Grandson and I have been reprising Harry Potter so that we’re in the mood for the next film when it comes out. As I can’t get to sleep at night for thinking of all the things I should be doing toward moving, the stories got mixed with present situation and in hynopompic state one morning it came to me that I am moving in to 6, Privet Drive, Little Whinging (or in my case , Much Whinging) just up the street from the Dursleys. Not that any of my new neighbours bear any resemblance to the Dursleys, either in looks of habits as far as I can tell, but for dramatic licence, to express my feelings, that is what I am calling the poor little house.
It now has a wooden floor in the living room and looks quite smart, though sadly the silly proportions haven’t changed. The living room will be, for me, mainly a dining room with a v. small après manger seating area, and my personal living space will be upstairs in what is a largish bedroom. The television, Mac, desk, couch and silly posters will gravitate there. Five large bookcases from the shop will fit around the ground floor space, one in the kitchen that will be adapted into a dresser. I’ve earmarked some cool half-curtains in the Gudrun Sjödén catalogue for upstairs windows to help eliminate the rooftop views.
So that’s that. Isn’t it?
If only it were that simple and a magic wand could be waved. I just know I’ll get in a panic trying to resituate the TV and get the plugs back in the right holes, then the computer - ditto panic and ill temper. All that unpacking, emptying and flattening cardboard, boxes, finding places for stuff. It will take weeks to settle.
What a fuss I’m making! How many times has Walled Garden moved in the last couple of years without making a fuss? I’m just out of practice.
Old age (or the end of middle age) is making itself painfully felt in the joints. There are two birthdays in Cornwall next week , son and youngest grandson. Then of course the four year old can’t be entirely forgotten. The Ex would (does) send them all money and lets the parents buy the children what they want. I can’t do that of course because I like the idea of them getting excited over parcels (yes, I know my son is 30+ but I still like to think I might warm his heart with proof of motherly love for a moment.) My daughter is too busy to get presents so hers have to be shopped for and then wrapped. Birthday paper and brown parcel paper had to be bought, spellotape located, the right size and shape of boxes, and lots of bubble-wrap (happily there is no shortage of either cardboard boxes or b-wrap here above the shop.) Wednesday afternoon saw me crawling about on the floor fighting a large fruit cake, a bottle of local whisky, a Gruffalo-faced Trunki (into which the other toys wouldn’t quite fit, naturally) touchy-feely books, sticker books for older child, craft stuff for older child, a drawing pad that needs no ink (you remember the sort except it’s all more high-tech these days and does different colours) a car that lights up and squeals, and - oh god, I hope I’ve got them in the right boxes or there are going to be some surprised faces in Hayle come All Saints day.
What with this crawling about and fighting and making five cakes I have been forced to drink quite a lot of whisky myself to keep me sweet.
Unfortunately the therapeutic whisky drinking was interfered with by a crisis over BP medication. Again. Another accompaniment to old age I suppose. Boots pharmacy handed me the usual box of Istin, one of the three drugs I take for the condition but - quelle horreur! - these were of foreign manufacture. My ankles blew up, my BP rose and I felt nauseous. I’m already the only person in the area who hasn’t managed to make do with the generic version of amlodipine, or so I’m told, and the brand my body likes is much more expensive. Now it seems I can only tolerate the British-made pill which is even dearer. Most embarrassing.I'm obviously bringing the country to its knees.
Also time consuming when I’ve got so much important worrying to be doing.
30 Oct 2010
23 Oct 2010
Axed
I put this in the wrong blog so it's a bit out of date:
The axe has fallen on our local RAF base. Chaos and confusion, not to mention despair, despondancy, dejection, gloom and doom on every face today I expect. I brace myself.
Personally whilst feeling sorry for the civilians who will lose their jobs I can't help celebrating the decline of the military in the UK.
I'd better keep that to myself.
The real bad news is that the base may still be used - by the army as barracks for the troops returning from Germany. Yikes! More pub brawls. Big old army vehicles trying to barrel along these inadequate roads. Khaki instead of blue marching up the High Street on Remembrance Sunday.... not good.
There was a nice rumour going round that Richard Branson had shown an interest in buying the land with its facilities (a weather station, hangars etc. ) as a base for realising his dream of putting a UK rocket into space. Now that would be fun. I suppose it was a joke. How sad.
