Sindy saves the day......

It’s an old family joke that I have a bit of an odd obsession. Whenever I spot anything I think can be transformed into a miniature object that can be adapted to suit the scale of my daughter’s 1980’s Sindy House, I’ll snaffle it up for a rainy day. I recently changed a small hand torch into a rather fetching standard lamp by converting an empty Sally Hanson nail strengthener cream container into the lampshade. It had been after all manufactured in a rather fetching shade of orange. I tried attaching a frilly tassle but it failed to stick properly. I had a similar real life sized decadent purple one I bought from “Biba’s” in the ‘70’s.

I also have a habit of collecting miniature soap bars from hotel bathrooms which come in handy for all sorts of uses, guest soaps to impress the in-laws, drawer fresheners or just good old fashioned grime removal when washing powder or liquid just isn’t enough. Over the years I had acquired so many small bars I recently recycled them to the rubbish bin. I didn’t think I’d ever use them all even if I lived to be 150!

Our daughter recently got married on the beautiful island of St. Lucia. In between the vows and the photos it poured with rain as only it can in the Caribbean and while the photographer followed the happy couple around to get the best shots, the train of the chiffon dress was saturated with wet sandy sea water. As they were due to have a reception back in the UK a week later and I couldn’t find a dry cleaner who sounded confident enough to remove all the stains, I decided to have a go at gentle washing. At first ordinary washing liquid only seemed to have a limited effect and then I remembered that my mum used to scrub the collars of dad’s shirts with a bar of soap before hand washing. (We didn’t have the luxury of a washing machine in the 60’s).

Why hadn’t I hung onto at least one of the little soap bars? Then I suddenly remembered something. The last time I looked after my granddaughter, Scarlett aged 8, she had borrowed my nutmeg grater and disappeared into her bedroom which is also home to the Sindy House. After her mum had collected her I went to search for the grater only to discover its temporary “use”. Scarlett had eaten spaghetti Bolognese for her tea, (her favourite). So she decided to grate some “parmesan” for her Sindy and Barbie dolls. The pretend cheese was none other than a tiny soap bar I had placed by Sindy’s bath tub. Eureka! The solitary remaining bar solved the problem and removed the sandy marks just in time to hand wash the dress for the bride’s entrance on the night of the reception.

The Mother's tears - Frances Shand Kydd

After the tragic death of Princess Diana in 1997, not much was said about her parents’ grief. The emphasis, quite rightly, was placed on her two young sons, Prince William, just 15 years of age, and Prince Harry who was about to turn 13. Who can forget the sight of those two young boys walking with such dignity behind their mother’s coffin? Of course when you become part of the British Royal Family I suppose you are drawn under their cloak of mystery and awe. Even a divorced ex wife was bound to have her eventual internment organized by “the Firm”. She was after all the mother of a future King and had to be treated accordingly.

But when a child dies, in whatever circumstances, before their parents, the whole natural order is turned on its head. When my aunty Mary died of cancer aged 61, her mother, my grandma, then aged 82 never really got over it and died two and a half years later. Mary herself had lived a sad life, married to a violent drinker; her first baby girl was stillborn. My mum’s younger sister suffered a similar tragedy when her first child, Tony who was born with a very severe form of cerebral palsy, lost his fight for life and succumbed to pneumonia aged only 15. Aunty Vonnie’s mental health deteriorated from then on and although she also lived into her early sixties, broken hearted, she sadly eventually took her own life.

Likewise, Princess Diana was also a daughter, sister, aunt, close relation to many other people even if they remained fairly anonymous and preferred it that way. As a mother of a 10 year old and 8 year old at the time of Diana’s death, I spared very little thought for her parents, especially her mother, Frances Shand Kydd. As my children grew up and their lives didn’t always go according to plan I began to feel some sympathy for the woman, cruelly nicknamed “the Bolter” by her ex husband and Diana’s father, Earl John Spencer, Viscount Althorp. She had, in my opinion, and to quote the marvelous Marilyn Monroe in the wickedly funny film, “Some Like it Hot”, definitely ended up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop! Frances was only 18 when she too married a man 12 years her senior in a glittering society wedding attended by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and everyone who was anyone of importance in 1954. Jonny Spencer was a well known philanderer but it was she who was cast as the villain when she eventually broke free from her unhappy marriage to marry her second husband, wallpaper heir, Peter Shand Kydd. After a particularly vicious custody battle in which her own mother sided with Jonny Spencer, Frances lost all four of her children who stayed with their father. After the birth of her first two daughters, Sarah, now Lady Sarah McCorquodale and Jane, Now Baroness Fellowes, she lost a baby boy, John, who died shortly after his birth, so she has had more than her fair share of tragedy. Added to which there was the pressure of being an aristocrat’s wife who was expected to produce a son and heir to the lands and title. She eventually succeeded when she gave birth to Charles, the 9^th Earl Spencer, which must have come as a relief after producing three daughters.

