Margaret has inspired me. I simply haven't been able to find anything blog worthy to write about. Then I read about making beds and I'm trotting off down memory lane.
As a child, our beds had to be made before we left for school, no matter how we protested that it would make us late and "I was making my bed", to the nuns, was not an acceptable excuse. Even when we were at high school and "I'll miss the train" was the cry and there wasn't another for half an hour, those beds still had to be made. After missing the train once and being very late for school I quickly learned to allow just a few more minutes for that bedmaking.
I shared a bedroom with my sister and got into the routine of having my bed made and be well clear of the bedroom before she made hers or there would be a sisterly squabble (polite way of saying all in fight) as she just threw the cover over the tangled sheets and got away with it. I don't know if I was more annoyed about her not doing it right (in my book) or not being chastised for the sloppiness. I guess Mum with her horde of children just wanted the beds to look made.
I'm trying to remember who taught me how to do hospital corners. I think it may have been my grandmother. I don't know why Esme missed out on that lesson, the next younger sister is still a real hospital corner-er. I know that all my life I've believed that is the only way to make a bed properly. I drilled it into my children. Or at least I did my best to. Don't think I was very successful with the boys. When my oldest son was 16 he went to board at Flock House, an agricultural and farm training school and I upped the level of bed making supervision. I wasn't about to be shamed by any lack of skill on his part. I was delighted when we made our first visit (Flock House was about an 8 hour drive from where we lived) and he showed us around his room. I admired his beautifully made bed, had my proud mum moment as he lifted the cover to show me the smooth sheets beneath and explained Matron inspected the beds every morning and there were consequences if the bottom sheet was messy and the covers just thrown over the bed. Even I thought that was a bit harsh but he explained you soon learn how to lift your bum when you turn over so you don't mess up the sheets.
I think it might be because of that hospital corner thing, being proud of a well made bed that has lead to me having a weakness for good bed linen. It's one of the very few things in which I indulge myself. At the time of purchase, sheets I bought in 1989 were unbelievably expensive, a total indulgence. But I parted with the last one just last week. Well, not completely parted. I cut away the material that I couldn't see through and kept it for cleaning cloths.
Luckily, my younger daughter had given me a set of beautiful sheets for Christmas. And my grandson had given me a lovely pair of pillow cases and one of those dressy blankets that you casually drape across your bed to give it that air of elegance. I don't think I do 'the drape' properly. I'm afraid my interior design fashion sense is still back in the 50s and 60s and I prefer a spare blanket to be folded neatly across the foot of the bed.
Our days are a little cooler, soon it will be time to swap out the bedlinen for winter.
While I'm rabbiting on about my old fashioned ways...
On a quiz show I was watching last night a question came up asking a contestant to identify an adverb from a list of four words, you know A,B,C or D. The youngish contestant looked blank and the quizz master asked him had he done any parsing at school to which the contestant looked totally blank.
Shortly afterwards on the News a commentator said, "I personally" and I thought they could make a quiz question about that these days. Then. Horror! I couldn't remember what that was called when you say the same thing twice with different words, like close proximity (one of my pet hates).
While I was looking it up, it dawned on me I was wasting my time because who cares these days? Only old dinosaurs like me. Grammar has gone to hell in a handbasket, most newsreaders and journalists take no care with the words they choose. Our Prime Minister mispronounces words constantly and my grandchildren imitate that pronunciation.
I thought having a rant would make me feel better. It's just riled me up. And was it necessary to add "up" at the end of that sentence? Oh, I know, I know, everyday usage and all that, English is a living language, yeah, yeah. I'm going now.
PS I have no idea why there are different colours highlighted in this post. Blogger is conspiring against me.