tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84236898620810616422024-03-05T13:00:31.165-08:00A Writer's DiaryHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-30297562861131208742012-08-17T01:10:00.000-07:002012-08-17T01:10:03.855-07:00A new family member. Introducing Darcey Rae SavellDarcey Rae, my great-granddaughter, is now about one and a half and I am just beginning to get to know her.<br />
She has very busy parents; one works at night the other in the day. It was not possible to have much 'together' time with Darcey and the rest of the family. We just had to wait and be patient until my grandson, Ben, could find time to bring her to us.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZOPvtnzZfHB0lgVGydUm6WYe-v3NdZ4wMWeINHf0q49XH69Bu-iHLXCpQBIzRhxFaIFkSwiUDnPs2vj5VXuataBmYaggYZeg7G-dwa-wdzoKgtb1IsUmuB1uf8hqESBOykR_T7pJaxVq/s1600/DSCF3222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZOPvtnzZfHB0lgVGydUm6WYe-v3NdZ4wMWeINHf0q49XH69Bu-iHLXCpQBIzRhxFaIFkSwiUDnPs2vj5VXuataBmYaggYZeg7G-dwa-wdzoKgtb1IsUmuB1uf8hqESBOykR_T7pJaxVq/s320/DSCF3222.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I have now seen her several times and we are beginning to make friends. She is such an amazing little character. I love her to bits! She has a great character and is very determined.<br />
Blonde hair and china blue eyes help to make this little doll a beauty. She has her Mum's hair and eyes but there is quite a lot of Ben in her facial expressions - she certainly has his character! Watch out world for this soon to be 'heart catcher'!Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-60531799801906388872011-12-21T14:11:00.000-08:002011-12-21T14:15:42.939-08:00Riverside StudioTerry and I went to watch 'The Important of Being Earnest' in London today. The cast was amazingly good and Gyles Brandreth's performance as Lady Bracknell was excellent.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-81414094064796905072011-12-16T02:52:00.000-08:002011-12-16T03:23:53.312-08:00Published Book 'TRUE CHILDREN OF THE RAJ'It's been ages since I've been on this site. <br /><br />At last I am a published author with a book entitled 'True Children of the Raj'. I hope it will get some recognition. It is available to buy on amazon.co.uk, amazon.com. No thumbnail image yet as it is newly published but it should be on soon.<br /><br />It is a book in epistolary format as letters addressed to my grandchildren, enlightening them of their Indian roots through ancestry. There is a history of Raj days; history of India going back to BCE with geographical details of both India and Pakistan. The book has coloured illustrations. I lived in Pakistan through and after the partition as we were stationed in Lahore and did not move as we were not Muslim; not Hindu but Christians and Anglo Indians. We had no need to run either way; we desired to stay in Lahore and so we stayed put through the carnage, the suffering and slaughter. We opted to stay in Lahore because we loved it. The days of horror and blood letting of 1947 was a part of what I personally experienced, but we still stayed on till 1962. My children were born there and I have a personal love for both India and Pakistan as I travelled through both countries. I love the people and the topography of each country, though sadly now divided. Perhaps one day both countries will realise how strong they could be if they became one again!<br />The book is mostly about how Anglo Indians originated; that mixed hybrid race of beings that turned out beautiful and amazing. The East/West mixture of genes worked out well.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-44794525386594542352010-12-16T05:15:00.000-08:002010-12-16T05:20:26.898-08:00Great Hallingbury Manor - 85th Birthday Treats<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnVAa1EjguoAgP_viGP0Vdpm1cRvhIhQUffEBXnPXQRnMuBG7nxYCKz3LzCIXNY4-IkiVaCyrT9EI-RlSochezBT29XC7AGd1RSOa4oGMJqwpU32dnnqd5BCixOY4W8Oux_J7FR0Kiap_/s1600/Another+view+of+the+venue+-+22nd+Nov+2010.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnVAa1EjguoAgP_viGP0Vdpm1cRvhIhQUffEBXnPXQRnMuBG7nxYCKz3LzCIXNY4-IkiVaCyrT9EI-RlSochezBT29XC7AGd1RSOa4oGMJqwpU32dnnqd5BCixOY4W8Oux_J7FR0Kiap_/s320/Another+view+of+the+venue+-+22nd+Nov+2010.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551269337581631874" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFRNPZVvqG8u_1neETofT1VCI-bKEoq4HEU4rutD6yRoA36nI_P_KqMQYEuTzVBvhhPuRqg_KFN4hzlWqQJrrxNZ_Yn2LtavqyfFd62et5ZuuAmXp4P8yqZ07KpurDnxNuNBQULXlci6O/s1600/A+joyous+occasion+I+won%2527t+forget%2521+Thanks+Babes..JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidFRNPZVvqG8u_1neETofT1VCI-bKEoq4HEU4rutD6yRoA36nI_P_KqMQYEuTzVBvhhPuRqg_KFN4hzlWqQJrrxNZ_Yn2LtavqyfFd62et5ZuuAmXp4P8yqZ07KpurDnxNuNBQULXlci6O/s320/A+joyous+occasion+I+won%2527t+forget%2521+Thanks+Babes..JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551269131666601394" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRecAtWUAnsA1f6STAs5YUDvolqYfwU_GveKHvFNnzgrma0MVFOnkIdJTsINboNf-IWJtPJxh7HXsnESx9iB7EOHg9RtSX2HHFYWGfVhA7vmexJ-1E4cmQ1OLJeB2j5GO-d4gY34z-eJTu/s1600/A+special+treat+-+Champagne+Choc+Mousse+with+pineapples+crispsand+Strawbeyy+tarlets.