The writer of the tweet received mountains of Twitter support and the story was reported in The Guardian last Saturday.
The Nova Healthcare website makes for interesting reading.
You might like the description of the facilities provided by Nova Healthcare on the fourth floor of the Bexley Wing of St James’s Hospital in Leeds. I thought St James’s hospital was 100% part of our NHS but it’s not so simple.
The cover of the CQC report asks: Who runs this service.
The answer given is HTI St James’s Ltd.
A quick search of the Companies House website indicates that three of the seven active officers of the HTI St James’s company are all based in Alpharetta, Georgia USA. That seems a long way from Leeds!
If you like reading balance sheets you can read the most recent accounts for Nova Healthcare up to December 2015 here.
On page 7, the CQC Report helpfully explains that Nova Healthcare is “part of Aspen Healthcare which became shareholders in 2015.”
It’s been said somewhere that we take our NHS for granted until we need it and it’s only then that we start to realise what’s going on. Well, in recent weeks, my eyes have been well and truly opened to the extent of the privatisation of our NHS!
If you’re a Twitter user and a supporter of our NHS, you might like to follow @NHSMillion.
I went along to our local NHS hospital on 25th July to commence the second cycle of my chemotherapy.
The side effects from cycle one weren’t too bad apart from a massive lack of energy and considerable feelings of fatigue. But I was lucky in that I missed the vomiting and diarrhoea that makes chemotherapy so difficult for some patients.
A nurse checked my weight and blood pressure and I was getting ready for another round of prickly bottoms and an ice cold arm when the ward sister came to say that the oncologist wanted to speak to me before chemotherapy commenced.
The oncologist explained that the results of a biopsy on my primary cancer had revealed a “wild” Kras gene which meant that I could receive a targeted antibody therapy as well as the chemotherapy. The chemotherapy drugs would have to be changed to drugs that worked with this antibody drug but overall it would be a more effective treatment. It’s a treatment that’s specifically designed for advanced, metastasised, colorectal cancer to reduce the cancer and extend life. This is certainly an exciting development and I’ve an appointment to commence the new treatment next week.
The drugs are to be administered via a Hickman line aka a tunnelled central line. I never watch hospital dramas on TV and, being of a squeamish, wimpy nature, I usually close my eyes if any surgical stuff comes up in documentaries. But I thought I needed to know what the procedure entailed and found this to be the best explanation on Youtube.
The irony of this most helpful animation being produced by BUPA isn’t lost on me!
Once the Hickman line is in place it stays in until the end of the treatment. I shall be going for treatment in two-weekly cycles for twelve cycles. Day 1 of the treatment is as an out-patient of the chemotherapy department and I’ll be sent home with a pump attached to the Hickman line which will continue to deliver the drugs for a further 48 hours. A district nurse will come to the house to disconnect the pump and then it’s pick-and-mix time from an extraordinary array of potential side-effects. These include a skin infection that makes teenage acne look decorative. However, as the helpful Macmillan leaflets emphasise, no-one gets all the side effects and some people don’t get any side-effects at all apart from the fatigue and lack of energy which appears to be non-negotiable.
I’ll let you know how things develop and thanks, as always, for the messages of support.
Our National Health Service was 69 years old on July 5th.
I missed the occasion on social media as I was occupied with other health matters. July 5th was the first of my fourteen days of chemotherapy tablets. But catching up later, there were some lovely and well deserved tributes to our NHS on Facebook, Twitter and various websites.
My first encounter with our NHS was at birth.
When I was a baby my dad’s special name for me was “Workus” because he always said that I’d been born in Barnsley workhouse. In a way this was true because the maternity hospital where I was born was situated in the infirmary building of the old workhouse. By the early 1950s the infirmary and other workhouse buildings had become part of the NHS. Fortunately, the nick-name didn’t stick!
Over the next few years I had the usual childhood ailments and visits to the doctor. Measles was common in the 1950s and I had it quite badly in early childhood. Polio and diptheria were still rampant and cases of polio could climb as high as 8000 in epidemic years, with cases of diphtheria as high as 70000 resulting in 5000 deaths. Fortunately in 1958 our NHS introduced polio and diphtheria vaccines from which I and thousands of other children benefited.
I also had persistent tonsillitis and in 1957 went into hospital to have my tonsils and adenoids removed.
