Winter Ritual

She will murder me for telling you this. However, Mildred, my best friend, confidante, house mate and champion knitter has prepared herself for winter. Mildred comes from the Midlands of England where the winters are long and hard. The people there are slightly superstitious still and believe that making a proper preparation for the season of inclement weather is essential to good health. Accordingly today has been something of a trial for me.

After a hearty fried breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread AND toast Mildred commenced her winter ritual.

I ran her a hot bubble bath and helped her wash herself all over. Then we got her thoroughly dried; then the fun began. When I was a girl there was a heavyweight boxer named Henry Cooper that used to advertise Brut after shave - "The great smell of Brut". Well today we had the great smell of goose grease! Liberally applied to freshly bathed 60 something woman I can vouch that it does not have alluring olfactory properties. In fact it PONGS! Once she was liberally covered in the mixture we put Mildred into a pair of old fashioned mens long underpants and a thick woollen vest that buttoned up to the chin. Then she put on her skirt and blouse followed by three cardigans! Heavy ribbed tights and her stout black boots she is ready for anything that the winter weather can throw at her. However, we are not yet quite finished. You will know that without proper ear protection the winter wind can cause chronic pain in the head. The ages old remedy for this is spring onions! Where our forefathers acquired such things in winter I do not know. However, our local supermarket obliged and we carefully inserted one in each ear. Mildred now sits here before our coal fire glowing gently giving off a distinct smell of roasting meat and hearing with great difficulty. Only another four months to go! Anyone got a gas mask they can lend to me please?

More Majesty

I heard the voice, saw the figure and instinctively dropped into the deepest curtsey that I could. Once down however, I had no idea how long I should stay that way. At the school that I went to - made St Trinians look like a convent - we were always encouraged to see the world as a place where women were equal to men (if not a little superior in fact) and all other nature. However, maturity has brought with it a little common sense about the realities of the World and I knew that when in the presence of my Queen the done thing is to stretch my pelvic floor as far as it would go and bend my head in such a way as to make me look as if I had lost a contact lens on the royal Axminster.

I noticed that Her Majesty was extremely sensibly shod in royal blue lace up shoes with the barest heel. She also wore the sort of support hose that my mother, rest her soul, preferred. Heavy denier and ultra sensible for a lady of her years. I lifted my head and she seemed to acknowledge that the curtsy position was not one that I found comfortable. "Please do get up" she said. I straightened slowly becoming acutely aware of anno domini'd effects on my skeletal system. "May I ask your name" - I gave my full name like I was that school girl again. There followed a discussion about the portrait of the Queen Mother that I had been so scathing of. I was delighted to be let into a little secret. She hated the thing too. But she had been told that the artist - she snorted with incredulity when she said "artist" - had donated the painting and that they had placed it here as it was far from the private apartments and the Queen only ever came here for investitures and, as on this occasion, other public events. She asked me why I was not knitting. I explained that my forte was general knowledge and fairy cakes. She howled with laughter and said that those were her strengths too! We quickly started to chat about the merits and otherwise of icing on cakes. We both preferred plain white to coloured and both found the new vogue of cupcake bakers of gaudy lurid colours detestable. She enquired if I had a few minutes - who was I to say otherwise? She led the way into a small side room that turned out to be a kitchen. "Let's have our own competition" she said. 'One batch of fairy cakes. Whichever the knitters prefer will gain an extra five points towards the competition". I didn't have to be asked twice and soon we were both elbow deep in flour, sugar and eggs. Watched by a somewhat bemused royal pastry chef we chatted as we measured, beat, folded and finally poured our mixtures into little paper cases.

Whilst the cakes cooked we talked knitting competitions. She was fascinated and said that she would like to start clubs in both Sandringham and Balmoral. Naturally I encouraged her, who knows we might have invites to those places too.

After about twenty minutes our cakes were done and we carefully assembled them on wire trays to cool. I am afraid that I became a little arty and actually spread icing sugar on my plate to give the effect that my cakes sat in snow. Her Majesty thought that was very funny.

