Going for A Spin (Literally)

Dancing at the ceilidh

Hubby and I have just returned from the city where we were lucky enough to come upon a ceilidh band. The venue was a very large church hall and there were about 70 adults and 20 children. The band, two violins (or fiddlers), two guitarists and one banjo player were up on stage. The leader of the band is also the caller, encouraging 'newbies' to master the steps of the traditional dances. It's great fun and the children particularly seem to love weaving in and out between each other.

It's not all dancing of course. Too exhausting I should think! So the band members vary the routine and pace with various songs. These range from traditional English, American, Scottish or Irish, to this polka, their latest offering.

One member of the band is something of a linguist and finds learning languages relatively easy, so this Finnish folk-song presented no great problems to memorise. It is literally a tongue-twister, done at high speed. This is just one of several verses. Fancy giving it a go? All together now!

Nuapurista kuulu se polokan tahti jalakani pohjii kutkutti Ievan äiti se tyttöösä vahti vaan kyllähän Ieva sen jutkutti Sillä ei meitä silloin kiellot haittaa Kun myö tanssimme laiasta laitaan Salivili hipput tupput täppyt äppyt tipput hilijalleen...

Easy peasy eh?

When I was in junior school we enjoyed occasional country dancing and when our children were at infant school, they danced round the Maypole for their school fete but, I ask myself, do today's children still have time for such carefree music and movement or is it more about cramming for OFSTED visits?

This afternoon we witnessed the joy of children happily spinning around the floor or galloping alongside their mums and dads. Such fun. Such lovely musical memories created.

Long may ceilidhs continue!

Upfront Engineering

Engineering works of a personal kind!

Granny bought a new bra today and as she unwrapped it, closely studied its construction.

Why I hadn't studied it more closely before I don't know. It's not as if it was a different style to my usual. It is my usual and I've been wearing it for years and years! Maybe it's the colour. I usually choose white or black but for a change I thought I would 'do different' as they say in Norfolk and buy flesh-colour.

I have always been aware that this style of brassiere is a highly complex piece of construction, so much so that I always refer to them as my 'Boadicea bras' simply because they rather resemble what I imagine an armoured chest piece, constructed in metal would look like. That said, although not exactly riveted together, they are still not remotely glamorous but they do the trick and give me a secure and pleasing shape.

I should love to have graced the odd glamorous occasion when I was younger and able to wear sensuous plunging bras of satin and lace but given my mundane style of living, think my 'sensible' affordable choice has been for the best. Besides I can't see myself ever being able to afford Peller and Rigby or any other top-notch under-garments at around £100 a pop (if you'll pardon the expression), so I don't think I'll be changing over any time soon.

Anyway, on much closer inspection, bra construction is it seems, somewhat akin to industrial engineering (and personal body-armour) what with hoist, lift and separation.

Roughly sixteen pieces of fabric, strap-rings, adjusters, fastenings and bows all matched and joined seamlessly but with seams (if you know what I mean?).

They are 3-D jigsaw puzzles of endless sizes, colours and materials all constructed so carefully as to be non-rubbing next to the skin. Quite a feat don't you agree?

A New Old Tradition

So, it's mid-morning on New Year's Day and the weather is fine. Time to set off on the Village Walk. This is a loosely circular route of about six miles which can be shortened if necessary and which largely uses the smaller country lanes where possible. It's a nicely undulating ramble, not too arduous.

There are two stopping points. One a very friendly householder who always happily welcomes the small hoards who descend on her. Inside we make free with the necessary conveniences as well as indulging in mince pies and mulled wine. It is also she who drives out later to revive stragglers with Christmas chocolates dispensed through the car window!

The final resting place before home for the footsore and hungry is the village hall, abuzz with cheerful chatter and the pungent smells of various homemade soups and hot rolls, all for a mere donation to local funds.

In the distant past before maps became common, and usually on Ascension Day or Rogation Sunday, village folk led by the priest or village leader, 'beat the boundaries,' just to make clear to all and sundry exactly where the parish limits lay. To reinforce that message, in some places boundary posts were beaten with birch or willow twigs, no doubt similar to the punishment that would be inflicted if the demarcation line was flouted!

We of course behaved ourselves impeccably and I don't know if our particular village ever followed those old traditions anyway, but happily the village walk on New Year's Day has already taken it's place in the calendar as an annual event not to be missed.