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRecAtWUAnsA1f6STAs5YUDvolqYfwU_GveKHvFNnzgrma0MVFOnkIdJTsINboNf-IWJtPJxh7HXsnESx9iB7EOHg9RtSX2HHFYWGfVhA7vmexJ-1E4cmQ1OLJeB2j5GO-d4gY34z-eJTu/s320/A+special+treat+-+Champagne+Choc+Mousse+with+pineapples+crispsand+Strawbeyy+tarlets.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551268943664626786" /></a>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-19588190381799101632010-12-02T02:47:00.000-08:002010-12-02T03:44:02.771-08:00My 85 Birthday thoughtsOMG where have the years disappeared?!! I cannot believe that I am 85 but I am and thank God I am able to still enjoy life. I am a lucky person; a very lucky person. I am sort of mobile, with restrictions, but I have the capacity to thoroughly enjoy everything around me, especially my family. I see many younger than I yet worse off, both physically and mentally.<div><br /></div><div>The best thing in my life is that I am surrounded by love; love of my children and grandchildren and one little great grandchild and from extended members of family and tons of friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>Often, I am asked about the secret for my youthful looks. I really can't explain as I don't know. I think it is just a gift or a state of mind. Perhaps I just don't think 'old'. I don't associate the word with me even though I know that in actual years I am old. Perhaps my family keep me young looking but well and truly grounded! Anyway - who knows and who cares about looks? I am just grateful to be me the way I am and most grateful that my brain still works as do my reflexes!!</div><div><br /></div><div>My birthday started a week before the actual date. My two beautiful nieces took me to lunch at a very exclusive restaurant in Essex called Great Hallingbury Manor, Lakeside Restaurant. It was hard to choose the place my nieces thought good enough. There were many rejections until between C, B and me on the internet, we finally found what seemed good enough for their Aunt's luncheon! It was exclusive, expensive and exceptionally wonderful. B at last was satisfied. I felt like and was treated like a queen!</div><div><br /></div><div>The food was to die for. We were waited on like celebrities by the chef and two waiters. Nothing was too much trouble. I was presented with gifts and just about anything I wanted was there for me. One of my nieces is a gift from abroad; a birthday present by just being there. The other is like a ministering angel and spoiled me with expensive and thoughtful gifts. I love them both dearly. They are constantly in touch with me as is my niece in New Zealand and others from elsewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the 28 November my daughter and son-in-law from Houston, who I will in future refer to as 'the royals' arrived for yet more celebrations as it was royal HIS' birthday. We had a party in D & J's house which was just what everyone wanted and enjoyed. It went on for many hours. Then it continued at a friend's home, but I did not go as it was a bit late for some. However, I did wait up till midnight till the royals arrived to stay with me for a couple of nights.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, my birthday, T, I and D were taken out to lunch by my darling 'royals'; drank Champagne in the evening and had a few friends over.</div><div><br /></div><div>I received lots of presents and cards from family - all gratefully appreciated. One big surprise was a Kindle Reader from my very special cousin. So amazingly generous of him. He does not like me to say thanks too much - so just for the record, he has many thanks and my love. He won't read this!</div><div><br /></div><div>Well another year gone to enjoy my children, their children and my little great-grandchild and all my loving and devoted friends over the world and in UK.</div><div>Thank you everyone and thank you God!</div>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-90259269362189212272010-06-12T07:34:00.000-07:002010-06-12T07:54:17.611-07:00All about me!I cannot believe how long it's been since I wrote anything in my Diary! <br />I received a commnet yesterday on one of my posts and I suddenly remembered that I have this blog and should write my thoughts because that's what this diary is all about.<br /><br />Since last writing I have obtained two degrees, a BA Open and a BA Honours in Literature. So I have accomplished something.<br /><br />I am trying to learn French but find it difficult and sometimes quite tedious! I prefer Enlish Literature! Oh well, I think I will keep trying with French.<br /><br />My joy of travelling around the world has been curtailed because no insurance company will cover me because of my age (84) and ailment of angina. I still love to travel - be it by air, train, sea, bus or by car. I love to be on the move. I think I love the travel almost as much as getting 'there'. My travel space is now restricted to Europe and UK.