The axe has fallen on our local RAF base. Chaos and confusion, not to mention despair, despondancy, dejection, gloom and doom on every face today I expect. I brace myself.
Personally whilst feeling sorry for the civilians who will lose their jobs I can't help celebrating the decline of the military in the UK.
I'd better keep that to myself.
The real bad news is that the base may still be used - by the army as barracks for the troops returning from Germany. Yikes! More pub brawls. Big old army vehicles trying to barrel along these inadequate roads. Khaki instead of blue marching up the High Street on Remembrance Sunday.... not good.
There was a nice rumour going round that Richard Branson had shown an interest in buying the land with its facilities (a weather station, hangars etc. ) as a base for realising his dream of putting a UK rocket into space. Now that would be fun. I suppose it was a joke. How sad.
Wisdom from the X Files
Scully: God has his reasons.
Mulder: He may have his reasons but he seems to employ a bunch of psychotics to carry out his job orders.
Mulder: He may have his reasons but he seems to employ a bunch of psychotics to carry out his job orders.
22 Oct 2010
Uneasy lies the head here.
From writing nothing I’ve gone to scribbling screeds on the backs of bills, old paper bags, and finally a notebook dug out from the pile of ‘pending’ junk in my bedroom. I feel better for it so Chillsider, who brought me back from the brink, was right - blogging is good for the health. The writer's block was caused by a mind-freeze moment. One of those crashes old computers used to do when internet things happened too fast for them.
Two weeks to go before I move and, though in some ways it should, if all goes smoothly, be the easiest of the many, many moves I’ve made, I’m finding it unexpectedly traumatic. Probably the thought that it might be my final move before the Last Great Removal to the Hereafter isn’t making me more cheerful. Some folk seem to like the idea that they will settle into a house and never move again. I don’t. It is in my genes to want to keep moving. My maternal grandfather was a Mover. He sold one house on the same day they took possession of it and before my grandmother had had time to unpack. He went to the pub whilst she was emptying tea chests (women’s work in those days was it?) returned after an hour or two, a bit tipsy, and told her to reverse into packing mode because he'd sold the house and farm to a bloke he'd met at the bar. No need for HIPS or Estate Agents in those days, they just shook on it.
I still remember the exotic smell of tea chests. It helped to give each move a promise of faraway places and adventure, but they could also deliver nasty cuts from strips of metal round the edges.
Every move I have made since I left the family home to go to college felt like a step along the way to something better. Wishful thinking it may have been , but I’ve not been good at living in the NOW. I am the personification of divine discontent (Who first used that phrase? Sometimes Wikipedia just lets you down totally. When I tried to find the source of it Wiki came up with some American band.) Misguided I may have been but moving does bring with it welcome fresh air to life. It’s not a bad substitute for travel when travel isn’t a viable option.
In search of the indefinable, possibly the ineffable, I have moved my children 12 times since we left Brussels in 1987. It’s a wonder they are the relatively stable beings they are today. My eldest daughter, when she was very young, hated moving, she was even disturbed by a trip back to England to see grandparents. Once she knew it was about to happen she would pack her own little suitcase and sit on it in the hallway, as if we might forget her. Possibly the repeated experience desensitised her - or showed her she could cope. Not a bad result that.
We gyrated around their school so they didn't have the nightmare of new classmates to face each time, with one exception when I attempted to get them a more formal education than the local Steiner school was offering. We headed off into the unknown to start them as day pupils in the very prep. school the g’son is now attending (in those days it was up in the hills on its own instead of being, as it is now, on the same campus as the main school.) That didn’t work out and we had to retreat back down to sea level because they drooped like cut tulips after just a few short weeks.
Though most of the moves were probably quite unnecessary, a product of my restlessness and VERY wasteful of resources, I remember some quite fondly. The very repetitive nature of the event meant rituals developed. Sophie, the quietest child, took on the role of cat comforter. The cat, who was a huge, wise, and loving tabby tom, accepted the comforting gracefully, knowing it comforted the little girl to be cuddling and cosseting him. The other two were more physically involved with unpacking, walking the dog, exploring the new area, stopping the dog from chasing cows in nearby fields, or dragging furniture around until it was where I wanted it. They were also tearingly anxious to get their own rooms organised once rooms had been allotted to everyone’s satisfaction. At the end of the day we always sat down to a meal together which usually I cooked, because that’s what I liked to do, but on Moving Day there had to be a treat, and though there were few takeaways locally in those days, fish n’chips, pizza or a Chinese meal (the ultimate in sophistication) did feature if we were close enough to an outlet. As it was the first meal in the new house a bottle of wine was opened from which the three of them had small glasses to celebrate our arrival and I had a large glass (or two) to buck me up. Then I read rather more chapters than usual of some already well-known story until we were all falling asleep against each other in my bed. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ or ‘The Five Children and It’ were cosy favourites. Harry Potter would have been wonderful but wasn’t even a twinkle in his progenitor’s eye.
