As you read this you would be forgiven for thinking I’m obsessed with food, food manufacturers and supermarkets, and I suppose I am - now.
It’s an accusation I would have vehemently denied a few years ago, but as you get older and the odd ailment, or threat of one looms ever closer, you suddenly become extremely aware of what you eat.
It’s then, if you harbour the ambition if not to live forever, to receive a telegram from the queen, that you begin to recognize and then resist the cynical machinations encouraging you to buy and over indulge in food that is bad for you.
You find yourself peering at the small print on the back of products, taking more notice of what ingredients and artificial additives it contains, than what the food looks like on the package and whether you fancy it for your tea or not.
When you’ve deprived yourself of all your favourite foods but it hasn't lowered your cholesterol nearly enough. And the doctor’s peered at you over the top of his glasses, taken in your less than sylph like figure and increased the dose, it’s doubly discouraging when well meaning friends begin to tell you all about alternative supplements that will make ever such a difference.
In desperation you search the internet for advice and treatment both chemical and natural for your ailments, although I wouldn’t advise it if you have a weak constitution or lean towards being a hypochondriac.
Believe me, the search will produce thousands of diagnoses and if you're dead unlucky and having a bad hair day, your symptoms are sure to match some nasty, fatal disease.
But don’t worry. After your panic attack, when you type Depression into the search engine there are shed loads of remedies that will cheer you up. They’re particularly helpful when you end up in debt due to all the money you’ve spent trying to keep one step ahead of your doctor.
Now I read that a change is afoot.
Scientists are formulating a whole raft of chemicals that can be added to food to make us healthier, including lowering our cholesterol even more than those expensive spreads and yoghurts already do.
They have perfected one additive that makes your food taste as if it has plenty of added salt for flavour, when it doesn’t.
Eventually, instead of shopping for organic alternatives and worrying about all the artificial preservatives, colours and unsaturated fats we’re taking in, we shall soon be eagerly snapping up food that contains all the above and the more the merrier.
Ice cream is one of the products they are going to target. I guess the boffins know how much we all pine for an illicit dish of raspberry ripple, so it’s been selected as an ideal food to lead us into their idea of healthy eating.
Can you imagine when they begin to advertise all these miracle foods on TV with experts advising that we eat at least four bags of Crisps a day to lower blood pressure, or urging us to eat Hamburgers with a double helping of fries - the natural way to lower cholesterol - in between re-runs of The Fat Clinic.
Imagine rummaging around in the deep freeze cabinet for a triple size tub of ice cream. Guilt? you’ll cry; what’s that when it’s home? Because, instead of trying to work out the calorific differences between plain Vanilla over Nougat Chocolate Chip with added Pecan Nuts, you’ll be righteously deciding whether to buy a tub of yummy, cholesterol busting, eat ‘til it’s coming out of your ears, or a tub of fruity Sorbet, containing the latest blood sugar reducer.
I can’t wait. Not!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
More Past than Future.
They say you live in the past when you get old, and in a way they are quite right, simply because when you’re old you have more past than you’re likely to have future….
With my sixty fourth birthday looming, I find myself harking back more and more to the ‘old days’, and then a recent TV programme about more recent history had me dredging up events that have ‘stuck’ in my memory.
It’s the most peculiar mix with a lot of long blank spots when I can only imagine the kids were ill or there was some sort of family crisis.
Given that I married just before my eighteenth birthday and from then on was busy taking care of a growing family, the swinging sixties and flower power went right over my head, and apart from singing The Beatles ‘She Loves You,’ to get my fractious daughter off to sleep, I never caught up with the music scene after Bill Haley and the Comets and Elvis Presley.
Naturally, like most of my generation I know exactly where I was when Kennedy died….
It’s disconcerting that despite the countless thousands of hours of television I must have watched, the following are the only five that leap immediately and clearly to mind.
I recall watching Churchill’s funeral and Princess Margaret’s marriage and was glued to the TV all day while they salvaged the Mary Rose from the sea bed in Portsmouth Harbour.
Two other TV programmes remain etched on my brain.
The first: That Was the Week that Was, was a Saturday evening satire programme on BBC presented by David Frost. I also remember some of the cast: Millicent Martin who sang as well as taking part in some of the sketches, Lance Percival who was also in some of the Carry On films, and Bernard Levin the newspaper critic….
The other programme pre-pre-pre- DNA tracking and the brilliant Eve theory, was some sort of scientific programme where two experts argued over the theory of continental drift, the break up of continents and how people of the world ended up where they are today. Fast forward, and it’s now an accepted scientific fact, but I’m thrilled to have been there at the ‘birth’ so to speak.