Children in hospital were usually treated alongside adults. Child patients were only allowed to see their parents for an hour on Saturdays and Sundays and there were few attempts to explain to them why they were there or what was going to happen. That was certainly my experience when I went to hospital for the tonsillectomy. Fortunately paediatricians Sir James Spence in Newcastle and Alan Moncriff at Great Ormond Street began to take steps to change this. They showed that separation from parents was traumatic for children and, as a result, daily visiting was introduced. Dedicated children’s wards were introduced too and by the mid Sixties when my younger sister went for her tonsils out, the arrangements were much more as we’d expect to see today.
I gradually forgot about my childhood hospital experience and didn’t need to stay in hospital again until 1983.
However, in 1960 I became a recipient of one of the worst NHS offers of all time.
Not that there’s anything wrong with ensuring that all children have their eyesight checked regularly and providing glasses if necessary.
But the horrible, little, round, wire frames covered in flesh-coloured plastic with flexi-wire hooks round the ears were awful. The specs may well have improved vision but who wanted to wear them?
“Specky Four Eyes!” was an oft repeated playground chant and a favourite playground game was to chase the specs-wearer with a view to snatching the glasses and running off with them. Surreptitious pointing at the specs-wearer in the classroom and making circles with fingers round eyes when the teacher wasn’t looking ensured that the new specs were quickly discarded.
In addition to being a massive design failure the NHS specs were indestructible. Twisting the ear hooks just made them lop-sided; the screws holding the specs together were irremovable; thrown out of the bedroom window they merely bounced; and two bricks piled on top of them had no effect whatsoever. Fortunately, secondary school brought the present of a leather satchel from my grandparents: ideal for hiding the offending specs from the start of the school day to the end. Eventually I progressed to some more sophisticated frames with Edna Everidge wings and later on in the Sixties some super-cool black frames.
One of my favourite books is “The Britain I Want” by E. Shinwell MP.
The book was written in 1943 and it’s a fascinating indication of the Labour Party’s emerging plans for post-WW2 reconstruction and transformation. I’ve read “The Britain I Want” several times over the years and never fail to find some new insights within its pages. I always like this quote Shinwell made from the Beveridge Report:
“Restoration of a sick person to health is a duty of the State and prior to any other consideration.”
And this example of Shinwell’s own words still resonate today:
“There is nowadays a great awakening of the national conscience to an awareness of the social and economic horrors of the past. A fire has been lit that in its cleansing power will turn the minds of all right-minded men and women away from the filth, gross injustice and sheer inhumanity of the unthinking past, and give to social security the driving power and inspiration of a living gospel. In this conception there is no room for compromise and the hypocritical shufflings of half measures, no temporising with the grim monster of want, and no countenancing of moral and governmental cowardice.”
Of course, the book is no longer in print but second-hand copies appear in on-line bookshops from time to time. My copy was originally owned by Mr William P. Inglis who lived at 17, Partickhill Road, London, W1 according to the inscription in the flyleaf. The book is hard-back and still has its original dust-jacket. A real treasure!
My parents brought me up on tales of the Means Test and life before the welfare state.
My political education started early and I understood from a young age that political choices determine the nature of the society in which we live. It’s interesting to look back at the ups and downs of our NHS matched against the political orientation of the government of the day.
My recent experience of our NHS has been of the very best. I’ve gone from a referral by my GP for an ultra-sound scan to completing my first three-week cycle of chemotherapy in just eleven weeks.
As I explained in Don’t Leave It Too Late, I was feeling perfectly healthy on May 5th and had a cancer diagnosis by June 19th. In addition to the ultra-sound scan I’ve had X-rays; a CT scan; a PET scan; an ambulance journey between hospitals; talks with five different consultants; a colonoscopy and an endoscopy; several hours in A&E; and countless blood tests. That was all within 33 days and I’ve spent the last three weeks having my first cycle of chemotherapy. In addition to the Prickly Bottom, I’ve had eight chemotherapy tablets at home each day for fourteen days followed by seven rest days to allow my body time to recover and prepare for the next cycle.
I don’t know what the outcome of the treatment will be as the primary cancer has spread to other parts of my body. But this I do know:
the treatment I’ve received from our NHS has been exemplary
and nothing more could have been done to expedite my diagnosis and get me into treatment as quickly as possible.