One move proved to me that the money spent on Playmobile over the years hadn’t been wasted. We had several pieces of flat-packed furniture delivered and after an brief pretence at reading instructions and managing operations I withdrew to read a book whilst they put together a wardrobe, high-rise bed and a desk by themselves. When they had finished all that was left was for me to check the nuts and bolts and graciously congratulate them on their efforts.
Possibly these moves helped to unite and bond us, rather like those corporate team building activity weekends that companies force their personnel to go on.
And maybe that’s what this move is missing. It’s just for me. On the other hand it didn’t feel like that when I came to this place, although none of the children were living at home then either. Somehow I didn’t notice it was just for me. I had the distraction of the recently discovered second-hand book trade and its apputernance, the weird quasi-relationship with the bookman. An interesting interlude that.
I suppose there’s no buzz to this move. Sad to admit, but I still need a buzz - though not one that involves either a man or a pet.
What’s left?
What comes next?
Evidently my psyche is disturbed. Bad dreams are waking me and intruding into my days.
Eldest daughter and her partner came by one weekend to clear out the garden shed. It hasn’t been cleared since I arrived eight years ago when I found I had inherited stuff from the last owner (some of it quite nice actually. An antique cache pot and other pretty flower pots for instance.) I’ve been bunging half-empty paint cans and oddments I can’t quite throw away, on top of her leavings in a deep litter sort of way ever since. The daughter likes a clear palette to work with and had determined to empty the shed out before she owns it so she arrived with sleeves rolled high and directed me to stay indoors whilst they dragged everything out into the light of day. They asked me to check the pile over before it got taken to the recycling yard.
Boxes of fibre glass for repairing surf boards; bamboo shelving; old coat hooks; dozens and dozens of plastic flower pots; bags of material collected for collage-making; a rusty iron barbecue; a trolley used once in the shop until the wheel dropped off; an old table used in the shop until there was no room for it; the bookshop swing sign; stone vinegar bottles bought at the auction rooms in a distracted moment; a couple of oil paintings bought at the same place in the same sort of moment; dozens of jam jars for jam I don’t bother to make any more and I had forgotten about them anyway; a saucepan stand (I saved that for plants); broken tools; pieces of wood that might be useful; boxes that might be useful; a comfy, once pretty chair that unfolds into a bed but the cat sharpened its claws on it till the stuffing started to show and then the rabbit ate bits of it away whilst it was holidaying with me (I can’t bear to see animals caged so I let the rabbit loose in the sun room where it ate through the electric wiring of two lamps, dug into the earth of the plants it could reach and chewed up this chair. I think it enjoyed its holiday.) More wood. A couple of broken shovels, one for snow - should have kept that - garden tools with rotting wooden handles; more boxes; more wood; another barbecue; charcoal; half-empty packets of potting compost; a broken tool box; one of those gizmos for storing lots of different screws and bits in little drawers; a metal filing box, and so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
How had it all fitted into the little shed? I watched it being loaded onto the trailer and driven away and felt - bereft.
That night I dreamt the shed was collapsing because without the contents there was nothing to hold it up. Worse still, I found myself inside the shed trying to convince everyone to get out before it buried us, then, when I looked outside, I saw a concrete yard with a great hole just where I was about to step and the hole went down and down and down ..... I woke sweating.
Like I said, I’m finding this move unexpectedly traumatic.
