And so the recriminations start...
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters has posted on Facebook a charming photo album of our family growing up over the last forty plus
years. Everyone agrees that these family memories definitely have the "Awww!" factor.
There are, however, a number of comments about the clothes my Foursome were "forced" to wear in those Far-Off Days and
even the occasional sly dig at my curtains. All I can say is that, back in the Seventies - and allowing for shortage of money - my children wbere considered Very Well Turned Out. I'm not so sure about the curtains.
What the photos don't focus on, for example, are everyone's shoes. It was my proud objective that my children would always wear "good" shoes, for which their tender feet would be carefully measured in the local Clarks' shop - which went by the name
of the Golden Boot. It's not surprising that the owner named the store thus, as it must have been a veritable gold-mine. Still is, apparently.
Once bought, our children's shoes were well looked after by their
father Mr B (no, not the shoes' father, the children's father. Sometimes I think you misunderstand on purpose...) Each and every evening, he would produce shoe polish and brushes and shine those shoes within an inch of their lives. No child ever wore shinier
shoes than our Foursome.
Several of the comments centre on the issue of Hand-Me-Downs. The Youngest of the Darling Daughters, third of three sisters, drew the short straw here. It is particularly noticeable
in seaside holiday photos where each summer she is pictured in yet another Hand-Me-Down swimming costume which has starred in earlier holiday snaps, sported by first the Eldest and then the Middle Sister. Her brother says he can trump that - he was wearing
hand-me-down Silver Jubilee tee-shirts well into the Eighties.
My dear Mum, when looking through her box of old black and white photographs, could always remember the colour of the dresses my sister and I
were wearing. As a result I know that in one of the first ever photos of me, aged about a year old, I was wearing a frock knitted in green mohair with a white mohair trim. It sounds terribly, well, itchy, even at a distance of ever so many years. My Mum made
lots of our clothes, specialising in smocked bodices and full skirts, with occasional nods to Heidi as portrayed in one of my favourite childhood books.
I turn my attention to my Task For The Day, which is
to summarise the interview I recorded recently for my Military Voices Project. The laptop is on, the disc inserted into the appropriate tray, the headphones are clamped to my head. Not a sound. I flip the disc out and then slam it in again. I turn the laptop
off, then re-boot it. Nothing doing. I am already overdue on completing my summary, how dare the computer let me down! Mr B watches me getting increasingly rattled and suggests I must have done something wrong. Steam emerges from my ears. Figuratively speaking.
Which is when it suddenly dawns on me that, while the headphones are definitely still clamped to my ears, I haven't plugged the lead into the computer....
sorted?" Mr B enquires solicitously, on hearing me tapping away frantically as I attempt to make up for lost time.
I feel honour-bound to confess. At least it will be a cause for amusement.
Rather like those Seventies clothes. Not to mention the curtains...