And along the way I’ve met the most fantastic people. Whatever their role and responsibilities, I’ve experienced nothing but the highest professionalism, kindness and consideration from the doctors, nurses, technicians and support services staff that I’ve encountered in our NHS.
Our NHS is amazing and it’s because of the wonderful staff who give it their all.
Of course, the strain our NHS is under is clearly visible. I’ve experienced trolley queues in A&E; delays to appointments; and worryingly long waiting times for appointments for scans. The reason my progress through the system has been so rapid is because I’ve been offered last minute cancellations for scans and consultations when other patients were unable to attend and I was able to change my plans and take whatever appointment was offered.
I’ve also observed patients waiting too long for attention from staff while the same staff are rushed off their feet trying to attend to everyone’s needs. And an agency nurse taking charge of a ward for the night shift having never been on the ward before. And the bed system blocked because a specialist bed needed cleaning and there was a lack of staff to undertake the work. Consequently two patients couldn’t be moved into other beds and I was admitted to mine at midnight.
I’m not complaining. I’m very grateful to have been diagnosed and moved into treatment so rapidly. But the effect of insufficient staff and insufficient capacity for the increasing demand is there for all to see. And it’s not as if the increasing elderly population has occurred as a surprise. My generation wasn’t labelled the baby-boomers for nothing!
And then there’s the creeping privatisation;
I knew that many functions of our NHS have been out-sourced and privatised but I hadn’t realised the extent until my recent hospital visits. Here’s just one example:
One of the consultants referred me for a PET scan. Positron emission tomography (PET) scans are used to produce detailed three-dimensional images of the inside of the body. The scan uses radio-active tracers in a special dye which is injected into a vein and absorbed into the body. The resulting images show if there are any cancer cells and where in the body they’re lurking.
In January 2015, a company called Alliance Medical won a ten-year NHS contract to provide PET scanning services across 30 locations in England. You can read Alliance Medical’s announcement of their new contract here. The contract NHS England gave to Alliance Medical wasn’t universally appreciated as this report in The Stoke Sentinel demonstrates.
I duly turned up for my PET scan which was undertaken in an Alliance Medical unit situated within our large regional hospital. Subsequently I googled Alliance Medical and discovered some additional information to that outlined above. On the Companies House website, Alliance Medical’s Annual Report and Financial Statement for 2016 show that the company is doing very nicely. On page 3 the report says that “The improved business performance during the year is as a result of the PET contract won by the Company at the end of 2015.” The company profit for the year amounted to £42.7 million and dividends were paid amounting to £105.5 million. In November 2016 Alliance Medical was sold to Life UK Healthcare for a reported $727 million.
We’ve gone a long way down the privatisation road since the Thatcher government introduced the contracting out of cleaning, laundry and catering services. Public money for private profit has always seemed wrong to me but my recent experiences have made me realise it’s gone way further than I ever imagined.
the asset stripping;
Do you know about the Naylor Report which the present government accepted prior to the recent General Election. That’s the report which advocates selling off to developers land owned by our NHS which is supposedly surplus to requirements. Valued between £1.8 and £2.7 billion the Naylor Report devotes a whole chapter to how our NHS could be encouraged and incentivised to flog off the estate because apparently there is reluctance in many areas to join in the sale of the century.
Are you familiar with the NHS Sustainability and Transformation Plan for your area? Do you remember voting for it? No, me neither! But whatever your local health authority is planning for your area is in its STP ( if you can find it and make any sense of it!)
And meanwhile the big corporates like Capita are queuing up to lend a helping hand.
The King’s Fund, together with the Health Foundation, have reported that the NHS surplus estate, which is immediately saleable, could be worth as much as £700 million. Department of Health data suggests more than 900 football pitches-worth of land owned by the NHS could also be surplus to requirements; the Surplus Land programme will seek to mobilise disposal and ensure capital receipts are realised for the health economy. There is clearly a need and an opportunity to reduce the existing estate, to release capacity for additional housing and complementary care facilities, but it needs to be done without adversely impacting services or patients.
You might like to check out the We Own It website and join their campaign to halt the privatisation of NHS Professionals, the in-house employment agency which saves our NHS millions of pounds each year.
and the ludicrous friends and family test.
Whoever was the idiot who thought up the friends and family test? I first came across it about a year ago when our GP’s surgery was going through an inspection. The practice nurse gave us an A5 postcard with the question “How likely are you to recommend our service to friends and family if they needed similar care or treatment?” The answer was a ranking from “extremely likely” to “extremely unlikely”. We filled the form in and added a comment thinking this was part of the inspection process as the nurse said it would be helpful to the surgery if the survey was completed.