Two weeks to go before I move and, though in some ways it should, if all goes smoothly, be the easiest of the many, many moves I’ve made, I’m finding it unexpectedly traumatic. Probably the thought that it might be my final move before the Last Great Removal to the Hereafter isn’t making me more cheerful. Some folk seem to like the idea that they will settle into a house and never move again. I don’t. It is in my genes to want to keep moving. My maternal grandfather was a Mover. He sold one house on the same day they took possession of it and before my grandmother had had time to unpack. He went to the pub whilst she was emptying tea chests (women’s work in those days was it?) returned after an hour or two, a bit tipsy, and told her to reverse into packing mode because he'd sold the house and farm to a bloke he'd met at the bar. No need for HIPS or Estate Agents in those days, they just shook on it.
I still remember the exotic smell of tea chests. It helped to give each move a promise of faraway places and adventure, but they could also deliver nasty cuts from strips of metal round the edges.
Every move I have made since I left the family home to go to college felt like a step along the way to something better. Wishful thinking it may have been , but I’ve not been good at living in the NOW. I am the personification of divine discontent (Who first used that phrase? Sometimes Wikipedia just lets you down totally. When I tried to find the source of it Wiki came up with some American band.) Misguided I may have been but moving does bring with it welcome fresh air to life. It’s not a bad substitute for travel when travel isn’t a viable option.
In search of the indefinable, possibly the ineffable, I have moved my children 12 times since we left Brussels in 1987. It’s a wonder they are the relatively stable beings they are today. My eldest daughter, when she was very young, hated moving, she was even disturbed by a trip back to England to see grandparents. Once she knew it was about to happen she would pack her own little suitcase and sit on it in the hallway, as if we might forget her. Possibly the repeated experience desensitised her - or showed her she could cope. Not a bad result that.
We gyrated around their school so they didn't have the nightmare of new classmates to face each time, with one exception when I attempted to get them a more formal education than the local Steiner school was offering. We headed off into the unknown to start them as day pupils in the very prep. school the g’son is now attending (in those days it was up in the hills on its own instead of being, as it is now, on the same campus as the main school.) That didn’t work out and we had to retreat back down to sea level because they drooped like cut tulips after just a few short weeks.
Though most of the moves were probably quite unnecessary, a product of my restlessness and VERY wasteful of resources, I remember some quite fondly. The very repetitive nature of the event meant rituals developed. Sophie, the quietest child, took on the role of cat comforter. The cat, who was a huge, wise, and loving tabby tom, accepted the comforting gracefully, knowing it comforted the little girl to be cuddling and cosseting him. The other two were more physically involved with unpacking, walking the dog, exploring the new area, stopping the dog from chasing cows in nearby fields, or dragging furniture around until it was where I wanted it. They were also tearingly anxious to get their own rooms organised once rooms had been allotted to everyone’s satisfaction. At the end of the day we always sat down to a meal together which usually I cooked, because that’s what I liked to do, but on Moving Day there had to be a treat, and though there were few takeaways locally in those days, fish n’chips, pizza or a Chinese meal (the ultimate in sophistication) did feature if we were close enough to an outlet. As it was the first meal in the new house a bottle of wine was opened from which the three of them had small glasses to celebrate our arrival and I had a large glass (or two) to buck me up. Then I read rather more chapters than usual of some already well-known story until we were all falling asleep against each other in my bed. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ or ‘The Five Children and It’ were cosy favourites. Harry Potter would have been wonderful but wasn’t even a twinkle in his progenitor’s eye.
One move proved to me that the money spent on Playmobile over the years hadn’t been wasted. We had several pieces of flat-packed furniture delivered and after an brief pretence at reading instructions and managing operations I withdrew to read a book whilst they put together a wardrobe, high-rise bed and a desk by themselves. When they had finished all that was left was for me to check the nuts and bolts and graciously congratulate them on their efforts.
Possibly these moves helped to unite and bond us, rather like those corporate team building activity weekends that companies force their personnel to go on.
And maybe that’s what this move is missing. It’s just for me. On the other hand it didn’t feel like that when I came to this place, although none of the children were living at home then either. Somehow I didn’t notice it was just for me. I had the distraction of the recently discovered second-hand book trade and its apputernance, the weird quasi-relationship with the bookman. An interesting interlude that.
I suppose there’s no buzz to this move. Sad to admit, but I still need a buzz - though not one that involves either a man or a pet.
What’s left?
What comes next?
Evidently my psyche is disturbed. Bad dreams are waking me and intruding into my days.