At tea time, our cakes duly transferred to the serving plates we carried each other's cakes in. That way the contestants wouldn't automatically give Her Majesty's preference. Of course there was a flurry of curtseying before the umpire declared that the scores were 37 to Windsor Castle and 36 to us. We could still win if my cakes were liked best. I had no idea that our Queen was so competitive and generous with it too. She gave the impression that my cakes were hers the whole time. In the end however, a choice had to be made. If I am honest, hers were marginally better and she received the winning points. There was much polite clapping and "jolly good" etc all round.

Before she left, Her Majesty came to me and said "I have thoroughly enjoyed this afternoon, I hope that you have too". What could I say, of course I had. I smiled at her and said "Yes Your Majesty".

Yes Your Majesty

There has been great excitement in our knitting club this week. We have been to Windsor Castle! Yes! Our little knitting club drew the staff of the Castle in the second round of the "Knit Wit Cup". Every year ten clubs vie for the prize of not only the most accomplished knitwear article but also general knowledge. In the one hundred year history of the cup no team has ever been invited to Windsor Castle before. We were very honoured therefore.

I have explained before that I am responsible for teas at the club, I am not a knitter myself, I leave that to my friend and house mate Mildred. However, I am not too bad on general knowledge and it is in that capacity that I am permitted to participate. The day dawned wet and miserable, but our spirits were high as we set off towards Windsor. We know that Her Majesty is a keen embroiderer and we could not help but wonder if her skills extended as far as knitting. There has been a post of "Lady Knitter" in the Royal Household since Norman times and we rather hoped that maybe she had imparted some of the fun of knitting to her royal mistress.

Naturally, Lady Dent-Uhr, our somewhat imperious President led the way, with Mrs Perleun, the Secretary tottering behind her. In fact of these two formidable ladies, it is Mrs P that has the greater claim to the noble line. She can trace her family back right to the Norman invasion of 1066 when Perleuns were chainmail knitters with William of Normandy's invading army. There is little love lost between these two ladies and Mrs P lost no time in informing our hostess, the charming Lady Aigne Kneesnow, President of the Royal Household club for Lady Knitters, of her ancestral credentials. "How interesting dear" said the royal lady. As put downs go it may not have been the wittiest, but it seemed to have an effect as Mrs P remained silent for some time afterwards. Apparently, despite its feminine title, the Royal club has as members both the Duke of Edinburgh and the Prince of Wales. I am sure that they both look very good in the club "uniform" of a royal blue apron with the royal crest on the breast!

Over tea and the sweetest little shortbread biscuits that I would love to have the recipe for, we met our opponents. None appeared to be royal and most were women like ourselves, comfy cardigans, sensible shoes and spectacles on chains. We seated ourselves around a long table on which several balls of wool had been deposited. Lady Kneesnow explained that we would have fifteen minutes to knit and then the same period of general knowledge questions. With that she counted us down and off the others went knitting shawls (for elderly ladies in Greenland apparently) for the next quarter of an hour.

When the bell rang to signal the end of the first quarter I was very surprised to see that only Lady Dent-Uhr on our side had managed to complete a whole shawl. There were three finished for the opposition. We were really going to have to fly in the general knowledge section if we wanted to catch up. The first question was easy "who is the Patron of the National Competitive Knitting Clubs". The answer of course is her Majesty the Queen. After that they started to get quite technical but we held up our end and scraped a victory. Then it was back to the knitting.

Whilst the other ladies knitted faster than I have ever seen knitting done before; I went for a walk. I saw huge original paintings of monarch and their families, landscapes and a rather abstract one of the late Queen Mother. "I don't like that much" I said out loud and then, to my horror, a voice said "That's my mother". Turning around I saw bearing down on me the familiar small shape of................. I shall tell you who in my next episode. Let's leave it there for now.

Not For The Faint Hearted

I explained in my Welcome that I live with my friend Mildred who is a seasoned competitive knitter. Many people are surprised to discover that there are knitting competitions regarding knitting as the preserve of grannies. Competitive knitting is not for the faint hearted! The sport has a history going back at least until Norman times. The Norman chronicler, Bergere the Gaul said in his fabulous tale about the capture of Normandy by Rollo (from the "North" hence Nor(th)man) in 911 AD that "the women do spin their yarn hereabouts with spears of wood. They devise many diverse costumes for wearing by all men high or low. The high born ladies do fabric cloths (clothes) in a multitude against the hours of the sun, She that delivers her finished cloth is Queen for the day". I think this means the fastest one wins.

