M.G.S. Magazine - July 1956

Once upon a time, a very long, long time ago, before the Stone Age, people used to run up and down the length of Old English with nothing on but a thin coating of woad. One day a pretty little cave-girl saw a dead sabre-toothed tiger. It had a lovely coat of thick warm hair and as it was very cold and the tiger no longer needed a coat where he was going—he had been a bad tiger in his time—the little girl slit the tiger open. She carefully pulled his coat off. She cleaned it, scrubbed it and cut the head off it. Then she quickly threw it round herself. Suddenly there was a transformation in the whole outlook of life—the first fur coat had been made.

The girl stepped outside the cave and swaggered up and down the nearby valleys in her "coat." All the cave-girls were cross because their folk were always looking at "the girl in the coat", with the result that before long all the girls had tiger coats. Then someone killed a hyena and made a hyena coat. Of course every girl had to have a hyena coat or she would not be looked at.

It seems to me that clothes, especially women's clothes, determine the fashion of all other things. If a lady buys a blue coat, for instance, she also wants a blue hat, blue gloves, shoes and handbag in no other colour. Some even have blue hair, blue nails and blue noses! Rut of course they are in the minority. If this lady goes for a car ride (it is of paramount importance that she rides, she cannot walk because of her "pencil" skirt), it must be in a blue car with blue decor. Perhaps you can work out for yourselves what other results that blue coat may have.

The secrets of the fashion house are more closely guarded than most War Department documents. When a photograph is taken of a model wearing a new creation, it is taken in the Sahara Desert, a police cordon is put round the scene and the print brought back to London, Paris or wherever it may be, handcuffed to the designer who is under military escort!

A modern hat might consist of a feather with a twist in one end. The price? Fourteen pounds—one for the feather and thirteen for the twist.

Hairdressing is a trade that relies on fashions. There are thousands of ways in which the hair can be set. You can even have styles concocted for a particular occasion or a particular gown.

But enough for women's fashions: what about men's? Their fashions are, on the whole, more stable, although even they have crazes. The latest is the Edwardian lad, who really ought to come under the female class, most of those subscribing to this craze wear their hair almost in plaits which they could fasten with their "boot lace" ties: they bounce down the street riding on six-inch thick rubber soled shoes and then stop on a corner and proceed to sharpen their razors on their sleeves.

Then there is the Government official who wears black everything and looks most officious.

As for sensible fashions, well that depends....................... After all, no doubt the exponents of all the above think they are sensible and who are we to set ourselves up as sartorial judges?

It was a hot day in June just after hay-making when the farm was having one of its comparatively easy times. I had been to the village and was going across the fields home when I saw smoke rising in the distance. 1 hurried towards it and to my horror 1 found that the smoke was coming from the largest haystack. I knew enough to realize that if we completely lost this stack we should be short of hay for the animals in the winter. As I rushed the last few yards home my father came to ask what was wrong and I at once pointed to the hay rick, too short of breath to speak.

When I got indoors the fire brigade was being sent for and mother and 1 lost no time in getting all the buckets and fire fighting appliances we could find. Luckily our farm hands were still at the farm so they were able to help until the fire brigade arrived. As there was a fairly deep irrigation ditch near the fire we did not lack water. But just as we got ourselves organised and we could hear the fire engine coming in the distance, who should come on the scene but Mrs. Dalrymple-Pick with her dogs, two silly little dashcunds. She at once stated the obvious by saying "Poh! I see you've got on fire," and then began criticising everything we were doing and telling us what to do, but never helping. Needless to say we took no notice of her. In another few minutes the fire brigade arrived and did not waste any time in getting the hoses working. Soon the flames were getting smaller and then to an occasional flicker, but there was still a lot of smoke and then some blew into Mrs. .Dalrymple-Pick. This resulted in her having a fit of mild hysteria which took mother some time to soothe.

When all was calmed down a bit and the firemen were packing up, father took a look at the rick and discoyered that the damage wasn't as bad as expected, and quite a lot of the hay could be used. Going home to supper we began discussing who could have pet fire to the hay. We came to. the con­clusion that it hadn't been deliberate but someone out for a walk had probably thrown a cigarette end away without looking where it was going, and it had set fire to the hay stack thus nearly costing us the loss of winter food for the animals.

I was in the front room on Friday morning reading a book when I heard the gate click, so out of pure curiosity I looked out of the window and there walking up the garden path was a policeman. My father answered the door and I heard him take the policeman into the living room and close the door.

I turned abruptly and sat down and thought of all the things I had done. As I sat there thinking, I heard a door open and close. I sat bolt upright in sheer panic. I heard the tick-tock of the grandfather clock which ticked away the seconds slowly and monotonously, and seemed suddenly much louder than usual. Suddenly in a rush came the things I had done. The apples from the private orchard, the dust-bin I'd tipped up, the three greenhouse panes I'd smashed with my catapult, the window I'd broken with my football and lots of other things crowded into my mind.