Fair enough; not a very good way to construct a survey with a self-selecting set of respondents and such a subjective criteria but the sort of thing you expect from an inspection regime.
Except that the friends and family test isn’t just used during an inspection. Subsequently I’ve noticed the cards are available all the time at the GP’s surgery with a request to complete them on every visit. I’ve just looked up my current GP’s surgery and there is one – yes, one – rating. And the surgery we were attending during their inspection, despite their efforts to promote the survey, has 8 ratings.
However, it doesn’t stop there because hospital departments also use the survey and pursue responses with much greater diligence than the surgeries. In addition to the A5 card I’ve seen patients preparing for discharge from the ward presented with an iPad and asked to complete the survey on-line. Great! You’re about to go home after major surgery and you get that to contend with. The worst example was the telephone call I received the day after I’d met the consultant and received my cancer diagnosis. I recognised the telephone code and first numbers as a call from the hospital. My heart leapt! They’ve made a mistake I thought and are ringing to tell me it’s all been a bad dream. No, it was an automated message asking me to complete the friends and family survey. I slammed the phone down with some choice words only to hear the phone ringing again with the same request for an answer to the survey question. Tactless and insensitive, or what? An administrator hands out the A5 card in the chemotherapy unit. Would you recommend our service to your family and friends? Yes, of course I would if they needed it. You’re doing a great job. But right at this minute, I just want to go home.
This is not the way to collect information about the effectiveness of our NHS. This really is bureaucracy gone mad. The survey can’t possibly provide accurate or useful data. It’s just a tick box exercise that generates some numbers that can only be worthless. It’s a cheap and crude tool that does no good to anyone important i.e the patients or the staff. I don’t blame the admin staff: they’re only doing the work they’ve been given by management. But management at the highest level should re-think this one and in my opinion, scrap it.
I’m grateful to my dad and both my sets of grandparents for voting Labour in 1945 to get our NHS started.
(My mum wasn’t old enough to vote in 1945 as she wasn’t twenty one, the voting age at the time. But if she’d been able she would have voted for Labour’s NHS too.)
Huffington Post published a good blogpost on July 5th with five mind-blowing facts about our NHS. I’m sure there are some aspects of our NHS that past generations wouldn’t recognise. But the core principle that our NHS is a public, not-for-profit service free to all when needed remains the same to this day. And hopefully enough people in NHS campaigning and support groups, the Labour Party and the voting public will keep up the pressure on the government to keep it that way.
A belated Happy 69th Birthday to our NHS and I hope I’m still here next year to celebrate the 70th anniversary. Meanwhile here’s a clip from the 2012 Olympics tribute to our wonderful NHS.
Thanks for reading my blog today.
And thanks for the blog comments, Twitter messages and emails offering me support and encouragement. I had my blood tests this morning and am expecting to start my second cycle of chemotherapy tomorrow. So, when you’re eating lunch I’ll probably be getting another prickly bottom!
A friendly, smiling receptionist checks me in. “Hello Catherine, and how are you feeling today? It’s your first time, isn’t it? I’ll go and see if they’re ready for you.”
I follow a nurse into the treatment room.
A blur of impressions.
Soft lighting through large windows looking over a shady garden.
Pale blue seats.
There are eight places and all but one is occupied.
“That’s your chair over there. Take a seat, we’ll be with you in a minute.”
The seats are close together with minimal privacy.
A woman in a woolly tea cosy hat smiles kindly.
A man’s eyes are closed as he listens to something on headphones.
The occupant of each seat is hooked up to an intravenous drip.
I move over to my designated place.
The man in the next chair is reading a motoring magazine. He’s still there when we leave four hours later. Still reading the same magazine.
A familiar face.
Six weeks ago I had a few emergency days in hospital. A woman was admitted into the ward for urgent treatment. She told me she was to start chemotherapy the following week. Earlier that same day she’d been to choose a wig. We recognise each other and exchange a few words. Her hair looks nice.
I look for somewhere to put my bag and sit down. After a couple of minutes a nurse introduces herself and sits in front of me.
“We just need to check your details. Do you prefer to be called Catherine? Please confirm your surname and date of birth.”