Earth shaking news included The Cuban crisis which scared the pants off me, because my new American husband was actively serving in the USAF at the time.
My blood ran cold when I heard about the explosion of a nuclear reactor in Chernobyl in Russia on the radio, because at first no-one could be certain how much fall out there would be and I feared for my children.
Later on I was kept up to date on our tussle with Argentina via my call up age son, and prayed that it wouldn’t escalate. The first moon landings were of course top of my agenda to watch, but Bill had shingles and the kids promptly went down with chicken pox, so with three of them lying in bed suffering, watching that momentous event came pretty far down on my list of things to do.
Of the more mundane events that stand out, I shopped in the very first supermarket in our town and ate my first hamburger at a Wimpey bar, but didn’t enjoy it because we were bought up to believe it was bad manners to eat whilst walking along the street.
On the fashion front I was there when it finally became acceptable to wear trousers. Despite war-time land girls exposing the shape of their legs, decent working class girls didn’t. And as for wearing high heels with trousers! It was enough to get us disowned.
Once the war was over although stockings cost an arm and a leg, it was frowned on for women to go out in public with bare legs. That in turn meant fancy, but hugely uncomfortable suspender belts if you were slim or elasticated roll on girdles if you were inclined to bulge. Consequently I embraced tights with open arms and was delighted when Mary Quant burst on the scene and I wasn’t too old or misshapen to flash my bare legs in a mini skirt.
We oldies have seen the birth of the internet, mobile phones and all the other gadgets today’s young can’t seem to live without. But looking back I reckon the greatest legacy handed down was the death of the elasticated girdle... A passion killer par excellence and God didn’t it itch when you took it off……
With my sixty fourth birthday looming, I find myself harking back more and more to the ‘old days’, and then a recent TV programme about more recent history had me dredging up events that have ‘stuck’ in my memory.
It’s the most peculiar mix with a lot of long blank spots when I can only imagine the kids were ill or there was some sort of family crisis.
Given that I married just before my eighteenth birthday and from then on was busy taking care of a growing family, the swinging sixties and flower power went right over my head, and apart from singing The Beatles ‘She Loves You,’ to get my fractious daughter off to sleep, I never caught up with the music scene after Bill Haley and the Comets and Elvis Presley.
Naturally, like most of my generation I know exactly where I was when Kennedy died….
It’s disconcerting that despite the countless thousands of hours of television I must have watched, the following are the only five that leap immediately and clearly to mind.
I recall watching Churchill’s funeral and Princess Margaret’s marriage and was glued to the TV all day while they salvaged the Mary Rose from the sea bed in Portsmouth Harbour.
Two other TV programmes remain etched on my brain.
The first: That Was the Week that Was, was a Saturday evening satire programme on BBC presented by David Frost. I also remember some of the cast: Millicent Martin who sang as well as taking part in some of the sketches, Lance Percival who was also in some of the Carry On films, and Bernard Levin the newspaper critic….
The other programme pre-pre-pre- DNA tracking and the brilliant Eve theory, was some sort of scientific programme where two experts argued over the theory of continental drift, the break up of continents and how people of the world ended up where they are today. Fast forward, and it’s now an accepted scientific fact, but I’m thrilled to have been there at the ‘birth’ so to speak.
Earth shaking news included The Cuban crisis which scared the pants off me, because my new American husband was actively serving in the USAF at the time.
My blood ran cold when I heard about the explosion of a nuclear reactor in Chernobyl in Russia on the radio, because at first no-one could be certain how much fall out there would be and I feared for my children.
Later on I was kept up to date on our tussle with Argentina via my call up age son, and prayed that it wouldn’t escalate. The first moon landings were of course top of my agenda to watch, but Bill had shingles and the kids promptly went down with chicken pox, so with three of them lying in bed suffering, watching that momentous event came pretty far down on my list of things to do.
Of the more mundane events that stand out, I shopped in the very first supermarket in our town and ate my first hamburger at a Wimpey bar, but didn’t enjoy it because we were bought up to believe it was bad manners to eat whilst walking along the street.
On the fashion front I was there when it finally became acceptable to wear trousers. Despite war-time land girls exposing the shape of their legs, decent working class girls didn’t. And as for wearing high heels with trousers! It was enough to get us disowned.
Once the war was over although stockings cost an arm and a leg, it was frowned on for women to go out in public with bare legs. That in turn meant fancy, but hugely uncomfortable suspender belts if you were slim or elasticated roll on girdles if you were inclined to bulge. Consequently I embraced tights with open arms and was delighted when Mary Quant burst on the scene and I wasn’t too old or misshapen to flash my bare legs in a mini skirt.