Eldest daughter and her partner came by one weekend to clear out the garden shed. It hasn’t been cleared since I arrived eight years ago when I found I had inherited stuff from the last owner (some of it quite nice actually. An antique cache pot and other pretty flower pots for instance.) I’ve been bunging half-empty paint cans and oddments I can’t quite throw away, on top of her leavings in a deep litter sort of way ever since. The daughter likes a clear palette to work with and had determined to empty the shed out before she owns it so she arrived with sleeves rolled high and directed me to stay indoors whilst they dragged everything out into the light of day. They asked me to check the pile over before it got taken to the recycling yard.
Boxes of fibre glass for repairing surf boards; bamboo shelving; old coat hooks; dozens and dozens of plastic flower pots; bags of material collected for collage-making; a rusty iron barbecue; a trolley used once in the shop until the wheel dropped off; an old table used in the shop until there was no room for it; the bookshop swing sign; stone vinegar bottles bought at the auction rooms in a distracted moment; a couple of oil paintings bought at the same place in the same sort of moment; dozens of jam jars for jam I don’t bother to make any more and I had forgotten about them anyway; a saucepan stand (I saved that for plants); broken tools; pieces of wood that might be useful; boxes that might be useful; a comfy, once pretty chair that unfolds into a bed but the cat sharpened its claws on it till the stuffing started to show and then the rabbit ate bits of it away whilst it was holidaying with me (I can’t bear to see animals caged so I let the rabbit loose in the sun room where it ate through the electric wiring of two lamps, dug into the earth of the plants it could reach and chewed up this chair. I think it enjoyed its holiday.) More wood. A couple of broken shovels, one for snow - should have kept that - garden tools with rotting wooden handles; more boxes; more wood; another barbecue; charcoal; half-empty packets of potting compost; a broken tool box; one of those gizmos for storing lots of different screws and bits in little drawers; a metal filing box, and so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
How had it all fitted into the little shed? I watched it being loaded onto the trailer and driven away and felt - bereft.
That night I dreamt the shed was collapsing because without the contents there was nothing to hold it up. Worse still, I found myself inside the shed trying to convince everyone to get out before it buried us, then, when I looked outside, I saw a concrete yard with a great hole just where I was about to step and the hole went down and down and down ..... I woke sweating.
Like I said, I’m finding this move unexpectedly traumatic.
21 Oct 2010
Half term concert at the school last night. It began, as is customary, with the pipes. Eight young pipers and their leader marched into a gloomy auditorium lit by a single light and full of atmospheric grey smoke, to play ‘MacPherson’s Lament’ in front of a screen on which was projected a lonely grey seascape. Very effective, but I was sneezing and wheezing because of the smoke. (For details on MacPherson, poor chap, and the dirty deed done to him, see note below)
It was a good, varied, programme and slickly presented with recorded music in the intervals for chair arranging, suitable images on the screen during the performance and a nice mix of classical, celtic and modern (-ish 'Octupuses Garden, Yellow Submarine, ones I could silently sing along to..) It all hung together beautifully. ‘Panis Angelicus’ sung by well-scrubbed eight year olds with sweet, clear voices and grave upturned faces is always a winner. A twelve year old girl with a voice to rival Charlotte Church sang ‘O Danny Boy’ - you’d have to be totally soulless not to be moved. The g’son, now a first string in the senior strings, loves his violin but loves rugby more and the rehearsal had clashed with rugby practice so he lost the plot a bit during the ‘Ode to Joy’ He had the wit to stop until he could start again and I don't think anyone but us noticed!
There are some amazingly talented children. The solo violinist comes from a musical family (enviable) and plays two other instruments. The piece he played even I could tell was complicated with finger plucking and sliding and loads of twiddly bits - I don't remember the title. He made it all look so easy.
The rock band did a number too late for me to ever have heard of (I stopped listening to pop music after 1973) The lyrics, such as they were, were sung by the next Lady Gaga. Glad I don’t teach her!!
The evening ended with the unfortunate choice (considering yesterday's news about the air base closing) of the jolly gospel song 'I'll Fly Away.' They sang it with gusto.