<br /><br />Enough of me... I want to post something about someone I admire so please read on<br /><br />I have this hankering to go now with Science. I want to learn technology which seems such a switch at the age of 84, but I have an insatiable desire to acquire knowledge in many forms. My mind is hungry to learn. I have this aspiration to be a writer, but that too has been put on the shelf. I really must get on with these tasks that I have set myself.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-22243909810310824782009-10-26T12:51:00.000-07:002009-10-26T13:06:30.704-07:00A Tribute to an Autumn Dawn<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">What an amazing sight!<br />The morning star glowing in the dark blue sky<br />A building silhouetted black against a golden glow of the sun<br />Deep oranage; low on the horizon, shining through the still dark trees.<br />The hush of dawn; the world asleep<br />And I look on in wonder - how beautiful is our world?</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-46167569945384668292008-11-20T01:16:00.000-08:002008-11-20T01:25:18.414-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOdlO-s090K89kCqypzMPNf2b8kfIw4L7Uw5GbUlI5-Vhuet_SsPa4nO1S9xTgBJhRyt3sOpJ5UCQoKTvONhCJObkkzllminYg2LkNKA-6LwwSI5p5tyN6d5wJfXeeUNxg5nUYiiHPD0o/s1600-h/Derrick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOdlO-s090K89kCqypzMPNf2b8kfIw4L7Uw5GbUlI5-Vhuet_SsPa4nO1S9xTgBJhRyt3sOpJ5UCQoKTvONhCJObkkzllminYg2LkNKA-6LwwSI5p5tyN6d5wJfXeeUNxg5nUYiiHPD0o/s320/Derrick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270668258244566818" /></a><br />To my brother – My Hero<br /><br />You and I always wanted to soar high on wings, fly to the stars, have adventures galore but you became a sailor, a police inspector and filled your dream by becoming a glider pilot and as was your wont, you became the best. <br /><br />You married this tiny young beautiful child and you were enraptured for life. Then you both produced three adorable young people, Brenda, Brian and Bev. I am with you all in spirit my darlings through this sad time.<br /><br />You, my brother, shared your experiences with me, and told me all about the thermals that lifted you ever higher and higher. I was thrilled listening to your hair raising experiences and when you took Mervyn, our jet ace pilot, up in your glider, you told me that he said to you. ‘Where is the b……y engine’ and you said ‘there isn’t one’ and he insisted you get him down quick! Lack of power did not suit him. My own little sky flight was that I flew a Tiger Moth with Manny, did a few loops and flew it upside down and then eventually became a mother which clipped my wings for ever in that direction. I still fly in big planes; they fly but with no help from me. Both of us wanted to be pilots and were crazy about aeroplanes. Merv beat us to it. Our Gwen, she likes her feet on the ground – slow and steady.<br /><br />What I miss most of all, Der, is the communication we had – that deep sharing of minds, dreams and aspirations from the time we were little.<br /><br />So few know and understand how much this impending loss is affecting me. I can only bare it by writing what is in my heart – even if you never read it I know you will know about it. I believe this piece of writing with my heart in it will transcend time and space and get to you somehow, somewhere sometime. This belief releases my feelings of total despair because we are so far apart.<br /><br />When Dad died, you were only 8 or 9 years old, yet you took over and were the ‘man’ of the family. I remember you consoling Mum and singing her this song:<br /><br />Mother I love you<br />I will work for you<br />Don’t let the tears roll down your cheeks<br />I’ll bring my wages to you every week<br />Mother I love you<br />What wouldn’t your loving son do?<br />You’ve worked for me a long, long time<br />Now I will work for you.<br /><br />No one else knows how deep your love was for all of us. I do. I remember when we walked out anywhere you always took the outside position to protect us. You were the only person I held in awe and whose mind I admired - the great depth of it, the understanding and awareness. You were so like our Dad.<br /><br />You protected me in school when I was 8 and you were 6 - in the Station School in Rawalpindi. You were ready to take on people twice your size to protect me – you were always my protector, my very special friend and my hero.<br /><br />In Murree when I was in St Deny’s and you in Lawrence College, 5 miles downhill, I will never forget you visiting me once a month. I so longed for those visits and would sit on the school bench gazing up the driveway, waiting for you and then this little figure would appear and I would watch you until you were within ‘seeing’ range and we would beam at each other. I will never forget your smile – it had a twinkle and a sparkle. You grasping that little bar of peanut brittle that I loved and you so lovingly bought for me out of your meagre pocket money. You would never share it with me because you said it was for me.