We oldies have seen the birth of the internet, mobile phones and all the other gadgets today’s young can’t seem to live without. But looking back I reckon the greatest legacy handed down was the death of the elasticated girdle... A passion killer par excellence and God didn’t it itch when you took it off……
Why was I in Gran's Bed?
We have a long skipping rope double stretched across our quiet street. Skipping is my favorite game. I’m not quite five, but as good as the big kids and this evening my feet have wings as I soar through and over the ropes, singing the rhymes and then leaping out for the next girl to take her turn.
Suddenly dad’s at our front door calling me in for bed. I protest. 'I don‘t want to, it’s not dark yet, no one else is going in.’
He shouts, ‘don’t argue, I want you in right now!’
Obstinacy swells in my chest making me reckless. Made brave by the other children standing there I refuse.
‘Don’t make me come to get you,’ he threatens.
I make him. He chases me right down to the end of the street, grabs me by the scruff of the neck and frog marches me home.
My friends laugh. I don’t. I scream and kick and scratch...Loudly.
When I’m indoors I refuse to wash and wriggle so hard mum can’t get the flannel anywhere near me.
Dad’s face is like thunder, and I know I’m very near a smack. Worried about the neighbours hearing my screams, mum makes shushing noises.
He tries to take me up to bed, but I want mum to see me up as she usually does. I fight him all the way. And why is he making me go in gran’s bedroom? Her feather bed tickles my legs and the sharp ends of the feathers dig into me no matter how I wriggle and squirm looking for a comfortable position. I itch and fidget and whine.
Mum comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. I want her to lie down beside me, but she won’t.
‘Why am I in gran’s bed? Why did dad make me come in early?’ I demand.
She leans over, makes hushing noises and smoothes my hair away from my hot fretful face. Her long, silky black hair falls across my eyes. It makes a curtain of darkness and has her special mother smell. I want her to stay like that.
She kisses me, winces, and starts to sing a lullaby, but I don’t want her to sing. I want to go out with my friends. I can still hear them playing outside in the street.
Dad pokes his head around the bedroom door and frowns. ‘Aren’t you asleep yet? You’re spoilt. You’re old enough to get yourself off to sleep. Let your mother be.’
I sniffle and start crying again.
Mum says, ‘leave her be Richard, she’s in such a state you’re only making her worse.’
I love her so much I can’t begin to describe it, but tonight I don’t care. I have a big knot of anger in me. I get like that sometimes, although I know it hurts her feelings when I do.
Dad brings me a glass of hot milk, but I can’t stop sobbing.
He puts his arm around mum’s shoulders. 'You have to come down now Dora. Leave her alone; she’ll cry herself to sleep in a minute.’
Mum gets up slowly and follows him out of the door.
I can’t believe my eyes. I’m so shocked she’s left me alone that I stop crying. Downstairs I can hear them talking and the front door opens then shuts. Is it gran coming in from the pub? but I’m in her bed; where will she sleep? I strain my ears, but can’t hear what’s going on.
Suddenly dad's shaking me. It's morning. The sun is lighting up the thin bedroom curtains and I’m hot and sticky.
In the smoky glass mirror of gran’s dressing table that stands opposite the bed I can see that the feather mattress has made deep creases in my cheeks.
Dad smiles down at me. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you. Come and see.’
I think it’s Christmas; it’s what he always says on Christmas morning, but then a warm sunbeam dances across the bed through a chink in the curtains, reminding me it's the wrong time of the year.
I try to guess what the surprise is. Perhaps it’s a new bike? It’s nearly my birthday; I expect they’re letting me have it early. I've forgotten I've been horrible and don’t really deserve presents.
He helps me out of bed and leads me across the landing to their bedroom where I normally sleep in a small bed in the corner.
‘Here you are. What do you think of that then?’ He sounds pleased.
Mum is sitting up in bed wearing a pretty new nightgown and a pink satin bed jacket that I‘ve never seen before. She’s holding a snowy white shawl in the crook of her arm. She pulls the shawl back and shows me a baby monkey. At least it looks like a monkey to me.
‘Say hello to your new sister. She arrived last night.’
I’m not impressed. I knew we were going to have a baby, they’ve been telling me about it for ages. ‘Where‘s my surprise?’ I ask.
Mum looks hurt but smiles. ‘Now Elaine’s here, dad’s going to collect a pram and a baby doll for you later today, and then we can take them out for walks together.’
