hadn't done the other things, though. Oh no. Well, not the dying her hair green (as far as I know), but I wouldn't put it past her.


Once again, see how I love to talk about myself. Will go and hide in a corner. Briefly.

Ramblings on the tradition of oral history in my family

There are many things I love about my maternal family, but one of the most satisfying is the sense of family history we have. My grandmother is an inveterate story teller, and since I was little I have been regaled with tales of generations gone by and all the slightly mental things they have done. This is my grandmother’s family, after all. *g* Nobody’s *actually* mental or in any way particularly interesting. Anty (sic, in order to emphasise the proper northern pronunciation of the word) May, who was the eldest of Grandma’s aunts, used to swan around in pretty frocks, play the piano and have ‘presentiments’ (usually used as an excuse not to run errands); Doris, my great-grandmother, used to do all the work because she was very quiet and obliging (but prone to hysterical laughter in times of trial, something that has sadly been passed down the distaff line), but once forced a factory owner to give the girls a pay rise; Anty Pat, who as far as I can tell didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone and used to wander about playing the violin very badly, and Anty Olive, who was the youngest, and I’m sure there was something slightly off about her, but I can’t remember what it was and Grandma now denies any knowledge of having said anything. I am suspicious. But anyway, it’s nice to have all that, to be told stories of your family, even the people you’ve never known.

And we have about a million photographs, including the absolutely priceless one of Uncle George as a baby. He was Anty Annie’s husband. Anty Annie was a crony of my great-grandmother’s, and also prone to hysterical gales of laughter. I *think* (there’s a lot of family; I often get confused) she was Little Grandad’s sister. Little Grandad was GG’s husband who died long before I was born. GG was also referred to as Little Grandma, to differentiate her from Grandma Hallatt (Grandad’s mother), who was more the scary cake-on-the-head type grandmother. But yes, so Anty Annie married Uncle George, and we have a photo of him as a baby wearing the most giant frilly white dress in the world. He looks darling. But I suspect that photo would have been the bane of his life. Somehow, Grandma’s ended up with all the bits from all the family (we have GG’s and Anty Annie’s wedding dresses), and we occasionally go through it all and I get the stories all over again.

My mother laments that she never recorded GG telling all *her* stories, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Of course some stories get lost by the by, but I don’t think it matters, because they will always be replaced with new ones (ah, Rosie falling down the drains at a camp site, and getting tea leaves in her knickers because she’d had a strop and insisted on wearing the frilliest pair she owned…), and all that matters really is the continuity of passing on stories, whatever the stories themselves happen to be.

On my father’s side, there are very few stories, mainly because, like me, he has forgotten most of his childhood. I have about four anecdotes, none of which have been told by him.

1. When he was little, they were on holiday and he was getting on Grandma’s nerves, so she told him to go away. So he did. Being my father, even at about six or however old he was, this involved going off on a hike by himself. They didn’t find him for a very long time, Grandma was frantic, it ended up in the local newspaper. He’d been larking about in a cave on the beach, happy as Larry.

2. In a similar vein, he went camping on Arran with the Scouts, hated it miserably, and attempted to build a boat and flee the island. I think he even managed to set sail…

3. When he was a teenager, he forced David, his younger brother (by about five years) to listen to The Who until he agreed they were the best band in the world.

4. When he was in the sixth form and going out with my mother, one of the teachers warned her off him. Because he was a bad lot. *giggles* That one always makes me laugh.