<br /><br />We used to sit on that school bench, gazing at the valley below and just be happy together, sharing stories and dreams. Until you were about 14 and you ran away from boarding school. Braving the forests, wild animals and avoiding the road (in case you got caught) but keeping it in sight to guide you, you walked all the way to Rawalpindi, the long way round, got chased by a camel and eventually boarded a train without a ticket. You were exhausted and hungry but somehow you managed to make it home to Sialkot hundreds of miles from your school and shocked Mum. You refused to go back to Lawrence College.<br /><br />You joined the navy and sailed the seas for a couple of years - I can’t remember how long for but for me it was too long. We were all very happy when you left the Navy and came home to us. You were still very young. I don’t remember seeing you in that uniform but our cousin does and she said that you were very smart and handsome.<br /><br />Then were the happy, tumultuous years of our youth, Noel, you and I. What good times we had and what bad times when you and I were thrown out of the house and you took care of me and found us a place to live. We were so young. It was a Hindu house, deserted with food still on the table just before partition. It was a mansion with many rooms. Noel came and stayed for odd days. Whenever he was in trouble (which was pretty often) you looked after him too, even though he turned on you sometimes because you stopped him doing whatever it was he wanted to, you steadfastly maintained your cool and got him under control. You were such a loyal friend to him.<br /><br />When Mum and Dad (Walter) barred Noel from seeing me, you were our messenger and ally and when I defied all and married him, it was you who gave me away. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. You were like the proud father of the bride. You were always so gentlemanly and courteous – a shining example to our young brothers. No wonder they are all so sad today. The three little Ducks as you called them.<br /><br />Only you could teach a young man (Patrick) to drive in a few weeks so that he could accomplish a journey from South Asia to England in a van. He has often told us of your ‘teaching’ methods – encouragement and harsh discipline - till he was often in tears, but you got him proficient enough to make that long arduous journey. He did it and it was all due to you and the example you set him. Patrick will ‘never give in’ – your school motto. You must have taught him that.<br /><br />You were so smart in your Police Inspector’s uniform, riding your power motor bike. That was always how you looked, Der, in any gear – immaculate. You still look immaculate in your pyjamas – even to the handkerchief in the top pocket! I noticed that in the pictures Brenda sends me by text. You will never look anything but immaculately dressed no matter what you wear. It is all part of you - your incredible exactitude.<br /><br />I am writing this for me Der, because I can’t stand this empty space, this silence between us; you on the other side of the world suffering and me here suffering in a different way. If only we had our imaginary wings now!<br /><br />I am remembering when you, Noel and I used to gaze up at the stars and you taught him and me all the constellations and talked astronomy until we were mesmerised. Noel was really more interested in what was in the ground and you and I what was in the heavens yet we three bonded. You were a navigator and a radar expert he was in groundwater exploration – a big thing at that time in Pakistan. I remember you making a radio out of some metal and wires and Gwen and I thinking you were some kind of magician who made music out of a bunch of junk! I remember those days in Kohinoor Buildings.<br /><br />I have to write because this way you are right here in my heart and not thousands of miles across the world. I can bring you to life in my mind. You are still alive, only just, but in my mind you are very much alive, you are young and vigorous, riding your motor bike like a dare devil. How we three musketeers loved speed – you, Noel and I.<br /><br />When the two of you had that accident on Doug Viegas’s motor bike and you were thrown yards away, Noel’s concern was for you because he was terrified that he would have to answer to me if you were injured. As it happened it was him who nearly died and you got away with a few scratches. Poor lovely Doug’s motor bike was ruined, but he didn’t even care! He was more concerned about Noel and you. He should never have lent the bike to Noel, but that was him – one really great guy.