A few days ago, BBC Radio 4's lunchtime-weekday consumer programme You and Yours touched upon selling unwanted engagement rings, and what determines their low second-hand value. It was no surprise to learn that such rings fetch very much less than one might have paid a jeweller for a new ring. Clearly the mark-up for a jeweller on a shiny, glittering, brand new ring is extortionately large! They know very well of course that for many buyers of new rings, cost is completely secondary: the important matter is to secure an attractive article symbolising love and a promise to marry. What bride-to-be does not expect an engagement ring to show off, and a good one at that! But this doesn't fully explain why the cost of a second-hand engagement ring, in a private transaction anyway, might be as low as 10% of its price when it was new. The programme explored what could be going on.
It seemed there was no general stigma attached to old rings, where the ring once belonged to a happy and loving couple. But in less felicitous circumstances there were two factors at work which tended to suppress the sale price.
One was the attitude of the seller. If this were a sensitive chap whose engagement had been called off and the ring handed back - or even torn off the finger and hurled back in his face with hurtful words - then it would be associated with a failed relationship that ended badly. The ring would lurk in a drawer, too valuable to throw away, but nevertheless an unwanted and useless possession, a bit of a millstone around the man's neck, reminding him that his love - indeed, all he'd had to offer - had been rejected. He might eventually decide to sell it. He would not care about the price - it would be enough to see the thing gone, and then move forward.
The other was the attitude of the buyer, or rather the woman who was going to wear the ring. A ring from a past happy relationship was one thing; a ring from a failed relationship was quite something else - it would be tainted. It would doom the new relationship.
'The curse of the ring' was apparently a notion widely recognised by many women. An awful lot of ladies were wary of having the bad luck of the previous failed relationship passed on to them. Or the ring might have been malevolently used, and would encourage unloving behaviour. One woman actually described how she caused her fiancé's fancy Rolex watch to stop dead, by angrily and spitefully murmering her pent-up resentments over her engagement ring, as a witch might, and sending a 'force' from the ring to the watch. A ring capable of such powers might indeed be one to avoid! So if sold at all, rings like this would go for very little. If their history were known, or guessed, that is.
There were, thankfully, a few who snapped their fingers at all this, and felt that engagement rings were innocent - or at least redeemable if in any way party to strife and separation - and should always have a 'second chance'. Perhaps the feeling here was that if a ring were given an opportunity to prove its worth, it would (in gratitude) work super-hard to bring about the happiness not experienced first time around. Which is a highly positive idea, and a lovely thought, but still in the realm of superstition and irrationality!
And yet, you know, I wouldn't dogmatically assert that rings and bracelets and necklaces, and other kinds of jewellery, are always just metal and stone adornments, and nothing more. I find it very easy to believe that something of the original wearer's physical and mental individuality seeps into the article, and gets embedded. Am I being silly? Well, these are highly personal objects, often rarely or never taken off. Are they really not going to absorb elements of the original wearer's persona? Common sense says no, how could they? One's gut feeling says otherwise. Putting this another way, who would feel completely happy about putting on a ring once worn by Hitler? Or Rasputin? Or Torquemada? Or indeed any other monster living or dead? Wouldn't one fear the 'curse of the ring'? Wouldn't one - however irrational this seems - feel that some baleful influence would be let into one's life?
By the same 'logic', a ring known to have been worn by Somebody Good or Somebody Wise might seem especially desirable. The trouble is, of course, that the best of us have dark sides. There's the risk of conjuring up that hidden demon within!
We are firmly into Witchcraft Territory once we begin to regard bits of metal and stone as magical entities with wills of their own, independent of the wearer. And yet it's quite easy to accept that anything worn when pleasant things happen must be imbued with good luck. It need not be jewellery: it could be a 'lucky scarf' or a 'lucky pair of shoes'. But it's more often than not a lucky ring or similar.
Surely there is no more than a coincidental or indirect link between wearing a 'lucky' item and experiencing good fortune. But speaking for myself, I would hesitate to leave my front door without my usual rings and other bits and bobs. Without them, I would somehow feel naked and defenceless, exposed to mishap. And that vulnerable psychological state might very well make me susceptible to accidents and sundry trip-ups.
