(aka Bike) Part 1952 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad
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December 1st 1952:
o The New York Daily News carries a front page story announcing that Christine Jorgensen, a transsexual woman in Denmark, has become the recipient of the first successful sexual reassignment operation. (wikipedia)
December 3rd: The authoress of this interminable saga was born in Cardiff.
Back in Portsmouth, the two sleeping beauties woke as soon as I switched off the engine, which seeing as it’s pretty quiet, means it was probably the lack of motion which woke them.
“C’mon sleepy heads, let’s unload the car and see what David has made for dinner.” They followed me into the house each carrying a bag of some sort and muttering. Stella came into the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’ve arrived home at last, David has got some sort of bug, so you’ll have to cook.”
I was tempted to suggest fish and chips, but we had those last night and I won’t countenance pizzas. If David was ill yesterday, they probably had them then.
“When did he become ill?”
“Yesterday afternoon, he began vomiting and I had to send for pizzas.” Or you could have cooked something, Stella.
“Put the kettle on, let me get my bearings for a few minutes and I’ll see what’s what.” I finished unloading the car and by that time Stella had made some tea which I sat down and drank.
“Your broadcast was quite good,” she offered as I drank my refreshing beverage.
“Oh well, it’s done now.” I finished the tea and wandered over to the fridge, according to the menu, David had intended spaghetti bolognaise for dinner yesterday, so if the ingredients necessary were still there, that’s what we’d have tonight.
I checked inside the fridge and we had the necessary including a lump of Parmesan. After washing my paws, I set to making the sauce, frying the mince to seal it before adding the mushrooms, garlic and onion then finally the tomatoes. I stirred the simmering cauldron and refilled the kettle.
Grating the cheese into a dish, I checked the sauce, which was fine, and my cup–which wasn’t, it was empty. So the kettle went on yet again, though I washed the smelly cheese aroma off my hands before drinking any more tea.
Once that was drunk, it was a question of calling David, or at least the cottages, which was what we called the old stables where he and Ingrid lived, to enquire after our much missed cook.
“A lot better, now, thanks, Cathy. With luck I should be back tomorrow.”
“I’m doing the spag bol, if you lot would like some, I only have to add some more pasta to the pot?”
“That’s very kind of you, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Would I say it wasn’t if it was?”
“Sorry, boss-lady.”
“That’s better, I’ll bring some over in a bit.”
In the end, I had to use two pans to make enough pasta, which was just finishing cooking when Simon and Sam arrived with Tom just behind them. I called for wannabe diners to wash their paws and come and get it. A veritable stampede occurred–I guess they like spaghetti bolognaise.
I served it up then after putting mine in the oven to keep warm, I popped over to the cottages with the leftovers. David looked tired, but he assured me he felt much better. Ingrid and Hannah so far hadn’t caught whatever it was he’d had. They joked it was probably his cooking. I took my leave to go back and eat mine before Simon found it and ate it for me.
“I think I prefer your spag bol to wossisname’s,” declared Simon.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good, Mummy,” added Trish and Livvie while Mima continued spraying the sauce over the bib she had on. Danny nodded, his mouth full of dinner–he’d been last to the table. Julie and Phoebe couldn’t tell which was better, and thought we should run a competition, which made Stella laugh–until I told her she could do the washing up. Simon roared and Daddy smiled without saying anything.
I’d chopped up some of the pasta into small lengths and added some sauce, so Catherine and Puddin’ were scoffing it like it was going out of fashion, and even Fiona had a bit.
Of course we had to have Italian wine with the meal, and Simon opened a bottle of Chianti which I admit I enjoyed drinking. Okay the food in Brunetti stories is probably better, but I still think I make a fair shot at it, though we were fresh out of aubergines and focaccia.
Meems was a bit clingy when it got to bedtime and I hoped she wasn’t coming down with whatever David had had. She wasn’t, it was just her way of saying she’d missed me. It’s funny, that she was the first of my adopted children to find her way into my life and yet she usually prefers to be with her daddy if he’s about. Tonight, she wanted to be with me, or for me to cuddle with her for a little while before she went to sleep.
I mused on where her parents might be and what they might be doing. I got no feeling about them at all, so they could be dead or so detached from her now that I could no longer tune into them via her. Possibly, she’s detached herself from them. It’s been several years since she was dumped on me–a dirty trick to play on a child, but I hope Simon and I have more than made up for it, in the love and affection we’ve given her.
In bed, I discussed the children with Simon who was tired and had difficulty staying awake, so in the end I left him to it and fell asleep myself while still musing about the birth parents of all our children.
The next morning the weather had taken a turn back towards winter and became significantly colder. The plans I’d had to take the kids out somewhere were curtailed. Danny went off to his football course for the last time–he’d really enjoyed himself.