MacPherson's Lament. Composed by James MacPherson himself in Prison on the eve of his execution for cattle rustling. Born in 1675, the son of a gypsy woman and a highland laird. James, a fine fiddler, became the Leader of an unlawful gypsy gang plundering the North East of Scotland living off their spoils and sharing them out with the less fortunate. He was eventually caught in the town of Keith while being chased through the streets by the bailiffs where a woman threw a blanket out of a window trapping James. He was tried in Banff, found guilty and was sentenced to hang by the magistrates. On the day of his execution in Banff the magistrates knew there was a reprieve coming from Aberdeen and put the town clock forward by 20 minutes so James could be hanged before the specified time. On the gallows he played this tune then offered his fiddle to anyone in his clan who would play it at his wake. When no one came forward to take the fiddle, he broke it then threw it into the crowd. The broken fiddle now lies in a folk museum near Newtonmore. The Magistrates were punished for this and the town clock was kept 20 minutes behind the correct time for many years. Even to this day the town of Macduff has its west facing town clock covered so the people of Banff can't see the correct time!
It was a good, varied, programme and slickly presented with recorded music in the intervals for chair arranging, suitable images on the screen during the performance and a nice mix of classical, celtic and modern (-ish 'Octupuses Garden, Yellow Submarine, ones I could silently sing along to..) It all hung together beautifully. ‘Panis Angelicus’ sung by well-scrubbed eight year olds with sweet, clear voices and grave upturned faces is always a winner. A twelve year old girl with a voice to rival Charlotte Church sang ‘O Danny Boy’ - you’d have to be totally soulless not to be moved. The g’son, now a first string in the senior strings, loves his violin but loves rugby more and the rehearsal had clashed with rugby practice so he lost the plot a bit during the ‘Ode to Joy’ He had the wit to stop until he could start again and I don't think anyone but us noticed!
There are some amazingly talented children. The solo violinist comes from a musical family (enviable) and plays two other instruments. The piece he played even I could tell was complicated with finger plucking and sliding and loads of twiddly bits - I don't remember the title. He made it all look so easy.
The rock band did a number too late for me to ever have heard of (I stopped listening to pop music after 1973) The lyrics, such as they were, were sung by the next Lady Gaga. Glad I don’t teach her!!
The evening ended with the unfortunate choice (considering yesterday's news about the air base closing) of the jolly gospel song 'I'll Fly Away.' They sang it with gusto.
MacPherson's Lament. Composed by James MacPherson himself in Prison on the eve of his execution for cattle rustling. Born in 1675, the son of a gypsy woman and a highland laird. James, a fine fiddler, became the Leader of an unlawful gypsy gang plundering the North East of Scotland living off their spoils and sharing them out with the less fortunate. He was eventually caught in the town of Keith while being chased through the streets by the bailiffs where a woman threw a blanket out of a window trapping James. He was tried in Banff, found guilty and was sentenced to hang by the magistrates. On the day of his execution in Banff the magistrates knew there was a reprieve coming from Aberdeen and put the town clock forward by 20 minutes so James could be hanged before the specified time. On the gallows he played this tune then offered his fiddle to anyone in his clan who would play it at his wake. When no one came forward to take the fiddle, he broke it then threw it into the crowd. The broken fiddle now lies in a folk museum near Newtonmore. The Magistrates were punished for this and the town clock was kept 20 minutes behind the correct time for many years. Even to this day the town of Macduff has its west facing town clock covered so the people of Banff can't see the correct time!
18 Oct 2010
White Poppy time again.
The White Poppy symbolises the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers. Our work, primarily educational, draws attention to many of our social values and habits which make continuing violence a likely outcome.
From economic reliance on arms sales (Britain is the world's second largest arms exporter) to maintaining manifestly useless nuclear weapons Britain contributes significantly to international instability. The outcome of the recent military adventures highlights their ineffectiveness in today's complex world.
Now 90 years after the end of the ‘war to end all wars’ we still have a long way to go to put an end to a social institution, which in the last decade alone killed over 10 million children.
If we really want to abolish the military and all that goes with it, we must first abolish the last remaining justification for it in the eyes of the general public.
http://www.ppu.org.uk/poppy/
http://www.ppu.org.uk/peacematters/peacematters/2008/2008c03.html
The above is all from the Peace Poppy site and I put up it here years ago. This year I'm frustrated and upset at not being able to wear a peace poppy because my daughter is afraid it will offend her many RAF patients and customers who probably wouldn't stop to have the principles explained to them they'd just take umbrage. It's her shop so I don't feel I can rebel but I shan't be wearing a red one.
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