<br /><br />Do you remember us riding our bikes up the bridge in Lahore Cantonments, now Defence, where all the rich live? I rode very fast in front of you two uphill and you would catch me up – by then I was breathless and you or Noel would hold my bike and push me the rest of the way. I was still always out in front!<br /><br />You will meet him again, as Diane said - if he hasn’t been banished from heaven for bad behaviour! But let’s not go there yet, hey? You are still earth bound.<br /><br />I pray that you are not suffering and that your brilliant mind is still able to function and that you will be there for Brenda when she comes. You and I always had mental telepathy Der. I am willing you now to be there for her. Please stay for her and give her the peace she needs to say goodbye to you. Stay just a while for her. Wait too for Brian – they are travelling the miles to be with you. You must be there for them.<br /><br />You are so loved my darling brother by so many. It is not fair, you are younger than me – how dare you think of leaving me behind in this world without you. You were always my hero. How can anyone understand the ties that bind us – a life time of togetherness?<br /><br />I love you my darling brother but I won’t say goodbye – there will never be a goodbye for us because you will live forever in my heart.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-62291489231947631442008-01-03T22:45:00.001-08:002008-12-08T21:43:43.371-08:00Panic Buying then Christmas festivities<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCbyBrxtTWuY_e1PwBFOZ-RuVDQvvafJpR0DG-ZDpCHkvK3Eyx_benZ7gCXYSC1U12Ta85d03c93KpDlZNPnVFL8mwk9bY0-RWpXzjX5OEpUqtsOJZDAQboL7IHhHssKst_Khb3PKn1X_/s1600-h/DSC04295.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCbyBrxtTWuY_e1PwBFOZ-RuVDQvvafJpR0DG-ZDpCHkvK3Eyx_benZ7gCXYSC1U12Ta85d03c93KpDlZNPnVFL8mwk9bY0-RWpXzjX5OEpUqtsOJZDAQboL7IHhHssKst_Khb3PKn1X_/s320/DSC04295.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151526737848113122" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1p7XVXv4eHxvNXdFlVM6HOvZ1BP8cjqXyDtiyx9dOs61FQPHEeNRqI5ug6Z_zKK3yU_h-v0SbIc5wn7-gi8QDScWTBM5VuytUwDY1FC42YlZg3x0iMt_N19gM88WQVFwJn1HsmO__yxT/s1600-h/Caryl,+Norma,+Diane.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1p7XVXv4eHxvNXdFlVM6HOvZ1BP8cjqXyDtiyx9dOs61FQPHEeNRqI5ug6Z_zKK3yU_h-v0SbIc5wn7-gi8QDScWTBM5VuytUwDY1FC42YlZg3x0iMt_N19gM88WQVFwJn1HsmO__yxT/s320/Caryl,+Norma,+Diane.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151525561027074002" /></a><br />It is all over now for another year - the Christmas holiday rush of panic buying. I can never understand it. The shops are closed for 2 days, why does everyone need 12 or so loaves of bread and trolleys stacked to capacity with other items and queues at every counter as I stand there with my two small loaves of bread and whatever other bits I manage to get. By Christmas Eve the food stores are nearly empty! Why? Why?<br /><br />Good for the stores perhaps, but where do people store all this food?<br /><br />I went out with my daughter to do my last minute Christmas present shopping and because it was almost Christmas and we shopped in the morning/afternoon, it was fairly quiet and the decorations and Christmas music was delightful and made for a beautiful seasonal astmosphere and for once I enjoyed Christmas shopping. So that's it - wait till it is nearly Christmas and then shop. It was relaxing and there was still lots to buy - at reduced prices too! But food shopping is something else. One just has to join the crowds for food, even if your needs are modest and reasonable - if you don't buy in time you don't get! The panic buyers have raided the shops.<br /><br />Chritmas day was a delight at D & J's. Christmas is family time. We had each other. We had the most enormous, fresh, succulent turkey and all the trimmings and Christmas pudding that flamed for longer and bluer than I have ever known, mince pies and many other delights. Champagne, wine, crackers and funny games all helped to make the day enjoyable and memorable even though I missed my absent children and grandchildren but we were in touch with mobile text messaging and phone calls. Distance does not really matter when there is love and togetherness of mind.<br /><br />Well done D & J and thanks for a wonderful day.<br /><br /><br />NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY WITH TIARAS AND TUXEDOS again at my family's invitation.<br />Same venue as Christmas Day - only we all had to dress up and nearly all the guests played up to it. There were many sparkly tiaras, ball gowns and cocktail dresses and lots of penguins in their bow ties and dress shirts. It was a party with a difference. About 20 or so compatible guests, lots of wonderful food provided by our hosts, conversation flowed (almost a lost art now), music too, suitable and not too loud. Hilarious games, competitive with the men and fun with the gals. A wonderful night was had by one and all. Some of us left at a respectable - 1am, January 1, 2008 but I understand that more guests arrived later from other parties and the festivities continued till 5 am!