The three schoolgirls helped me clean through and do some laundry until lunch time, for which David produced the most exquisite cream of celery soup and the machine made some nice bread. Then while he laboured over dinner I took the three mousketeers and Cate out for a walk. We all wrapped up really well, especially the little one in her push chair, and we found a cafe open which sold ice creams and while they froze their tongues I indulged in a cup of latte coffee.
The walk back was just as cold if not worse, and a bit of a fret was coming in off the sea, which seemed to make it feel even colder. Then as we walked home we heard the fog horn which is now all part of an automated lighthouse system, so even if I fancied running off to work as a lighthouse keeper, I couldn’t–all the best jobs are going or gone. Then again, they don’t have too many dormice in lighthouses, so that might pose a bit of a problem and I suspect the broadband connection might be less than satisfactory compared to the one we have here–fibre optic and pretty fast.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1952
Comments
1952
I remember the newspaper article as if it were yesterday. It had a powerful affect on me. I was 10 at the time. Our teacher fumbled around a bit because everyone was talking about it. I din't know haw she came up with what she did; however, she said that part of the surgery had something to do with glands in the neck! I remember her gesturing to her throat. I often wondered who she was trying to fool. It was a pretty lame attempt to cover up her ignorance. She was a wonderful teacher, otherwise. She died far too young two years later.
Portia
It wasn't...
It wasn't many years later that my mother-in-law had the opportunity to interview one of the surgeons for her paper, in Boston... I wasn't born yet... :-) And, sadly for my well being, I didn't hear about it or much else until about 33 years later... (When I discovered I wasn't unique or crazy!)
Thanks for this interminable story! It's mostly been fun, and pretty much all worth reading. :-)
Thanks,
Annette
Dear Annette
You have commonality with most of us but your are unique, very unique and very special. I think all people are a little crazy, even me. Otherwise we would miss the fun.
I pity the people who try to be normal and like everyone else. They have not found themselves and are lost. They miss the good parts of life.
Much Love,
Valerie R
As much as I try I don't see anything sinister or
threatening in this episode. Glad Meems has some Mummy time wiht Cathy. The walk with a stop for a treat sounds like great family time.
There's a Companion Brunetti Cookbook
US title is "Brunetti's Cookbook", recipes by Roberta Pianaro, culinary stories by Donna Leon. Looks like it was published in Great Britain as; "A Taste of Venice At Table with Brunetti". The hardbound "Brunetti's Cookbook" appears to be out of print, but the UK paperback version of "A Taste of Venice At Table with Brunetti" is available on Amazon.com for about $20. delivered or about £10 from Amazon UK.
My local library has "Brunetti's Cookbook".
Anybody want to have a go at
Anybody want to have a go at editing the Wikipedia entry for 1952 to include our esteemed authoress' birthdate?
Kris
{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}
Sad days.
As I was driving home today, I heard the news about the women of Magdalene. Sort of thought you'd mention those poor souls. I must confess that I sometimes wonder why any one is religious?
I think I did mention
them in a previous episode, but it is disgraceful - religion that is, oh and so were the Magdalene laundries.
Angharad
Wonder what David
came down with? Is it contagious? Will there be a story behind it??
May Your Light Forever Shine
Back to the grindstone.
Back to base zero for Cathy as she find's herself unexpectedly doing the cooking, (as if Stella was ever going to pull her weight in the cullinary stakes,).
As to the freezing weather wee-eell, iss' Bri'tan innit', whacha es'spect.
As to the Magdalene laundries well what can I say? Words fail... It's the final pit that marked to descent of women into slavery. Yes that's right, young women deemed 'at risk' taken by the state with the connivence of that evil institution called the catholic church and forced into slavery doing unpaid work whilst held captive against their will and never having broken any laws. (Yeah! Well I can thoroughly relate to that!)
If the girls and young women got pregnant, their children were forcibly stolen from them and sold off to foster parents for a handsome profit whilst the unmarried mother was forcibly incacerated FOR LIFE!!!!! This while the fathers of the children got off Scott free and rarely were ever made to pay support for their illegitimate children. Oh how the catholic church (like most other religions!!) demeans and degrades women!
Often the prettier girls were used as sex slaves for Catholic priests and bishops with the full knowledge and consent of the nuns who ran the laundries and the cardinals who condoned these crimes by their own priests. Yes! Angharad is right. Relgion is utterly evil. It feeds off fear to gain power over gullible minds.
I say there is no such thing as GOD, he's about as real as Santa Clause!!!
Much worse are the priests who purvey the superstitions and pervesions to spread fear. The profits from the magdalene laundries went straight into the coffers of the Catholic church. They existed throughout Ireland, (North and South) from the 1920's (after Ireland became independent of Britain) and they endured up to 1996.
Religion is the curse of mankind. As a child I suffered at the hands of priests and wardens (and doctors) and I can never, never, never forgive!
I make no apologies if I hurt anybody's feelings because for me, the scars run deep!!!!!