The Naming of Cats

...is a difficult matter, according to T. S. Eliot.*

My four have their names that the family use daily.

Jess, Charlie, Willow and Minnie.

But Eliot suggests that in addition

...a cat needs a name that's particular,

A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Queen Jessamine, Sir Charlie Bubble, Miss Pillsy Werner, and Mme. Minna de Beau-Beau.

Names that never belong to more than one cat.

No laughing, please. And don't even try to tell me you don't have similar names for your pets, especially cats, because I won't believe you.

All of which is by way of introduction to the subject of names. 

My amusement - and your comments - about the chap who recognised me but called me Clarice has got me thinking about names. More specifically, my name. 

Apparently my parents had some difficulty choosing a name for me, and I was Baby right up to the wire, the six week limit at which they had to register my birth.

As you can see from this rather historical-looking document, I was registered as Curtis. No "e".

Now we all know this is a boy's name. Not one of those Francis/Frances, Leslie/Lesley names, not a name like Bailey or Stevie or Ellis which are interchangeable between the sexes (unisex, we would have said in the 1960s and 70s). And it wasn't the norm to give children names which were clearly intended for the other sex in the mid-1960s, at least not in small town rural Buckinghamshire.

It was chosen for me because it was a family surname (my paternal grandmother's maiden name - she was Esther Curtis) and my father's middle name. If my parents had been waiting for a son to whom they could give the name, it was clear by the time I came along, a third daughter and something of an unexpected blessing at that, that it wasn't going to happen.

So there was a name without a child.

And this child became Curtis. 

 

How I hated it. 

 How I wanted to be a Clare, Susan, Jane, Sarah. 

A Caroline, Lucy, Jenny or Nicola. 

Pretty, feminine names, like those of my friends, intended and appropriate for girls.

Names you could announce without anyone saying what? Without needing to repeat it, or listen to comments about how odd and unusual a name it is. Names no one ever gets wrong.

The final straw came when I passed the 11-plus exam and the letter from the Education authority informed my parents that there is a place at the grammar school for your son. 

I was mortified, so my mother suggested we add an extra "e" to the end of my name, in a vain attempt to feminise it. It would be pronounced the same, although there continues to be considerable confusion about this (I am Curt-iss, not Curt-ees).

1970s handmade maxi dress - competition prize from local vintage shop

Cardigan, sunglasses and bangles - charity shopped

1960s vinyl bag and sandals - Ebay

Name - gift from my parents

So here I am - 50 years later, and people are still getting my name wrong.

Clarice is just the latest in a long line of mistaken identities; I've been Christine, Kirsty, Kirsten, Kristen and Krista/Cristi. 

I'm often Curteece or Curteeze.

It took until my twenties to feel OK about having such an unusual, seemingly unpronounceable name. These days, I laugh at the mistakes and questions, and have no problem when people ask where the name came from or comment on its uniqueness.

Now, I couldn't imagine being called anything else. 

But above and beyond there's still one name left over,

And that is a name that you never will guess; 

The name no human research can discover - 

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

 Eliot informs us that cats have a third name, unknowable to humans - their deep and inscrutable singular Name.

How funny, it turns out that my deep and inscrutable singular name is actually Curtise.

So it seems my parents got it right after all!

What about you?

* You can listen to the old curmudgeon T.S. Eliot reading "The Naming of Cats" from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats here.

xxx

First time for everything

It's good to know that life can still surprise you, isn't it?

Mostly, I find I trundle through my existence along fairly well-worn tracks. And that's fine with me, although I appreciate that the risk-taking bravehearts among you will cringe at the very thought.

But now and again, it's therapeutic to be given a little shake by the universe, to be reminded that there's a first time for everything, whatever one's age.

 

 

Jo and I made a welcome return to Chesterfield flea market last week, after a six week hiatus over the summer holidays. It was so good to be back; not that I bought much, I am trying very, very hard to donate/sell at the moment, not to accumulate more.

 

But one little vintage pattern (from 1964 - the same age as me) can't hurt, can it?