Trying to be hard-headed, I'd want to say that all magic - all belief in 'luck' anyway, good or bad - is simply a matter of suggestion and susceptibility to psychological manipulation, including self-delusion. But the primeval part of me needs talismen to make certain that I won't come to harm, and that I will enjoy lots of pleasant and convenient experiences.
I've got a sneaking suspicion that my new silver bracelet - always on my wrist of course - has ensured the dry (and often sunny) holiday weather I've had up here on the Cotswolds - in March too! Amazing. All against the odds. And what else could possibly be the reason for such good fortune?
Tuesday, 22 March 2016
Sunday, 20 March 2016
My German accent
Yesterday I met up with Angie at Miserden for a Cotswolds walk inspired by the last novel in the Cadfael series written by Ellis Peters (the historian Edith Pargeter).
This is the book set in 1145, in which Cadfael goes AWOL from Shrewsbury Abbey in order to rescue his cherished son Olivier. Olivier was conceived in Palestine after Cadfael fought in the First Crusade, long before he ever thought of becoming a Benedictine monk. For most of his life Cadfael was quite unaware that he was a father, discovering the fact only six years previously, when already in his late fifties, and Olivier already a young man in service to a nobleman, Robert of Gloucester. This makes their relationship special, of course, and as soon as he hears that Olivier is incarcerated, Cadfael knows he must do something about it, even if he must break his vows to not stray from the Abbey without the abbot's express leave, which he does not give. Doing his own thing may lead to Cadfael never being able to return to the Abbey, which would be a disaster. But Olivier's whereabouts must be discovered, and his release obtained.
The background to this is that the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda is still rumbling on, with Olivier on her side because Robert of Gloucester is. Olivier finds himself in a castle under siege, but when the lord in charge of its defence switches sides in rather dishonourable circumstances, Olivier refuses to do the same, and this principled act brings about his imprisonment in a castle called La Musarderie, close to Miserden, on a hilly spur in the River Frome valley.
La Musarderie is still there, although all the defensive stonework has long gone. There is now just the level bailey, and, overlooking it, the large motte or mound on which the keep was built. Bailey and motte once had defensive walls and towers, all gone, but the earthworks remain, and we intended to inspect them as part of a circular walk from Miserden to Caudle Green and back again. I won't say more, because either Angie or myself may decide to write a separate post on what we saw at the castle.
Before setting forth, we were going to meet up for lunch in the village pub, The Carpenters Arms. I arrived first, Angie being delayed by traffic. I bagged a table close to a log fire. It was a particularly chilly day. I chatted to the young landlord and also to an older local man, the sort of thing I often do. Indeed I'd done it at The Butchers Arms at nearby Sheepscombe only the day before, where the landlord and another local customer called Brian drew me in. I was there for lunch, enjoying an Irish-style hotpot called Dublin Coddle, served with herby bread. Hearty and yummy! Anyway, Brian discussed horses - the Cheltenham Gold Cup was about to be run - and mentioned that he was retired from the army, having looked after the officers' horses in the Household Cavalry. He also said he lived in Miserden - well, what a coincidence, with myself and Angie meeting up there next day! He assured me that we would eat well at The Carpenters Arms. So it turned out! While waiting for Angie to arrive, I got chatting to the local man I mentioned, and Brian's name came up, so we discussed him as well.
The thing was, this man was able to hear me speak quite a bit. After ten minutes, he asked me where I was from, because he couldn't place my accent. In fact, he asked me whether I might be German.
German?
I assured him I wasn't. I explained that I was Welsh by birth, but had lived most of my life in south and south-east England. So really I ought not to sound like a foreigner, and certainly not like Angela Merkel! I wondered what there was about the way I spoke that made people like him suppose I wasn't British. I couldn't ask him, because Angie arrived, and we began our own chat. But today I've been pondering this accent business more deeply.
I regularly get asked about my accent. There's definitely something unusual about it.
Nobody ever says it's an odd or unattractive accent. And clearly I speak distinctly, because I'm readily understood, whomever I'm talking with, from Land's End to John O'Groats. No, it's either something that's in my accent, or missing from it, that renders it slightly unnatural or unidiomatic, as if I've learned English to the degree that a superbly fluent foreigner would learn it, but without its being my mother tongue.