Then quite suddenly and very loud I heard the milk-man shouting down the street, I'd never heard it before from inside the house and now somehow it frightened me, and after he had left the road the words still hummed in my ears.

I stood up and started walking up and down the room. I was scared stiff by now. It must be something serious for them to be so long. The smell of dinner wafted into the room and suddenly I did not feel hungry any more. I just wanted to get out of the house, but my feet would not let me. I just had to find out, even if it meant trouble for me.

At last the policeman and Dad came out of the living-room. I heard Dad say good-bye to the policeman and shut the door. Now for it, but to my surprise Dad was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

"Congratulations, son," he said. "I'm proud of you." I was staggered and wondered what on earth had happened. "What for?" I stammered at last.

"You mean to say you don't know?"

"No," I replied.

"Why, bless my soul, don't you remember rescuing Mrs. Grey's cat from the river?"

"Blimey! I'd forgotten that," I cried.

"Never mind," said Father, "you'll get a reward from Mrs. Grey." With this he walked out of the room. Well now that was over my appetite returned so 1 went into dinner with a light heart.

"Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the Youth of the Realm in erecting a Grammar School."—Shakespeare.   2 Henry IV.

Why.  oh why, should sisters have to endure younger brothers ?      This is typical of what I endure in one day:—

First thing in the morning I am awakened by the groaning of overworked springs as my brother accompanies Kit Carson down the trail—not without wild shrieks as rustlers are sighted at the bottom of his bed. An imaginary gun battle follows, which rouses me completely from the drowsy condition I had hoped I was in. Muttering furiously, I get dressed to go to the bath­room—to find the door slammed in my face as young brother beats me to it by about two seconds.

However, keeping my temper under firm control, I go downstairs after a wash for breakfast, only to find most of it already eaten.

I am almost ready to depart for school when I discover my Latin home­work is missing. I eventually find it hidden under a chair—by young brother, of course. This makes me late for school, earns me a sharp reprimand from the prefect on duty, who usually has to ask me where my beret is. I hurriedly place it on my head, whereupon a shower of small stones descends about my ears—my brother at work again.

After a day of hard work I totter home. "I'm afraid the fire's gone out— can you light it again?" greets me as I open the door. I usually do, just before Mum comes home. Then after tea—my own homework and usually half of his as well. Finally, I go to bed and fall asleep with the familiar Kit Carson shrieks echoing in my ears…….

What a life!

I wasn't feeling too good. The butterflies in my stomach had become frightened at the thought of a Spinal Fluid Test and were flapping all over the place in their agitation.

Yes, this was to be my very first stay in hospital. I had no more idea than the man-in-the-moon what they were going to do with me, and if I had known I should have gone to live with the man-in-the-moon.

As soon as I arrived I was whisked away by an efficient sister and placed in an empty children's ward. I was given a bed that was inches too short and a nightdress that was inches too tight, and my feet were like blocks of ice resting on the cold rubber sheeting covering the bottom half of the mattress.

Sometime later a nurse came to "get me ready for the doctor." I had to have my posterior hanging over one side of the bed and my knees in my chest, and this posture was not easy to maintain for long—with my not too agile frame.

A trolley was then wheeled in, and by twisting my neck until it nearly resembled a corkscrew I was able to see that it contained an assortment of needles, cotton wool, labelled bottles for the Spinal Fluid, and a horrible-looking bottle marked "Aether Meth."

At last the doctor arrived. He was very tall, dark and handsome. He put on his mask and then prepared for the operation. He rubbed my back with Aether Meth. and nearly put me to sleep in the act, and then realised that he hadn't the right Lumbar Puncture needle. Back I got into bed and remained there until after lunch. That was cold, also, as the maid had had to leave it while she found out if I had to be fed or not. Anyway, they let me feed myself.

About one o'clock the doctor decided to pay me another visit. This time he had the needle but grumbled because his mask and towel weren't sterile. It was not very surprising, as he had just dropped them on the floor.

Once more I was rubbed with that detestable Aether Meth. Then an injection followed. A sickening feeling spread through my Alimentary Canal as the needle ran through the Vertebral Column, and a chilling feeling ran up my spine as the anaesthetic numbed the nerves. I gripped the nurse's hand, shut my eyes and told my dinner to go back to the stomach. It obeyed my orders, thank goodness! The anaesthetic needle was pulled out and another took its place. I could feel the liquid being drawn out of my spine. It seemed an eternity before the needle was removed and the doctor's saying, "It's all over now, young lady." I turned over and saw him placing two bottles of straw-coloured fluid on the tray, and a blood and fluid-soaked towel he had taken from under me.

After that I was left to myself and had to lie on my back all the time. Just before going home I was given tea and biscuits and also, as a special favour, a piece of cake that should have been at the Nurse's New Year Party.

When the ambulance driver came for me, I was addressed as Mrs. A------------. I explained as gently as I could that I had not yet reached that dizzy height. I landed home in one piece and had to go straight to bed, where I remained for the greater part of four days getting over my first (and only!) day in hospital.