I'd rather have a bike but something stops me saying it. The little devil inside me has gone with the night.
I go to the bed and look at the baby. Mum lays her down, puts her arms around me and kisses me.
‘We’re sorry about last night. The baby was ready to be born and we couldn’t leave you playing outside while all that was going on could we?’
But I don’t see why not.
Suddenly dad’s at our front door calling me in for bed. I protest. 'I don‘t want to, it’s not dark yet, no one else is going in.’
He shouts, ‘don’t argue, I want you in right now!’
Obstinacy swells in my chest making me reckless. Made brave by the other children standing there I refuse.
‘Don’t make me come to get you,’ he threatens.
I make him. He chases me right down to the end of the street, grabs me by the scruff of the neck and frog marches me home.
My friends laugh. I don’t. I scream and kick and scratch...Loudly.
When I’m indoors I refuse to wash and wriggle so hard mum can’t get the flannel anywhere near me.
Dad’s face is like thunder, and I know I’m very near a smack. Worried about the neighbours hearing my screams, mum makes shushing noises.
He tries to take me up to bed, but I want mum to see me up as she usually does. I fight him all the way. And why is he making me go in gran’s bedroom? Her feather bed tickles my legs and the sharp ends of the feathers dig into me no matter how I wriggle and squirm looking for a comfortable position. I itch and fidget and whine.
Mum comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. I want her to lie down beside me, but she won’t.
‘Why am I in gran’s bed? Why did dad make me come in early?’ I demand.
She leans over, makes hushing noises and smoothes my hair away from my hot fretful face. Her long, silky black hair falls across my eyes. It makes a curtain of darkness and has her special mother smell. I want her to stay like that.
She kisses me, winces, and starts to sing a lullaby, but I don’t want her to sing. I want to go out with my friends. I can still hear them playing outside in the street.
Dad pokes his head around the bedroom door and frowns. ‘Aren’t you asleep yet? You’re spoilt. You’re old enough to get yourself off to sleep. Let your mother be.’
I sniffle and start crying again.
Mum says, ‘leave her be Richard, she’s in such a state you’re only making her worse.’
I love her so much I can’t begin to describe it, but tonight I don’t care. I have a big knot of anger in me. I get like that sometimes, although I know it hurts her feelings when I do.
Dad brings me a glass of hot milk, but I can’t stop sobbing.
He puts his arm around mum’s shoulders. 'You have to come down now Dora. Leave her alone; she’ll cry herself to sleep in a minute.’
Mum gets up slowly and follows him out of the door.
I can’t believe my eyes. I’m so shocked she’s left me alone that I stop crying. Downstairs I can hear them talking and the front door opens then shuts. Is it gran coming in from the pub? but I’m in her bed; where will she sleep? I strain my ears, but can’t hear what’s going on.
Suddenly dad's shaking me. It's morning. The sun is lighting up the thin bedroom curtains and I’m hot and sticky.
In the smoky glass mirror of gran’s dressing table that stands opposite the bed I can see that the feather mattress has made deep creases in my cheeks.
Dad smiles down at me. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you. Come and see.’
I think it’s Christmas; it’s what he always says on Christmas morning, but then a warm sunbeam dances across the bed through a chink in the curtains, reminding me it's the wrong time of the year.
I try to guess what the surprise is. Perhaps it’s a new bike? It’s nearly my birthday; I expect they’re letting me have it early. I've forgotten I've been horrible and don’t really deserve presents.
He helps me out of bed and leads me across the landing to their bedroom where I normally sleep in a small bed in the corner.
‘Here you are. What do you think of that then?’ He sounds pleased.
Mum is sitting up in bed wearing a pretty new nightgown and a pink satin bed jacket that I‘ve never seen before. She’s holding a snowy white shawl in the crook of her arm. She pulls the shawl back and shows me a baby monkey. At least it looks like a monkey to me.
‘Say hello to your new sister. She arrived last night.’
I’m not impressed. I knew we were going to have a baby, they’ve been telling me about it for ages. ‘Where‘s my surprise?’ I ask.
Mum looks hurt but smiles. ‘Now Elaine’s here, dad’s going to collect a pram and a baby doll for you later today, and then we can take them out for walks together.’
I'd rather have a bike but something stops me saying it. The little devil inside me has gone with the night.
I go to the bed and look at the baby. Mum lays her down, puts her arms around me and kisses me.
‘We’re sorry about last night. The baby was ready to be born and we couldn’t leave you playing outside while all that was going on could we?’
But I don’t see why not.
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