All my adult life, it has anyway been called a 'posh' accent. But I'm strictly middle-class, and I have no high-status background whatever. I don't object to the posh label. If it sounds 'to the manor born', well, that's very nice, and I'm sure it cuts ice with certain people - it gets me polite service in upmarket shops and hotels, for instance - but perceived poshness has a bad downside: ordinary folk may think me snooty and head-up-botty as soon as I open my mouth. And I wouldn't want anyone to think that. I'm stuck with it, however. I speak how my Dad used to speak. It's a relic of my upbringing, for better or worse.
I do make a point of articulating all speech sounds well. I want each consonant to be distinct, nothing slurred. And my vowels sounded fully. I don't murmer or mumble. That would be disgracefully sloppy. All this must make the way I speak seem rather crisp, if not staccato. And Germans tend to speak in that way, don't they? Ah, a clue as to why the man in the pub reckoned I might be foreign! And another thing: I am a confirmed word merchant, I know a lot of words, and although I think it pretentious to use obscure words, I will try hard to use the right word to give what I say the correct nuance, if I think the finer meaning will be understood. So perhaps I do sound like a walking dictionary, with an unnaturally good vocabulary - the kind a serious foreign language student would acquire!
I certainly think that missing from my speech is any obvious regional characteristic. Thanks to Dad, I never had a Welsh accent. Dad's own was very 'BBC', from that time when radio announcers and newsreaders like Alvar Lidell had influence. Mind you, Mum retained her Welsh accent all her life, and I do have ways of speaking - individual words, turns of phrase, certain pronunciations - that come straight from her. Some of these seem very odd to Southern Englanders. (Sorry, I should say Engländer, shouldn't I?) And whenever I return from a visit to Wales, it's remarked upon that I've picked up the local accent, though it soon fades. But not entirely. My friends regularly think they catch some fleeting Welshness in my voice when I'm speaking passionately! But it isn't a consistent accent. The chap at the pub said he couldn't hear any Welshness at all.
You know, I think he decided that I wasn't English, and stayed with that, even when I was telling Angie about my rag rug, which he must have overheard. Or perhaps especially because I mentioned my rag rug - they are popular in Sweden, aren't they?
This is the book set in 1145, in which Cadfael goes AWOL from Shrewsbury Abbey in order to rescue his cherished son Olivier. Olivier was conceived in Palestine after Cadfael fought in the First Crusade, long before he ever thought of becoming a Benedictine monk. For most of his life Cadfael was quite unaware that he was a father, discovering the fact only six years previously, when already in his late fifties, and Olivier already a young man in service to a nobleman, Robert of Gloucester. This makes their relationship special, of course, and as soon as he hears that Olivier is incarcerated, Cadfael knows he must do something about it, even if he must break his vows to not stray from the Abbey without the abbot's express leave, which he does not give. Doing his own thing may lead to Cadfael never being able to return to the Abbey, which would be a disaster. But Olivier's whereabouts must be discovered, and his release obtained.
The background to this is that the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda is still rumbling on, with Olivier on her side because Robert of Gloucester is. Olivier finds himself in a castle under siege, but when the lord in charge of its defence switches sides in rather dishonourable circumstances, Olivier refuses to do the same, and this principled act brings about his imprisonment in a castle called La Musarderie, close to Miserden, on a hilly spur in the River Frome valley.
La Musarderie is still there, although all the defensive stonework has long gone. There is now just the level bailey, and, overlooking it, the large motte or mound on which the keep was built. Bailey and motte once had defensive walls and towers, all gone, but the earthworks remain, and we intended to inspect them as part of a circular walk from Miserden to Caudle Green and back again. I won't say more, because either Angie or myself may decide to write a separate post on what we saw at the castle.
Before setting forth, we were going to meet up for lunch in the village pub, The Carpenters Arms. I arrived first, Angie being delayed by traffic. I bagged a table close to a log fire. It was a particularly chilly day. I chatted to the young landlord and also to an older local man, the sort of thing I often do. Indeed I'd done it at The Butchers Arms at nearby Sheepscombe only the day before, where the landlord and another local customer called Brian drew me in. I was there for lunch, enjoying an Irish-style hotpot called Dublin Coddle, served with herby bread. Hearty and yummy! Anyway, Brian discussed horses - the Cheltenham Gold Cup was about to be run - and mentioned that he was retired from the army, having looked after the officers' horses in the Household Cavalry. He also said he lived in Miserden - well, what a coincidence, with myself and Angie meeting up there next day! He assured me that we would eat well at The Carpenters Arms. So it turned out! While waiting for Angie to arrive, I got chatting to the local man I mentioned, and Brian's name came up, so we discussed him as well.