Years later she then had to bear the indignity of her youngest daughter, Diana’s very public humiliation and subsequent divorce. By which time she had escaped to far away Seil near Oban in Scotland. I must admit there were times when my daughter’s life was in turmoil due to her unfortunate choice of partner, that I too day dreamed about finding a little hideaway somewhere to escape the flak! Sadly, Frances fell out with her daughter just before Diana’s death over an interview she gave to a magazine and I too have put my big foot in it on occasions when I have attempted to support my daughter against her ex-partners. We mothers sometimes don’t know when to keep our counsel but it is all, usually, in the name of love. Fortunately I have never distanced myself from my girl and she always knew I had her back.

Prince William’s wife, the former Kate Middleton, seems to have got it about right as she has managed to maintain a wonderfully close relationship with her parents and siblings. If I could give one piece of advice to Meghan Markle, the fiancée of Prince Harry, it would be this. As much as you must be in awe of the great and auspicious family you are about to marry into, never forget your own family, at least the ones you are close to, mother, father etc. as to them you will always be their little girl who they will love unconditionally through thick or thin and who have always looked upon you as their own special Princess.

The day I stood up Barry Manilow

We want you to come to our “House Cooling party”, said my old friend Liz. Not a “House Warming Party” you understand, which is what you attend when your friends have just moved into a new abode. No, this was a bash to celebrate that Liz and Vince, newlywed and about to embark on the treadmill which is a 30 year mortgage were leaving the 2 bed roomed rented flat they shared with another couple in leafy Surbiton, in Surrey.

I first met Liz when she stole Vince away from my best friend, June, in 1972. June, Vince and I were working as shop assistants and trainee buyers at Bentalls, a prestigious department store in Kingston-upon-Thames. June was great fun and she and I lived in separate rooms in an all female hostel in Avenue Elmers, Surbiton, which was a beautiful double fronted detached residence owned by the Bentall family and used solely to provide a safe haven for its young or unattached female staff. There was a middle aged married couple living in the basement flat, who made sure there was no inappropriate behaviour between the girls and any male guests. The rent was a princely sum of £3.00 per week but as I earned no more than £11.00 a week, seemed quite extortionate at the time. We had access to a staff canteen and could eat well every lunchtime for about 2s and 6d or 12.5 pence in today’s money.

When June started her romance with Vince she moved out and together they rented a double ground floor room in a house nearby. I once made the grave mistake of looking through her partially draped bedroom window when I failed to attract her attention with the doorbell, only to find the couple in a somewhat compromising position, a sight seen which can never be unseen! Needless to say, red-faced, I made a speedy, silent exit down the garden path.

I’m not sure how I first met Liz as she didn’t work at Bentalls, but the attraction between her and Vince was instant, I believe the French have a suitable phrase for this – “coup de foudre” or thunderbolt, but sadly this rang the death knell on June’s love affair. Liz was also a great pal and it was difficult to retain a friendship with both girls though I was reluctant to lose either. Eventually, I grew tired of life in the retail trade and I returned home to live with my parents whilst searching for a more permanent and better paid job. Meanwhile Liz and Vince’s relationship progressed and they became engaged. Liz invited me to be her chief, or actually, only, bridesmaid, and I eagerly looked forward to their nuptials.

Sadly, it was not to be, as my darling dad suffered a massive heart attack nine days before the wedding and I was unable to face the celebrations which nevertheless went ahead as planned. I never did discover what happened to the bridesmaid’s dress that poor Liz painstakingly made for me. I stayed with my now widowed mum and started a new job in a local Government department. I made friends with some of the other single girls and after a few months one of them, Jane, asked me if I would come to London with her to a Barry Manilow concert. Though not an enormous fan of Barry’s, Jane had no-one else to go with as her sister had let her down at the last minute, so I agreed to go with her.

Then the invitation arrived from Liz and of course the party was on the same night as the concert. What should I do? Attend a party, stay for the weekend and possibly meet some attractive single men or go to a concert in London and face a daunting train journey home the same night? No contest really, so although I felt a bit mean I explained to Jane that an old friend had begged me to visit her and I couldn’t let her down, (white lie alert). She wasn’t very happy about it but I was young and ruthless and I suppose rather selfish. At the party I got chatting to a young musician in the Household Cavalry whose name was John and three months later we were engaged. We have been married now for over 40 years so Barry Manilow's loss was definitely my gain.