Yes, I do prefer Catherine. Since I started this journey I’ve reverted to the name I was given at my christening, a name I abandoned when I was about thirteen. As a teenager I was Katie or Kate and since leaving college I’ve always been Cath or Cathy. I thought Catherine was too old fashioned, too long-winded and meaning “pure” it hardly fitted with the Swinging Sixties and summer lovin’ Seventies.
Funny how Kate Middleton has been re-branded as Princess Catherine.
The nurse fixes a cannula into my hand and starts checking the drugs.
I’m having one day of intravenous in hospital and fourteen days of tablets at home.
There seem to be rather a lot of tablets. I don’t usually do pills apart from the odd paracetamol. The nurses count out the tablets and replace them in the boxes. They load the IV bags onto the drip stand, checking and checking again.
Another nurse asks if anyone is with me. Michael is in the family and friends waiting room. She brings Michael into the treatment room and he sits down next to me. We hold hands.
My nurse is talking about potential side effects. We’ve been told about these at the pre-treatment interview. And we’ve read the leaflets and visited the website but it’s helpful to hear about them again.
The nurse reminds us that first I’m to have a drug to counteract nausea and vomiting. She starts the drip. After a few seconds she explains that for some patients this drug has a peculiar side effect. “Many patients say it feels like a prickly bottom.” There is a frisson in the room. Eyes are raised and the other patients are discreetly looking over. Clearly they know what the nurse is talking about. A few moments later so do I. Now I understand what a hedgehog must feel like every day! A drug induced smile covers my face and the strange sensation continues. Other patients smile and the moment passes.
Changing the IV bags, the nurse starts my treatment. The drug is Oxy-something-or-other. I struggle to remember its name. The bag has been in the fridge and my arm quickly starts to chill as the drug gets into my system. It’s going to take a couple of hours to administer. We try to read but can’t concentrate.
A couple of patients go as their treatment ends and others come to take their places. The woman I met previously leaves and we say goodbye with best wishes for the future. I wonder if our paths will cross again.
The hands of the clock on the wall opposite move erratically. A few minutes pass and then the hands stand still. Beeps from a drip announce another treatment is complete. And then my drip starts beeping and its time to disconnect and get ready to go home.
Thanks for reading my blog today even though you can’t share a prickly bottom! And for all the messages of support after I wrote Don’t leave it too late – many thanks too.
Readers are still leaving lovely reviews for Cabbage and Semolina and it’s very pleasing to know that so many people have enjoyed reading my book. There’s also a great review of Cabbage and Semolina on a blog called Georgia Rose Books. Georgia Rose is the author of The Grayson Trilogy, a romance thriller fusion and an enjoyable summer holiday read. I was delighted to read Georgia’s review of my book and am honoured to be included in her collection of books that she’s enjoyed reading.
At the end of Cabbage and Semolina I wrote:
Thank you for reading Cabbage and Semolina. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my memories whether you’re of the same generation as me or older or younger. And I hope I’ve inspired you to record and share some of your own memories too. Don’t leave it too late; you never know what’s round the corner.
And my experiences in the last couple of months have made that last sentence ring out loud and true. Today I’m not just talking about recording your memories. I mean don’t leave it too late for whatever it is in life that you want to experience or accomplish. You definitely don’t know what’s round the corner!
This morning I went for a pre-treatment assessment for chemotherapy. Two months ago I was a fit and healthy sixty-something year old. During the last eight weeks I’ve been in A&E at my local District hospital and spent a few days in the same hospital being scanned and tested before a transfer to the specialist regional hospital for more scans and more tests. And now I find myself back at the District hospital about to embark on twenty four weeks of chemotherapy.
This might be a shock for you to read and believe me it’s been a shock for me and my nearest and dearest to start to understand. I’ve received considerable support from the Macmillan nurses at the local hospital who’ve provided plenty of supportive booklets, a very informative website and lots of personalised advice. One thing I read was that some people are helped to live with cancer by writing about their experiences. One suggestion was to write a blog and as I’ve already got a blog and I enjoy blogpost writing I’m going to try that too. I’ll tell you more another day but meanwhile I need to get ready for tomorrow and get some new books onto my Kindle – it’s going to be a long day!