I have to confess, I don't love this outfit, and I was giving the dress a final road test to decide whether to keep or sell it. It's a 1960s Jersey Masters silver lurex/wool knit maxi dress which has a pretty sparkle to it, but from a distance it just looks grey, and I feel drab in it.

See? Lovely up close (there is a matching tie-front cardigan too) but I don't wear it enough to justify keeping it, so I think the set is destined for Ebay.

Anyway, there I was minding my own business and browsing though some vintage sewing patterns at the market, when a man approached me and said you're Clarice, aren't you?

 

Err - no.

 

He seemed convinced he knew me; I was equally convinced he didn't, and that he had mistaken me for someone else. Then I told him my name, and he said you write that past caring blog, don't you?

We had a bit of a chat about photos, the market, the blog, then he wished me well, and went on his way. An older lady standing alongside me looking at patterns witnessed the whole exchange; she chuckled and said you've been spotted. Mind you - no offence, love, but with that red hair, no one can miss you.

 

I am still laughing to myself over this whole incident; how funny to be feeling rather lacklustre and looking dull and inconspicious (or so I thought), only to be recognised by a complete stranger for the first time. Now I know how Vix feels!

 

This is rather more my usual style - and I might even sneak in to join Judith's Hat Attack with my hair flower. Better late than never! 

 

Another unlikely occurrence which has put a spring in my step, and made me aware I should never say never, is being a cover girl. I know - whoever would have thought?

 

Now that isn't something which happens every day, is it? Or indeed ever. But it has now, thanks to Melanie, who chose darling Clementine to be on the cover of the latest edition of Vogoff.

 

The poor love could do with some better luck, she's had quite a fall from grace, and has resorted to parading in her scanties to make ends meet.

 

It could happen to the best of us...

 

1960-70s maxi dress and Indian tooled leather bag - vintage fairs

Bangles, flower and necklace - charity shopped

 

 

 

 So even though life can seem predictable, comfortable, (oh all right, maybe a little pedestrian at times), I'm happy to find there is room for the unexpected and first times. 

 

 

 

I'll be joining in with Patti's Visible Monday gathering as usual, where there are cover girls galore - see you there!

xxxx

To rest my eyes in shades of green

So here we are; the first day of the autumn term, the kids are back at school, and I have been sorting through the photos from our trip down to my sister's in Buckinghamshire.

We had a good day out in Oxford; we used to go reasonably often as kids, but I don't think I have visited the city for over 20 years.

Here I am admiring the view from the tower of the University church of St Mary the Virgin.

I know it's a cliche, but the panorama of honey-coloured Oxfordshire stone and dreaming spires really is beautiful.

We admired the Radcliffe Camera, observed that graffiti is not a modern-day phenomenon, and wondered if this gargoyle was the inspiration for Donkey in Shrek.

 We passed the Clarendon building (now a part of the Bodleian Library - edited, with thanks to Gisela for correctly identifying this one!)

 the Sheldonian Theatre...

loved the Bridge of Sighs...

...and saw beautiful sights at every turn.

There is a Saxon tower at St Michael's church (dated 1040), the oldest building in Oxford...

and a memorial to the clerics Latimer and Ridley, and Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer, burned as Protestant martyrs in the reign of Mary Tudor.

Christchurch College is impressive.

It contains the dining hall which was the inspiration for Hogwarts in the Harry Potter films (please excuse the blurry photo, it was very dark)...

and the Alice in Wonderland window (Charles Dodgson/Lewis Carroll was both a student and teacher at Christchurch College.)

Oxford's cathedral has two beautiful stained glass windows designed by Edward Burne-Jones.

And I thought this was a touching tribute to a young officer.

I asked Claudia if she thought she would like to come to study at one of the Oxford colleges; she shrugged, and said it's a bit too posh. 

I know what she means; my teachers at school wanted me to apply, but I felt instinctively that I would be a fish out of water in these surroundings, and despite my grades being good enough, I doubted that I would pass the entrance exam or interview.