The thing was, this man was able to hear me speak quite a bit. After ten minutes, he asked me where I was from, because he couldn't place my accent. In fact, he asked me whether I might be German.
German?
I assured him I wasn't. I explained that I was Welsh by birth, but had lived most of my life in south and south-east England. So really I ought not to sound like a foreigner, and certainly not like Angela Merkel! I wondered what there was about the way I spoke that made people like him suppose I wasn't British. I couldn't ask him, because Angie arrived, and we began our own chat. But today I've been pondering this accent business more deeply.
I regularly get asked about my accent. There's definitely something unusual about it.
Nobody ever says it's an odd or unattractive accent. And clearly I speak distinctly, because I'm readily understood, whomever I'm talking with, from Land's End to John O'Groats. No, it's either something that's in my accent, or missing from it, that renders it slightly unnatural or unidiomatic, as if I've learned English to the degree that a superbly fluent foreigner would learn it, but without its being my mother tongue.
All my adult life, it has anyway been called a 'posh' accent. But I'm strictly middle-class, and I have no high-status background whatever. I don't object to the posh label. If it sounds 'to the manor born', well, that's very nice, and I'm sure it cuts ice with certain people - it gets me polite service in upmarket shops and hotels, for instance - but perceived poshness has a bad downside: ordinary folk may think me snooty and head-up-botty as soon as I open my mouth. And I wouldn't want anyone to think that. I'm stuck with it, however. I speak how my Dad used to speak. It's a relic of my upbringing, for better or worse.
I do make a point of articulating all speech sounds well. I want each consonant to be distinct, nothing slurred. And my vowels sounded fully. I don't murmer or mumble. That would be disgracefully sloppy. All this must make the way I speak seem rather crisp, if not staccato. And Germans tend to speak in that way, don't they? Ah, a clue as to why the man in the pub reckoned I might be foreign! And another thing: I am a confirmed word merchant, I know a lot of words, and although I think it pretentious to use obscure words, I will try hard to use the right word to give what I say the correct nuance, if I think the finer meaning will be understood. So perhaps I do sound like a walking dictionary, with an unnaturally good vocabulary - the kind a serious foreign language student would acquire!
I certainly think that missing from my speech is any obvious regional characteristic. Thanks to Dad, I never had a Welsh accent. Dad's own was very 'BBC', from that time when radio announcers and newsreaders like Alvar Lidell had influence. Mind you, Mum retained her Welsh accent all her life, and I do have ways of speaking - individual words, turns of phrase, certain pronunciations - that come straight from her. Some of these seem very odd to Southern Englanders. (Sorry, I should say Engländer, shouldn't I?) And whenever I return from a visit to Wales, it's remarked upon that I've picked up the local accent, though it soon fades. But not entirely. My friends regularly think they catch some fleeting Welshness in my voice when I'm speaking passionately! But it isn't a consistent accent. The chap at the pub said he couldn't hear any Welshness at all.
You know, I think he decided that I wasn't English, and stayed with that, even when I was telling Angie about my rag rug, which he must have overheard. Or perhaps especially because I mentioned my rag rug - they are popular in Sweden, aren't they?
Wednesday, 16 March 2016
Some interesting figurings
Tomorrow I set off for the Cotswolds. Today has been one long story of trying to do it all in just a few hours. This morning I was tidying up my lawns - and snipping away at shrubs and brambles - in case Andrew my mower man should come to give the grass its first cut of the year while I'm away. Then I had a long lunch with Jackie and Jo. Then I resumed loading up the caravan, and didn't finish doing that - or at least all I could reasonably do today - until 8.30pm.
Needless to say, the rag rug isn't quite finished. There is one more patch of 'sky' to tackle, merely two or three hours' effort needed. But I have run out of time. I will have to take it away with me on holiday. It may however not be so easy to find the two or three hours needed. If the weather is good, I will be out and about. I don't as a rule just sit in the caravan twiddling my thumbs, stumped for something to do. There is always something to do.
It's now clear to me what is involved in making a rag rug, which is really a pretty humble type of craft, involving a time commitment but no especial manual skills. In round figures, this is how my rug has worked out.