<br /><br />Well done again D & J and thanks for a wonderful time.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-19147429018918980242008-01-03T21:47:00.000-08:002008-01-03T22:39:48.893-08:00The Highlight of my dayEven though it was my husband's birthday and we had a lovely lunch with Champagne, the highlight of my day was meeting a child of four years or there about.<br /><br />My sister and I were out shopping in the afternoon and we visited an exotic African store where it is possible to buy fruits and vegetables, spices etc. that are not available elsewhere.<br /><br />Whilst we were checking in our groceries, being served by an African woman, quite traditionally dressed, a little boy came rushing in from the Arcade. Looking up at the lady serving us, he called, 'What is the time please?' As she was busy at the til concentrating on our groceries, she perhaps did not hear him and so I answered him, 'It is 3 pm.' He smiled and said, 'I still have time to play before I start work.'<br /><br />He was cute in his dress and manner. One could see that he was a well brought up little boy and was perhaps of mixed parentage. His complexion was quite light and his eyes were brown and bright and he had the usual very short cropped hair. His whole demeanor was animated and full of enthusiasm. He was an attractive child.<br /><br />I was amazed that this little mite of four years of age could possibly be concerned about time and work. <br /><br />'Where and what work do you do?'<br />'I work here in the shop.'<br />'And what do you do in this shop?'<br />'I help my grandmother.' (The lady serving us obviously).<br />'Well now - that is great and what kind of work do you do?' I was totally curious at this little child's attitude and was captivated by him.<br />'I tidy the shop.'<br />'That is fantastic! Do you get paid for working or do you work just for love?'<br /><br />He looked at me, slightly puzzled and spent a few seconds in thoughtful consideration, probably not having been confronted with this type of question before. He pursed his lips, cocked his head and looked upwards, contemplating my question - one could almost hear his little mind ticking, then he beamed, glanced at his grandmother and said, 'I work for love.'<br /><br />I could not resist him and asked, 'Would you give me a hug, please?' He spread his little arms and I bent down and was duly embraced with a tight hug. The spontaneity of his gesture and the joy in his face sustained me all day and I continue to thank God for little children.<br /><br />Helen RenauxHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-73087589284958210922007-11-16T10:38:00.000-08:002007-11-29T07:24:28.322-08:00Why Write?A famous writer was asked why he wrote and his answer was that he wished to 'share' his thoughts with others. He then corrected himself and said it was because he wished to be 'loved'. Is this not the desire of every human being? In this day and age when the art of conversation seems to be dead, one is inclined to bury thoughts rather than share them? It is seldom that one has the opportunity to verbally share words and ideas with others. Television seems to have killed real conversation. Nobody talks any more. Everyone is rushing around trying to keep up with life as they see it. Work, school runs, fast food or cooking, kid’s homework, house work and then feet up and television. Television - the great relaxer or just a means to fall asleep!<br /><br />It is sad because conversational discussion is so much more stimulating. Flippancy seems to be the rule of the day. To me it is like hiding reality behind a mask of frivolous comments. Humour is great at most times and there is nothing like a good belly laugh to keep the adrenalin flowing, but when an interesting discussion is in full spate, an out of place flippant remark kills the debate.<br /><br />Writing for me personally is a compulsion, not necessarily in order to communicate my thoughts and feelings to others but something that just flows through a pen or a keyboard. I do however want my words to be read and shared - otherwise there is no point in writing them. It is extremely gratifying to receive feed back on the written word for any writer even if it is just criticism – at least one knows someone took the time to read! Feedback is the only criterion one has to go by.<br /><br />Writing for me, opens my mind and my memory. As I write, I remember things that I had forgotten and which the act of writing brings back to the forefront of my mind. With these facts now available, I can use my creativity to embellish the memories that my mind has opened up for me and make a story that is worth reading.<br /><br />It is amazing how much of one’s past is clouded. Writing about life parts the clouds and one can look back in wonder at what happened to one as a child, a teenager, a young adult. Memories come flooding back, like a chain, one connects to another, opening up the past and these can then be put into words.