Over 30 years later, and Oxford University still admits the lowest percentage of state-educated students (around 57%) of any UK university, and students from fee-paying schools continue to monopolise the places at elite universities.

If Claudia, or anyone else, wants to go, and is sufficiently talented and hard-working, I hope they don't let the mystique and the gilded gates put them off.

Now, in case you are worried that my poor children are dragged round historic cities without a thought for their entertainment, pleased don't fret; there was also plenty of this...

and a visit to the Bucks County Show.

Since the ban on hunting foxes and other animals with dogs came into force in 2005, country types who want to ride across fields with packs of foxhounds or beagles do so on drag hunting courses.

 There were huge agricultural machines, a stunt quad bike display, and a fortune teller who proudly announces that she has been patronised by the elite (Shirley Bassey and The Brotherhood of Man?) as well as my favourite, the produce tent...

where the cabbages really were as big as your head!

Prize-winning veg, blooms, marmalade, and patchwork, clearly taken very seriously by the competitors;

this grower had obviously made a stand to display their very impressive produce.

We managed to time it well, so by the time the skies looked like this, we were heading for the car to go home.

Here's my mum, trying to help Nina with her times tables.

 A thankless task, one which I have pretty given up on, but Mum is made of more patient stuff.

The kids went off to school quite happily this morning; hopefully it will be a while before routine bites hard and the homework blues kick in...

Roll on half term!

xxxx

Into the blue

We seem to have bid a hasty farewell to summer here in the UK and been plunged unceremoniously into autumn; wind, chill, rain and all.

I'm a little sad about that.

 

 

I am waiting in vaguely doom-laden anticipation for the nights to draw in, the temperatures to drop, and the imminent return of the relentless school routine. Getting up early is going to be a real shock to the system, for all of us.

 

There were still some lovely blue skies on Saturday as I went to see my hairdresser Kirsty; she worked her customary magic, amid plenty of coffee and chat.

 

I refused to be daunted by the rain this morning, and pottered into the garden as usual to take my photos. The shoes - wonderful though they are - were obviously a foolish choice, I just wanted to see how they looked with the dress.

 

1960s mini dress - Second to None, Walsall

1970s shoes and tights - charity shopped

Umbrella - gift

1960s bracelet - local vintage/retro shop

 

Well, I think they look pretty good, but you can hardly see for the montbretia.

 

That's the level of my professionalism - I've been photo bombed by a plant.

 

My sister Sabena gave me the Missoni umbrella for my birthday. I love it, it's the only modern designer item I own, but I am slightly worried that I'll leave it on the bus one day and be forever gutted.

The woolly hat came with some hand-me-downs for Claudia from a friend's daughter - she rejected it, so I swooped. I have a feeling I'll be needing it.

 

But we did have a lovely summer with plenty of sunshine.

 Here are some photos from a trip to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park last month which I didn't get around to posting. It's one of my very favourite places.

 

 One & Other - Anthony Gormley 

 

 I love this; it reminds me of Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square, but an Everyman version standing on a tree.

 

An exhibition of work by Ursula von Rydingsvard.

This is called mama build me a fence. It's huge, and beautiful.

Sitting - Sophie Ryder

Molecule Man 1+1+1 - Jonathan Borofsky

Ten Seated Figures - Magdalena Abakanowicz

 

(Plus one seated Nina.)

 

 

Buddha - Niki de Saint Phalle

 

I thought of Vix and Krista, must be the wonderful colours.

 

 

 

Large Owl - Thomas Houseago 

 

 

 There is something refreshingly accessible and unpretentious about sculpture in the open air...

 

and in such a beautiful setting.

An annual visit is good for the soul; in fact, I'd like to go more frequently, that would be even better.

And look, Henry Moore's Draped Seated Woman is still here. She hasn't moved back to Tower Hamlets in London after all, or been sold off (as I wrote about here) and I have to say I am very glad to see her.

 

 

 

It is, isn't it?

 

And I'll be connecting with Patti and co at Visible Monday as usual.

 

After that, I'm off to my sister's in Buckinghamshire for a last blast of holiday fun.

 

See you when I get back!

 

xxxx