Ignoring the cost of the special tools, I spent £84 on hessian, cotton fabric in various colours, and strong linen thread. This, to produce a rug measuring 100 cm x 60 cm. An awful lot of fabric was needed. I used up 10.5 metres of cotton altogether, cut up into nearly 4,000 strips which were woven into the hessian base. It has taken me 11 days to (very nearly) complete the rug, working on and off.
I am sure that this first rag rug, though a success, and certainly attractive, is not up to any kind of commercial standard. When it's done, I will of course reveal some pictures, but I think anybody who sees them will appreciate what I mean. It's not a rug one would pay much to buy, even though those friends of mine who have seen it say that it's impressive for a first attempt. Whether or not that's true, it is for me an unexpected personal achievement, one that spurs me on to try something harder.
Supposing however I had produced a rug of obvious commercial quality, one I could offer for sale. What then would one charge, to be at least sure of covering costs and making a profit equal to the 'living wage' of £9 an hour proposed for 2020? In this case, it would be 65 hours @ £9.00 = £585, plus the cost of materials £84, making a total of £669. Well, I'm pretty certain that the very best rag rug imaginable would never command such a price. Not unless it was made by an established figure in the art and craft world, as a unique one-off.
No, there is clearly no money in rug-making! One does it for the pleasure alone.
Needless to say, the rag rug isn't quite finished. There is one more patch of 'sky' to tackle, merely two or three hours' effort needed. But I have run out of time. I will have to take it away with me on holiday. It may however not be so easy to find the two or three hours needed. If the weather is good, I will be out and about. I don't as a rule just sit in the caravan twiddling my thumbs, stumped for something to do. There is always something to do.
It's now clear to me what is involved in making a rag rug, which is really a pretty humble type of craft, involving a time commitment but no especial manual skills. In round figures, this is how my rug has worked out.
Ignoring the cost of the special tools, I spent £84 on hessian, cotton fabric in various colours, and strong linen thread. This, to produce a rug measuring 100 cm x 60 cm. An awful lot of fabric was needed. I used up 10.5 metres of cotton altogether, cut up into nearly 4,000 strips which were woven into the hessian base. It has taken me 11 days to (very nearly) complete the rug, working on and off.
I am sure that this first rag rug, though a success, and certainly attractive, is not up to any kind of commercial standard. When it's done, I will of course reveal some pictures, but I think anybody who sees them will appreciate what I mean. It's not a rug one would pay much to buy, even though those friends of mine who have seen it say that it's impressive for a first attempt. Whether or not that's true, it is for me an unexpected personal achievement, one that spurs me on to try something harder.
Supposing however I had produced a rug of obvious commercial quality, one I could offer for sale. What then would one charge, to be at least sure of covering costs and making a profit equal to the 'living wage' of £9 an hour proposed for 2020? In this case, it would be 65 hours @ £9.00 = £585, plus the cost of materials £84, making a total of £669. Well, I'm pretty certain that the very best rag rug imaginable would never command such a price. Not unless it was made by an established figure in the art and craft world, as a unique one-off.
No, there is clearly no money in rug-making! One does it for the pleasure alone.
Sunday, 13 March 2016
Rug rag progress
Having made a good start on Saturday 5th March, I am now beginning my eighth day on the rag rug. I've found it an absorbing pastime, and it's exciting to see the thing come to life. I have surprised myself with my dedication to the task. I've usually been putting in six hours a day, on and off. Say forty hours so far. It's more than two-thirds complete. I very much want to finish the rug by the morning of Wednesday 16th March. Bar hand-sewing a backing on, that is. I could do that in the caravan, once I'm up on the Cotswolds.
The hours spent on the rug have pushed some other activities aside, of course. Hence the lack of blog posts (although I'm catching-up somewhat today). In fact I need a few more days yet to get the rug complete, because temporarily I won't be able to devote so much time to it. There is a competing priority: the caravan must come out of its winter hibernation, and be set up for my trip late next week.
Here's a couple of teaser shots, showing finished sections of the rug. I still think it will be hard to guess what the design is meant to be, but the texture and colours are very pleasing. I'm sure my very first rag rug will be a success - and spur me on to do another.
The hours spent on the rug have pushed some other activities aside, of course. Hence the lack of blog posts (although I'm catching-up somewhat today). In fact I need a few more days yet to get the rug complete, because temporarily I won't be able to devote so much time to it. There is a competing priority: the caravan must come out of its winter hibernation, and be set up for my trip late next week.