<br /><br />Writing for me opens the door to a life time of living and the many 'characters' that I have met along that path. There is so much material for stories, fictional or life writing – and so I write.<strong></strong>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-66683486438741599452007-11-13T10:26:00.000-08:002008-12-08T21:43:43.576-08:00A Sunset<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RoY9mHUVhvIRA-jCIy1UEvKGq_hT_lmq8_hVqUf1kT2MlPMPiizM8OovvMhkACU57bM-W4XoFPhyrzk_JPVd0GsAM_ECYloPy6hRzoDhmbA2fDmkOVqbZD0HIkM8MGww_UaPMaS3OvFy/s1600-h/DSC03157.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RoY9mHUVhvIRA-jCIy1UEvKGq_hT_lmq8_hVqUf1kT2MlPMPiizM8OovvMhkACU57bM-W4XoFPhyrzk_JPVd0GsAM_ECYloPy6hRzoDhmbA2fDmkOVqbZD0HIkM8MGww_UaPMaS3OvFy/s320/DSC03157.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134255687296935666" /></a><br /><br /><br />The sun slips down to meet the horizon,<br />And on its way it meets some smoky clouds…<br /><br />This meeting becomes a vision of delight<br />As the sky and clouds take on a different hue<br />With colours pink, orange, gold, yellow, blue,<br />That flash and change turning ever bright<br />As the sky line glows with an ethereal light.<br /><br />A sudden dimming turns our side of earth into night.<br />The sun has gone from this side of our globe,<br />To light another part of Earth, another road;<br />To amaze some other nature loving being<br />Who gazes in appreciation and sees what I am seeing?<br /><br />Helen RenauxHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-80070162108089700982007-10-31T20:45:00.000-07:002008-12-08T21:43:43.903-08:00My Impressions of Dubai<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAmWwiO4CKnwswGNcVvE__z6wdH_D45ygoenAyPD7KgRbzRdhUGiIebk1G3TZf2oTF0-Ai8CMp0AFO7gcm-QYIWnZ90_qQh_aXT0bXu5BXACfSkbdAF84O6ucnlrkkvkaJfzw5Y1P3jUk/s1600-h/Burj+Al+Arab+abd+Jumeira+Hotel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAmWwiO4CKnwswGNcVvE__z6wdH_D45ygoenAyPD7KgRbzRdhUGiIebk1G3TZf2oTF0-Ai8CMp0AFO7gcm-QYIWnZ90_qQh_aXT0bXu5BXACfSkbdAF84O6ucnlrkkvkaJfzw5Y1P3jUk/s320/Burj+Al+Arab+abd+Jumeira+Hotel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133580707416565458" /></a><br />27th October 2007<br />A post card of Burj Al Arab and Jumeira Hotel, Dubai.<br /><br />I have been to Dubai before, 25 years ago and several times passing through. This time we arrive at midnight and descending over Dubai, we see a 'city' of lights. Myriads of sparkling stars shine in every colour. So very different from 25 years ago. I think it must change every week. Its growth is fast and furious in order to keep up with the ever growing populace and demand.<br /><br />R met us in the terminal building and we walk to the car park where we load our bags into the Porsche (R & E's other car is a Porsche too - 911 sports model). We drive through this 'city' of amazing architecture. Towering buildings (or burjs) in many different shapes and designs line either side of the road. The roads are wide, clean and covered with new cars. This strikes me instantly - everywhere there are new, clean and extravagant cars, mostly in white, less cleaning required because Dubai is a desert built over. Dubai reeks of money, power, success! Gold and diamonds are cheaper than anywhere else in the world.<br /><br />The shopping Malls are full of the latest designer labels from every country of fashion. Every taste and pocket book is catered for. The rich can indulge themselves and the less rich too have their opportunity to buy the most popular purchases here -gold and diamonds! The Gold and Diamond Market caters for every purse - from millionairs to the rest of Dubai's visitors. The gold is all 18ct or 22ct. in yellow or white, even mixed together with rose gold, yellow gold and white gold.<br /><br />We visit the Mall of the Emirates most, because it has everything one could possibly need. It also has a huge hypermarket - food and home goods.<br /><br />Personally, I love Madinat, another mall - a village almost, built in pinkish stone - a wonderland of shaded lanes and outdoor souks, where one can wander at leisure through little alcoves of tiny shops and stalls, some covered, some exposed to the desert sun. One can buy just about everything here too, and I find the outdoor souk quite comfortable to shop despite the sun. In addition one can eat in fabulous restaurants at little cost, compared to UK. The food is such that it caters for all nationalities. Dubai is certainly cosmopolitan.<br /><br />I love being with R & E - I find it relaxing and totally enjoyable. I have two of my granddaughters with me, though one is leaving for the UK soon, but the little one, my angel and my jewel, lives here. I am going to miss B when she leaves on Sunday.<br /><br />Life is great, the sun shines every day and the weather is perfect, I am with those I love, what more can one want? It is a bit hot in the middle of the day but fine in the morning and evening. I miss my family in UK, but I will be seeing them soon and until then, I am going to enjoy every minute of my life here.