After my diagnosis someone asked me if I had a bucket list and I was pleased to say I didn’t. I haven’t got any burning desire to go bungee jumping, travel across the Sahara or learn how to shear a sheep. But if you have, then my advice is to get on with it! Don’t put it off and then find out that it’s too late to translate your great ambition into action: just go for it! (Cash or overdraft permitting, of course.) What do you think?
Of course, Downton Abbey doesn’t really exist. The TV series was filmed in part at Highclere Castle in Hampshire but the exterior of Highclere Castle has now become synonymous with Downton Abbey.
The same has happened with Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.
Castle Howard in Yorkshire and Brideshead are interchangeable to such an extent that the York Theatre Royal started their new season in 2016 with a stage adaptation of Brideshead Revisited solely because Castle Howard is nearby.
A less well known Evelyn Waugh adaptation is the 1988 film of A Handful of Dust.
This film used Carlton Towers in Yorkshire as the location for Hetton Abbey.
In the novel the house is a Victorian reconstruction in neo-Gothic which is the pride and joy of the main character, Tony Last.
Tony is a contented but shallow English country squire. He is betrayed by his wife and having seen his illusions shattered, seeks solace by joining an expedition to the Brazilian jungle. Here he becomes trapped in a remote outpost as the prisoner and plaything of an insane settler. Tony’s beloved home at Hetton Abbey / Carlton Towers becomes a distant memory.
We loved the BBC adaptation of Parade’s End by Ford Maddox Ford.
Around the time of the First World War, a love triangle develops between the old-fashioned Christopher Tietjens, his vindictive wife Sylvia and young women’s suffragist Valentine Wannop. As the war drags on, Christopher goes to fight in France and leaves behind Sylvia; a son who may or may not be his; and Valentine.
Christopher must ultimately decide with whom he will spend the remainder of his life: the beautiful yet manipulative Sylvia or the adoring Valentine.
Christopher is associated with the fictional Groby Hall in Cleveland. In the TV adaptation of Parade’s End the location for Groby Hall is the lovely Duncombe Park in Yorkshire.
I’ve no photo to show you of Melthorpe Hall in East Yorkshire, the home of Lady Isabella Fernshawe: just Tony Forward’s first impression when he went there to interview her Ladyship.
There, directly ahead of Forward, about a quarter of a mile distant, lay Melthorpe Hall. He instantly recognised it as Queen Anne. As he neared the house the open parkland gave way to formally laid out gardens. The gravel drive went over a stone bridge which separated two large and grandiose lakes. On either side of the bridge, in the centre of each lake, was a working fountain from which spumes of water cascaded.
After the bridge, Forward drove on between two large parterres until the road entered a square courtyard and ended in a turning circle at the front of the house.
Forward parked the BMW, got out and stared up in admiration at the imposing edifice built in grey stone. Then he climbed a set of steps and stood before the massive double doors. Immediately he heard bolts being shot back and both doors were opened by a tall, fair haired young man. His formal butler’s uniform of black jacket and grey, striped trousers was in ludicrous contrast to his youthfulness. He looked like a young boy at a society wedding.
Forward stepped into a vast vault of an entrance hall that was nearly two storeys high. Confronting him was a wide, wooden staircase. Forward followed the butler up this to the first landing. The butler then went left down a long gallery until he came to a set of double doors which he opened for Forward.
Forward found that he’d entered a magnificent library. It was an immensely long room and three of the walls were lined entirely with dark bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling. These were mostly crammed with antique books bound in various hues of brown, gold and green leather. One set of bookshelves had, however, been reserved for books of more recent publication. The floor was completely covered by a sumptuous Axminster carpet dominated by a design of huge circles and other, smaller, geometrical motifs in red and cream. Around the edges of the room were a number of antique tables on which stood either an elaborate flower arrangement or a vase of cut flowers. Forward glanced up at the ceiling and caught his breath. It was in gilded stucco and inset with circular paintings of Greek Gods.
“Detective Chief Inspector Forward of the East Yorkshire Police,” announced the butler.
Just like everyone else in the 1950s we had a radio that was encased in a large wooden box with a few dials on the front and a circle of fine lattice-work mesh over the speaker.
The dials were to tune the radio and the station choices were BBC, BBC and BBC: The Light Programme, The Home Service and the Third Programme.
In the afternoon we had “Listen with Mother” with Daphne Oxenford and the never to be forgotten “Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin”. We listened to “Children’s Hour” at tea-time featuring Larry the Lamb and Toytown.
And then “The News”.