Here's a couple of teaser shots, showing finished sections of the rug. I still think it will be hard to guess what the design is meant to be, but the texture and colours are very pleasing. I'm sure my very first rag rug will be a success - and spur me on to do another.
It needs to be worn all the time
On 6th February I bought a silver bracelet to match the beloved necklace I most often wear when out and about. There was a post about it on the 28th February. It's a very nice piece of silver jewellery - as it should be, considering its £199 price tag. But there was a snag that stopped me wearing it for a couple of weeks.
Let me explain a bit. Historically I wore a wristwatch for decades. While I was working, it ruled my life. I resented that. In 2009, four years after retiring, I did however invest in an upmarket Tag Heuer watch, not so much to tell the time with, but to provide me with some attractive wrist-decoration. One year later I bought a heavy silver hinged bracelet for the other wrist. Well, one day I decided that I needed less bling, and the watch was put away. I continued with the hinged bracelet, because I really liked it. I wore it whenever I went out, but not around the house.
When the hinged bracelet finally needed repair last year - the spring in the hinge had weakened too much, and needed replacement - that too was put away, and for a while - over a year - I went completely bare-wristed. That state of affairs was never going to last. I was ready to buy something else. And, just over a month ago, I saw the bracelet that this post is about, and bought it with no hesitation whatever. Truly it had my name on it.
Now what was the snag? Well, the hinged bracelet had got me used to taking it off indoors, or when washing myself, and in any case at night. It was so very easy to slip on and off. I took it for granted that I'd be able to do the same with the new bracelet. But it wasn't nearly so easy. The new bracelet was fastened with a hook, and getting it unhooked to take off, and hooked up again when I wanted to put it back on, were not simple operations. At least, not simple when doing it one-handed! Straightforward enough if someone was able to do it for me, of course, but then I do not keep a personal attendant just for such things.
As I was stuck in a mindset that required frequent taking-off and putting-on, I found the new bracelet a pain, and stopped wearing it. Not without regret, I can tell you. But with me convenience rules, and it now seemed that I'd bought an attractive and flattering, but most inconvenient, piece of jewellery.
Friends would ask me excitedly, 'Oh, you aren't wearing your new bracelet! Where is it?' and I'd have to say, 'Why, I must have forgotten to put it on!' or 'I decided not to wear it today!' or (closer to the truth) 'I didn't have time to put it on before coming out!' All of them rather lame excuses, of course. Then two days ago Jo popped round with her Mum, and noticed the bare wrist, and, sensing there was some issue I was reluctant to admit to, asked me about the bracelet, and what exactly was wrong with it. I didn't mind telling all to her. I explained how it was such a mission to take on and off during the day, with such an awkward fastening. She put her finger straight away on the essential issue. 'Why do you need to keep removing it? Couldn't you wear it all the time?'
Indeed why not? I mean, I always wore my silver rings; never took them off. This bracelet, once fastened, was in no danger of undoing itself and getting lost. It was very robust. And like the rings, it wouldn't discolour or tarnish if worn 24/7. (I am one of those fortunate people with the kind of skin that makes their silver shinier than ever) So I asked Jo to put the bracelet on for me, taking care to get the hook facing the right way, so that it was least likely to snag any woollens worn. We tried it first on my right wrist, but she thought my left wrist was best.
And somehow, with the decision made for me to leave it on my left wrist permanently, all with another woman's input and approval, I felt quite different about the bracelet. As happy as when buying it. Without reservation. I was sad that I'd bought a 'failed bracelet' - and indeed had made an expensive mistake - but it's 'failed' no longer.
There you are, suitable for any occasion! Thanks, Jo!
Let me explain a bit. Historically I wore a wristwatch for decades. While I was working, it ruled my life. I resented that. In 2009, four years after retiring, I did however invest in an upmarket Tag Heuer watch, not so much to tell the time with, but to provide me with some attractive wrist-decoration. One year later I bought a heavy silver hinged bracelet for the other wrist. Well, one day I decided that I needed less bling, and the watch was put away. I continued with the hinged bracelet, because I really liked it. I wore it whenever I went out, but not around the house.