Over the centuries knitting has waxed and waned in fashion terms. As a girl almost every woman I knew could be found close to her knitting needles and then by my 20s in the early 1970s knitting had moved out of popular culture as the disposable society moved in. However, in the background competitive knitters were still challenging one another. In the village where we live there is a memorial hall erected after the Great War by Sir Oliphant Dent-Uhr. Sir Oliphant was a Victorian business man who had made his money by the importation of ivory for the manufacture of prosthetic oral items. He lived in some grandeur in Dent Hall, now alas a modern housing estate, and could often be seen striding around the estate calling on the poor widows of his former workers. He really was Victorian philanthropy in action. His son Ivor was a weakly child who was rejected from military service. However, his father's influence eventually managed to secure him a commission in the New Forest Regiment and he went to France where he was killed just five days after his arrival on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Sir Oliphant never forgave himself and once the Memorial Hall had been built shot himself. Very tragic. However, there have been Dent-Uhrs in the village ever since. Currently, Chair of the Knitting Circle is Sir Oliphants Grand daughter, Lady Dorothy Dent-Uhr or Dottie to her friends - of whom she has few. She is the stereotypical British Grande Dame. Tall, porcelain complexion, half rimmed spectacles over which she fixes her quarry with a gimlet eye. Like myself, unmarried, but in her case there has been a stream of would be suitors all of whom had their hopes dashed on the rocks of her cold, unsympathetic character. Her knitting is first class, but not as good as Mrs Perleun. A stalwart of the competition circuit for forty years, descended from a long line of knitters, Mrs P has more cups and medals than any other competitive knitter in the World! I once asked her how long it takes for her to make a scarf and she presented me with one just 30 minutes later! Lady Dorothy is the President of the Knitting Club and Mrs P the Secretary, but that's where the unity ends. They are both sworn opponents!

Mildred came up against them early on. A local golf club had asked the club to knit them some wooly club covers. The club, ever in competition, said that they would on the understanding that the golfers provided a trophy. This they did. A magnificent gold affair, rather like a gothic urn. Lady Dorothy's eyes coveted this as indeed did Mrs P. Even Mildred, who really belongs to the club for the social aspects, was entranced. On the day, a saturday, I arrived early with tea and coffee making equipment ad fifty fairy cakes, a Battenburg and two dozen individual Bakewell tarts - made to my old aunt's secret recipe; and battle was joined.

The golf club secretary laid before the ladies an array of golf clubs. I am afraid that I am not very good on the names of these things, 9 irons, putters, a niblet even. They all required a cosy cover. The ladies were given 60 minutes exactly. You had to be there to believe it. Needles flashed, wool wound off the ball like bullets slotting into a machine gun. Soon the finished articles were beginning to line up. After half an hour, Lady Dorothy had eight covers; Mrs P nine and Mildred, poor dear, seven.

Mrs P was starting to get the superior look of the victor in her eye. Lady Dorothy looked like she had a small thunder cloud moving across her head as the two of them battled it out. Then disaster struck Mrs P. Lady Dorothy travels everywhere with her little Staffordshire Terrier, "Picot". Picot took a fancy to Mrs P's bright red wool ball and chased it across the room. Her wool unravelled in front of her eyes and poor Mrs P became completely confused. Lady Dorothy looked up and had the temerity to laugh. That did it! Mrs P kicked one of her balls of wool and there began a very unpleasant and loud argument in which one called the other a cheat and "all thumbs" whilst the other shrieked that the dog was a deliberate distraction. Immediately both ladies were disqualified which left Mildred to win! So we now have on our mantelpiece at home a gorgeous gold trophy. Of course every time Lady Dorothy sees either Mildred or I she reminds us that the trophy was won by default. Frankly I don't mind. Mildred may not be the most ruthlessly competitive person, but she still has won her prize.