The one thing I love about reading Elisabeth’s posts is the amount of comments she gets creating a great thread of reads. Today she’s posting about her Top Favourite Christmas Traditions which, of course, got me thinking about traditions my parents created for us, as kids. Sadly, we don’t have that many these days.

The one’s I remember the most were:

1. We were only allowed to open items in our stockings however much, or little, that might be, till the adults were up. Then, and only then, could we start the present unwrapping.
2. Main presents were unwrapped in order. In other words, oldest to youngest or, alternate years, youngest to oldest. This meant our unwrapping ceremony could take upwards of an hour or two depending on how many presents everyone had. In later years it took longer as we all had more money to spend. But, as a small child? We had maybe 2 main presents max so it didn’t take too long back then.
3. A full English breakfast was always after the presents were unwrapped and everyone sat around the table together, no exceptions. The same for our main dinner, which came usually around 3-4 pm in the afternoon.
4. Decorating the tree and the house, where ever we were living at the time, was always done as a family.
5. Because we were military brats, we always got to go to a concert, on mass, Christmas eve, and sang lots of carols. The bribe? The after party.

Our traditions now consist mainly of going to my sister in law’s on Christmas Eve for a party and dinner followed by present swapping. And though most unwrap their gifts then and there, me and mine always bring at least one home to put under the tree, joining our own, to open on Christmas Day.

I’ve had an internal monolog running in my head since I was probably 3-4 years old. I know I spent a lot of those first aware years—between 3 and 5—firing questions at my father almost non-stop. Asking him why this, or why that. Questions he always patiently answered. And, despite my best efforts to seemingly thwart him, he always had an answer for me. Whether any of those answers were scientifically correct was neither here nor there. If I wanted to know why whales had holes on the top of the head, my father had an answer for me.

Our routine got so that he started calling me, Miss Why. He would come home from work, and we would share dinner together—this mostly because at the time I refused to eat all day long till Daddy came home, and I insisted then on eating what he ate. This phase lasted a very long time, throughout the three years we lived in Hong Kong I think. What broke that particular streak? Him eating tripe (sheep’s intestines and stomach lining) and onions for dinner one night.

Of course, there was no way this stubborn 5 year old was eating that.

And so, at roughly the same time I started full time school, I stopped having dinner with my father, and started eating with the other kids, my siblings. And, in doing so, apparently, turned my torrent of non stop thought into firing endless questions at them.

You may ask me why I never spent my day firing questions at my mother and the answer could probably be because, as a small child, I spent a lot of those early years going everywhere with her. And, in doing so, we talked all day long about everything. Our conversations always, without me realising, being her teaching me and, in her own way, answering questions before I even asked them.

That inquisitive internal monolog hasn’t quietened or for one second stopped (other than, quite possibly, in deep sleep). I’m still asking questions like, “What do ants do when it rains?”

​These days, without siblings or parents to bombard with questions, I use my writing as an outlet, plus scribbling furiously into a daily journal like my life depended on it. And, in a way, I suppose it does.

And you, are you always eternally asking questions?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

One of my all-time favourite sweets as a child were Bassetts Jelly Babies. And I mean the original flour dusted version, not the more recent Maynards version. As anyone who is a regular reader to this blog might know by now is, most of my favourite things have came to me by way of my family.

Jelly Babies are no exception. This particular love was gifted me by my gran, Mary Anne. My dad’s mother.

There are a few things I particularly remember about her with a fondness, and they were:

• Her love of pig-shaped piggy banks (she had dozens of them).
• Her proclivity for boiling a kettle on an old WWII paraffin stove she kept way too close to her armchair.
• Her prized roses, which were older than me at the time.
• And her love of Bassetts Jelly Babies.

She always had a crumpled bag of them at hand. A bag I was convinced filled up magically overnight, as there always seemed to be an endless supply whenever I visited her after school.
Of course my visits became a ritual. We would sit and chat about the day, I’d make tea for her, and we’d eat a jelly baby, or three, then I would help her in her tiny postage stamp sized garden keeping her roses in check. She would always give me a small bunch to take home for my mother, who adored the smell.

For me, the best part of these after school afternoon visit was, of course, seeing my gran, but also, the jelly babies. And so, long after my Gran had passed, I would buy a quarter pound of Jelly Babies every week to keep my connection to her, and keep those memories of her alive.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Fun Facts:
Did you know, Jelly Babies were invented in 1864 by an Austrian immigrant working at Fryers of Lancashire, and were originally marketed as “Unclaimed Babies”. By 1918 they were produced by Bassett’s in Sheffield as “Peace Babies”, to mark the end of World War I. Bassett’s themselves supported the “Peace Babies” name.

Also, more recently, I think it was the 90s? Bassett’s allocated individual names, shapes, colours and flavour to different “babies”: Brilliant (red; strawberry), Bubbles (yellow; lemon), Baby Bonny (pink; raspberry), Boofuls (green; lime), Bigheart (purple; blackcurrant) and Bumper (orange).

I’ve never really thought about it before this morning, thinking I don’t have an online brand per se, but the truth is, when I looked closer, yes, I do. And it’s quite distinctive. From the choice of fonts I like to use because of the way they look, to the colours I choose for links, and the fact I like clean, crisp, uncluttered white space.

I think most of this stems from when I changed jobs moving from the stress of air traffic control (from my time in the military) to publishing when computers were moving full time into the work place. I gravitated to both, and combining the two, had a thirty plus year career in print & publishing.

Obviously, working within this dynamically changing arena has informed my online presence in subtle ways I hadn’t really notice before. Of course it did. My artistic side has had training and now, has free reign to create in a way that’s simplistic and understated. I crafted any number of magazines back in the day. I’m not saying I didn’t go bold, and wild, and out there. I did. Especially when I worked on the early incarnation of UK music magazine, MOJO. Those first few issues, setting up a brand and style, were some of the most fun I’ve ever had in a job.

And while I have had that background in print from those years, whether it was magazines or technical journals and handbooks, through to fiction, my own style has been growing, changing and forming quietly in the background, as I’ve learnt what I like. What works for me, as a person.

I think that’s part of the reason I gravitated to WordPress after trying out other platforms that put too much emphasis on what goes on under the hood rather than with the visuals, the layout and style. This website gives me the ability to craft almost anything I set your mind to. And that works perfectly for me, and so many others who use WordPress.

So, here I am, with my own online style, one I hope is simple and understated.

And you, do you have a brand or style that you’ve created specifically, or discovered?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I’m nondescript. Of average female height, do not stand out in a crowd as such, and am probably considered average to look at with short semi blond mousy hair, petaled blue eyes and an unmemorable face unless, you are paying attention. Then, you might see the small scar to one side of my nose, and then remark on the odd shaped nose sat above somewhat thin lips.

Definitely not pretty and nothing to write home about. Sometimes this to my advantage if I want to disappear into a crowd and not be noticed. But mostly it means I get served last at the deli counter when I go in for sliced meat or potato salad.

Does that matter in the long run? Probably not. When you look at the big picture being average is okay, most of the time. I can’t say I enjoy it when I want prompt service, but hey, it’s something I’ve adapted to however much I wish otherwise. This is it, this is my life and, at my age, it’s a little late to complain or, worse, try to change.

I am who I am. I look how I do thanks to my parents and a random set of genes shaken not stirred to perfection. Thankfully, I’m use to the face that stares back at me from out of the mirror (hi, Alex).

And you?

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