When the hinged bracelet finally needed repair last year - the spring in the hinge had weakened too much, and needed replacement - that too was put away, and for a while - over a year - I went completely bare-wristed. That state of affairs was never going to last. I was ready to buy something else. And, just over a month ago, I saw the bracelet that this post is about, and bought it with no hesitation whatever. Truly it had my name on it.
Now what was the snag? Well, the hinged bracelet had got me used to taking it off indoors, or when washing myself, and in any case at night. It was so very easy to slip on and off. I took it for granted that I'd be able to do the same with the new bracelet. But it wasn't nearly so easy. The new bracelet was fastened with a hook, and getting it unhooked to take off, and hooked up again when I wanted to put it back on, were not simple operations. At least, not simple when doing it one-handed! Straightforward enough if someone was able to do it for me, of course, but then I do not keep a personal attendant just for such things.
As I was stuck in a mindset that required frequent taking-off and putting-on, I found the new bracelet a pain, and stopped wearing it. Not without regret, I can tell you. But with me convenience rules, and it now seemed that I'd bought an attractive and flattering, but most inconvenient, piece of jewellery.
Friends would ask me excitedly, 'Oh, you aren't wearing your new bracelet! Where is it?' and I'd have to say, 'Why, I must have forgotten to put it on!' or 'I decided not to wear it today!' or (closer to the truth) 'I didn't have time to put it on before coming out!' All of them rather lame excuses, of course. Then two days ago Jo popped round with her Mum, and noticed the bare wrist, and, sensing there was some issue I was reluctant to admit to, asked me about the bracelet, and what exactly was wrong with it. I didn't mind telling all to her. I explained how it was such a mission to take on and off during the day, with such an awkward fastening. She put her finger straight away on the essential issue. 'Why do you need to keep removing it? Couldn't you wear it all the time?'
Indeed why not? I mean, I always wore my silver rings; never took them off. This bracelet, once fastened, was in no danger of undoing itself and getting lost. It was very robust. And like the rings, it wouldn't discolour or tarnish if worn 24/7. (I am one of those fortunate people with the kind of skin that makes their silver shinier than ever) So I asked Jo to put the bracelet on for me, taking care to get the hook facing the right way, so that it was least likely to snag any woollens worn. We tried it first on my right wrist, but she thought my left wrist was best.
And somehow, with the decision made for me to leave it on my left wrist permanently, all with another woman's input and approval, I felt quite different about the bracelet. As happy as when buying it. Without reservation. I was sad that I'd bought a 'failed bracelet' - and indeed had made an expensive mistake - but it's 'failed' no longer.
There you are, suitable for any occasion! Thanks, Jo!
It was gout
The toe pain has greatly eased, and now amounts to no more than a occasional short-lived 'burning' sensation that comes on unpredictably - I wouldn't call it 'pain' as such: it just feels uncomfortable. I can walk about in normal shoes, although I haven't yet stayed on my feet for any great length of time - I don't want to push my luck! The toe itself still looks slightly larger than it used to, but it isn't rubbing up against another toe in a way certain to cause a blister, and the redness has faded.
I had a blood test on the 1st March, and went back to the doctor to discuss the results on the 10th. The various general results for my blood indicated normality, but the uric acid level was just above the normal range, and it seemed pretty conclusive that I'd experienced a mild attack of gout.
I wasn't given any ongoing medication, but the doctor printed out a lot of advice for me to follow. She thought that some changes to my diet would probably do the trick, changes that would not be difficult for me to make. These were all in the direction of eating less rich or spicy food, and above all getting some weight off. Nothing was absolutely banned: but I should ration myself where meat is concerned, particularly red meat, and especially tasty things like liver and kidneys; and it looks as if lobster is off the menu for the foreseeable future! (Not that I've tasted lobster for donkeys years) Drinkwise the big no-no is beer and lager, but then that's something I never drink, except maybe one bottle of Cobra or Kingfisher lager when eating out at an Indian restaurant, which is not a frequent event. Contrary to expectations, wine in moderation is fine.
The printed advice goes into it all, and I intend to take heed. I've no doubt that this is the push I needed to really get down to the business of losing weight gradually and permanently. So for the future it'll be smaller portions (on smaller dinner plates perhaps?) and simpler food with more of a fish and egg content. I've always piled on plenty of vegetables. I certainly don't mind going even more veggie.