On Sunday it was “Two Way Family Favourites” with record requests between people at home and their relatives abroad in the British Army. BFPO40 seemed a very popular address.
“Mrs Dale’s Diary” and “Woman’s Hour” were our mother’s favourites although our dad preferred the Third Programme which was more highbrow.
The radio was known as “The Wireless” even though you had to plug the wires into the electric socket in the wall. Quite often it crackled with interference and you had to turn it off.
If you tuned the dials away from the BBC sometimes you got a voice in an unknown language but usually it was just a high pitched wail.
If you have nostalgia towards the 1950s you’ll probably enjoy this websitewhere there are some of the best 1950s fashion images I’ve ever seen. The photos are by renowned photographer Norman Parkinson and you can see more of his work here.
Isabella was born in London in 1836. Her mother was widowed when Isabella was four years old and she lived with grandparents for a couple of years. Her mother re-married and her four daughters made a new family with Mr Henry Dorling, the clerk to the Epsom Racecourse, and his four children.
The newly weds had thirteen more children over the next twenty years and Isabella became an expert at household management through first hand experience.
As a young adult Isabella lived in Germany and became proficient in the German language and pastry making.
On her return to England, aged about eighteen, she continued to take lessons in pastry making from the local baker and became engaged to Samuel Beeton, a publisher.
The couple were married in 1855 and after a honeymoon in Paris settled into a new home together in Pinner.
In addition to several pregnancies and miscarriages, Isabella began to work with Samuel in his publishing business writing copy for his magazine ‘The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine’.
She began collecting recipes from readers and these and many recipes of her own were included in further magazines.
In the early 1860s her magazine articles were collected together into one large volume: ‘Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management’.
Despite the success of the book, the Beetons experienced considerable financial difficulties and had to sell up and re-locate from Pinner to Greenhithe in Kent.
Aged only twenty eight years and pregnant again, Isabella went into labour and died from puerperal fever.
Soon afterwards, Samuel sold the rights to ‘Household Management’ to another publisher by whom he was employed until his own death from TB in 1877.
I don’t know if my mum ever actually read Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. She worked as a library assistant so I suppose it’s possible.
She would have liked this quote attributed to Mrs Beeton:
Friendship is no plant of hasty growth. Though planted in esteem’s deep-fixed soil the gradual culture of kind intercourse must bring it to perfection.
And here are some more words of Mrs Beeton’s wisdom:
Afternoon tea should be provided, fresh supplies, with thin bread-and-butter, fancy pastries, cakes, etc., being brought in as other guests arrive.
Thanks for reading my blog today. Maybe you’ll be tempted to some Jam for Tea!
I’ve been reading ebooks for over five years and now download most of the books I read onto my Kindle instead of buying paperbacks.
At first I had the basic, cheapest Kindle which only weighs 166 grammes and is very easy to use.
When I bought an iPad mini I downloaded the Kindle App so now I read ebooks on the iPad as well.
If you want to read Kindle books but don’t want the expense of buying a Kindle,
just go to this page on the Amazon site and download the free app for your preferred device.
As well as iPad there’s an app for laptop, P.C., phone, tablet etc. Just follow this link to the Kindle Store and start reading some fantastic ebooks at very reasonable prices.
I keep meeting people who say they would like to read one of our books but they don’t have a Kindle. I blame “Downton Abbey” which had an Amazon Kindle sponsored advert before each episode and in all the commercial breaks! I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve explained that you don’t need a Kindle to read Kindle books.
I’ve posted about this on my other blogs over the years and thought I’d mention it here in case any readers don’t know about the free Kindle app.
You know I like quotes.
How about these:
“Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators.”
“Lovers of print are simply confusing the plate for the food.”
“It seems to me that anyone whose library consists of a Kindle lying on a table is some sort of bloodless nerd.”
“Until recently, I was an ebook sceptic, see; one of those people who harrumphs about the “physical pleasure of turning actual pages” and how ebook will “never replace the real thing”. Then I was given a Kindle as a present. That shut me up. Stock complaints about the inherent pleasure of ye olde format are bandied about whenever some new upstart invention comes along. Each moan is nothing more than a little foetus of nostalgia jerking in your gut. First they said CDs were no match for vinyl. Then they said MP3s were no match for CDs. Now they say streaming music services are no match for MP3s. They’re only happy looking in the rear-view mirror.”