Memories in Black and White ..

As I lay in bed this morning thinking about getting up, I watched the spots and stripes; patterns of sunlight decorating my bedroom wall. I was luxuriating in the comfort, vaguely listening to the ringing in my ears (I hadn't yet turned Terry Wogan on) and wondering where the young me had gone. There she was on the wall, thin and brown, sitting to have her photograph taken (in black and white) in the South of France, next to a dog called Ulysse, and looking rather sad. I can remember that holiday (it's only short-term memory I'm having problems with). I was with a bloke called Mikey, renting a little apartment near the sea, and I used to walk along the beside the pines in my gorgeous flimsy Celia Birtwell number down to the ankles. I wore a bikini underneath and my shady hat on top. Ulysse belonged to the owner of the apartment, who lived downstairs, and he used to accompany me on my walks. I can remember the smells of the pines and the sea, and the feel of that hot, dusty little lane under my bare feet. Now, of course, it's probably a three-lane motorway, and Ulysse is long gone. I do wonder if that lost world lives on somewhere, because it's certainly real and clear in my mind. The photo hangs on my wall, as does the dress, which is now beautifully fragile, and probably wouldn't survive being worn after 35 years. Memories...

My Grandson is my darling, my goose-bump, my little tickle. and I love him with all my Smarties. He is coming to stay tonight, so we'll catch up on the happenings of this week. Daughter is bringing him - he can't quite travel on his own yet - and we will probably go down to the Paddling Pool tomorrow if the weather is fine.

When I phoned my neighbour Sue yesterday morning, she sounded so terrible that I thought at least someone had died. Instead I discovered that she was devastated because her Daughter had got a 2.2 degree instead of the 2.1 she was hoping for, and which she had missed by a couple of marks. After a lot of discussion, several phone calls and a cup of coffee, I managed to convince her that it was actually a cause for celebration. Funny how these results are always a disappointment. But in fact, after the event, no-one ever wants to know what class of degree you were given, only that you actually got it. The fact is that her Daughter now has a B.A. Hons from Camberwell College of Art (very sought-after) and can get on with the rest of her life. (Apart from her huge Student debt of course.) It reminded me of Son's degree celebrations, six years ago. He was also two marks off a 2.1 and though slightly disappointed was delighted to have got through the whole business intact. At his Degree Ceremony, he and his best mate turned up in their gowns and hats, with shirts hanging out, wearing trainers and huge smiles. They had organised an event for the Graduation evening, where they would be dee-jaying, and had sold all the tickets, so they were in for a great night. (They called the event "Qualified?", just to include everyone - even those who hadn't actually passed.) I have a snapshot of them taken on that memorable day - it's the only Graduation photo I have and it's perfect. More memories...