Tag: nostalgia

As it Appens

 

 

Back-to-school time once again and with it comes a sudden, distinct briskness in the air, a certain desire to buy new markers and discussions with The General about how education has changed on our daily walks.

I read lately that this current generation of parents, right now, will very likely be the last to wax nostalgic about genuine, hard cover books as opposed to interactive ebooks and ipad versions. This is not to say that they will eschew the technology for their own children of course but rather, be the last to sentimentally recall reading an actual picture book – exclusively – whilst propped up in someone’s lap. There are plenty of arguments for and against ebooks vs books and redundant to list them here (and unless you have been living in a sealed cave you will have seen the Stephen Fry meme noting that “Books are no more threatened by Kindle, than stairs by elevators”) but what strikes me, is that we often don’t acknowledge that the reason that we were so wholesomely amused in The Good Old Days was because nothing else was available.

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Make Mine a Troll

 

Anyone who knows me well has heard about my devotion to “Trolls” (aka “Gonks” in the UK) the popular, hi-liter haired dolls that were very popular in the sixties. While other girls were collecting the newest Barbie, it’s probably quite telling in some weird psychological way that I was never impressed or even remotely interested in regular dolls and instead much preferred my growing tribe of Trolls. Each one had a different hair colour, including two with striking, snow-white tresses whom I presumed to be elderly and accordingly named Martha and Frank. I saved diligently to increase my collection whenever possible and expanded to include the tiny Trolls sold as pencil toppers or key-chain danglers although their hair was never the same caliber as the larger ones and would routinely tear off in one piece, like a bright conical flame with a stiff headband of adhesive.

This was always a sad moment because a bald Troll is suddenly a bit too close to a perverted uncle for anyone’s liking.

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The Importance of Being Idle

 

I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept.

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In Youth is Pleasure

The door has just slapped shut behind me and already I am shouting the news of my latest find, toeing off my shoes and undoing the paper parcel I’ve been carrying under my arm. My final sentence, delivered in breathless excitement is the price – only forty-five pence! My father however, looks up from his paper with the critical eye of a perfectionist and wants to know more before he will commit to an enthusiastic response: “Let’s have a look at that seam.”

It’s true. There is a thick, ugly smear of amber coloured resin which bisects the young girl and her cloak. It’s also tricky to guess what the original colour of the statue would be, since the overall effect is an oily grime and my hands still feel mealy just from handling her in the shop. The antique store owner, a Mr. Corrin, is a friend of mine if that is what you call the relationship between a fourteen year old girl and a 76 year old respectively. Mr.Corrin is tall, stately and wears a never ending series of silky cravats. His thick, wavy white hair is always combed straight back and he has recently confided to my mother (over a cup of tea in the shop, served in vintage china cups) that it was refreshing to see such a girl as myself, always polite, well spoken and genuinely interested in antiques. “Not like some of them around here,” he intoned darkly, patting his hair in place with an exaggerated shudder.

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