Out of curiosity, I delved into the photo archives to see what I might have been eating in the week before gout struck on the 8th February. I didn't photograph every meal, but these breakfast, lunch and evening meal shots are completely typical of my food intake a month ago:
Meatwise I see chicken slices, lamb chops, bacon, roast beef and a sirloin steak. Fishwise I see sea bass, salmon and tuna. There's scrambled egg. There's Yorkshire pudding. There's mushrooms, red and green peppers, lettuce, olives, broccoli, new potatoes, roast potatoes, baked potatoes, carrots, swede, cauliflower and asparagus.
Not seen in those pictures, but often eaten, are green beans, courgettes, and pasta. Also the daily staples, that include restrained quantities of toast, crackers, butter, cheddar cheese, marmalade, dried apricots and muesli. Throughout the day, I drink tap water, tea, coffee, and large amounts of cold milk. During the average week I will also get through half a dozen low-fat fruit yoghurts, six apples, six KitKats, and six glasses of wine when out with friends.
I consume very, very few 'ready meals' or 'convenience meals' - they are consistently disappointing, compared with my own cooking. I don't have sweets, cakes or biscuits in the house, except those KitKats. And I don't drink fizzy, sugary drinks.
On the whole, I don't think I was eating unwisely in the run-up to that gout attack, but it was a food and drink intake that would keep my weight high. It looks as if that high weight has been affecting the efficiency of my kidneys, and as I read it, a slimmer Lucy Melford will be a gout-free Lucy Melford. Well, it would be nice to banish the bulges and flaunt some firm flat flesh this summer!
I had a blood test on the 1st March, and went back to the doctor to discuss the results on the 10th. The various general results for my blood indicated normality, but the uric acid level was just above the normal range, and it seemed pretty conclusive that I'd experienced a mild attack of gout.
I wasn't given any ongoing medication, but the doctor printed out a lot of advice for me to follow. She thought that some changes to my diet would probably do the trick, changes that would not be difficult for me to make. These were all in the direction of eating less rich or spicy food, and above all getting some weight off. Nothing was absolutely banned: but I should ration myself where meat is concerned, particularly red meat, and especially tasty things like liver and kidneys; and it looks as if lobster is off the menu for the foreseeable future! (Not that I've tasted lobster for donkeys years) Drinkwise the big no-no is beer and lager, but then that's something I never drink, except maybe one bottle of Cobra or Kingfisher lager when eating out at an Indian restaurant, which is not a frequent event. Contrary to expectations, wine in moderation is fine.
The printed advice goes into it all, and I intend to take heed. I've no doubt that this is the push I needed to really get down to the business of losing weight gradually and permanently. So for the future it'll be smaller portions (on smaller dinner plates perhaps?) and simpler food with more of a fish and egg content. I've always piled on plenty of vegetables. I certainly don't mind going even more veggie.
Out of curiosity, I delved into the photo archives to see what I might have been eating in the week before gout struck on the 8th February. I didn't photograph every meal, but these breakfast, lunch and evening meal shots are completely typical of my food intake a month ago:
Meatwise I see chicken slices, lamb chops, bacon, roast beef and a sirloin steak. Fishwise I see sea bass, salmon and tuna. There's scrambled egg. There's Yorkshire pudding. There's mushrooms, red and green peppers, lettuce, olives, broccoli, new potatoes, roast potatoes, baked potatoes, carrots, swede, cauliflower and asparagus.
Not seen in those pictures, but often eaten, are green beans, courgettes, and pasta. Also the daily staples, that include restrained quantities of toast, crackers, butter, cheddar cheese, marmalade, dried apricots and muesli. Throughout the day, I drink tap water, tea, coffee, and large amounts of cold milk. During the average week I will also get through half a dozen low-fat fruit yoghurts, six apples, six KitKats, and six glasses of wine when out with friends.
I consume very, very few 'ready meals' or 'convenience meals' - they are consistently disappointing, compared with my own cooking. I don't have sweets, cakes or biscuits in the house, except those KitKats. And I don't drink fizzy, sugary drinks.
On the whole, I don't think I was eating unwisely in the run-up to that gout attack, but it was a food and drink intake that would keep my weight high. It looks as if that high weight has been affecting the efficiency of my kidneys, and as I read it, a slimmer Lucy Melford will be a gout-free Lucy Melford. Well, it would be nice to banish the bulges and flaunt some firm flat flesh this summer!
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