<br /><br />R & E are extremely generous to us and solicitous of our well being. E is a very loving and giving human being and I think the world of her. As for my son - what does one say about a little boy with a banjo (his then pride and joy) leaving the East to fly to UK with his family at the age of seven? And later on in teen age years his treasures were flared jeans and now to this successful business man of today with his new treasure - a Porsche 911? Am I proud of him - I should say so but not for his material achievements but for his dedication to his work, to his family, his integrity and honesty. To me these are his real treasures. However, he has not changed in himself much. With all he has, he is still the down to earth, sensible and sensitive person he always was. His personality has remained quite stable. Let's hope as the years go, the pressures of work, the vicissitudes of life will still maintain his sense of balance.<br /><br />On our flight here, I met a lovely woman travelling with her mother, to shop in Dubai for wedding clothes for another daughter. We get to talking and I feel an empathy with her, and she comes from Lahore (my city) but lives now in Florida. As usual we discuss age, amongst other things and as usual she cannot believe I am 81, soon to be 82. I tell her what I was led to believe, that people who live in the East have more collagen in their skin and so they don't age! She laughs and says, 'Look at my mother, she is from the East and she is ten years your junior, and she looks twenty years older than you!' A bit of exaggeration, but I know what she means. Her opinion is that my youthfulness is due to a pure heart. I like this explanation better!<br /><br />To make a desert bloom and prosper is a miracle in my way of thinking. The Sheiks have put their wealth, which is in oil, to good use in building Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Sharja into success cities for the wealthy but also for the workers who come here to labour. They are employed to build more tower buildings that reach ever higher into the sky. Dubai's building skyline has to be the highest in the world. The 'Burj Dubai', still in its completion stages, is the highest building in the world. Apparently it is going to be apartments! The Burj Al Arab (like the sails of a ship) is the most extravagant hotel in the world. Its helipad, high at the top of the building, was used for a professional tennis tournament. I would have loved to have been up there to see it for myself, because from the ground the helipad looks tiny.<br /><br />The sea is just a few minutes away from where R&E live and the magic of the desert too is within a short distance, where one can chill in its quiet peaceful solitude and watch the desert moon glow huge and close - seemingly - and the sun setting on the horizon. These two heavenly bodies look bigger in a desert area. The desert is a magical place. It is quite extraordinary. No wonder my N loved the desert so much. He never stopped telling me about its wonders and brought home many ancient tools, arrow heads, flint knives and fossils. All given away to my children's schools. I have kept one petrified stone - it was a branch of a tree that is very heavy, I use it as a paperweight for my desk. Some fossils that he brought home were fish, insects and leaves in petrified stone, showing that the Sahara was once a sea, then a forest which finally dried up to be the largest desert on earth. Apart from drilling for oil (which was N's job) his love was to excavate fossils and flint stone tools and play golf in the sand dunes during his free time.<br /><br />My visits to the Emirates has shown me why he loved the desert and tried to share it with me - now I have experienced it for myself - perhaps not the vast and wonderful Sahara of his love, but a smaller desert, the Arabian desert. This helps me to see what he found so wonderful. He always told me that the desert (his desert) was cold at night, whereas Dubai gets cooler and comfortable and enables one to sit outdoors in the morning and evening. If there were no buildings, perhaps here too it would be cold at night.<br /><br />A Trip to Oman - B, C, R and I set off early one morning to visit a snorkelling resort in Oman. We arrive at the check point for Oman and find we have not brought passports! Just forgot them. We drive back towards Sharja and find another spot in the Emirates which is a good second choice.<br /><br />I am amazed at the change of scene as we drive on our way there and back. Suddenly, on the horizon emerge what appears to be mountains but as we come closer and eventually drive on the road that has been blasted and built through these hills, we see that they are comprised of rock. Mountains of rock that are used for building - a never ending supply! No wonder Arabia's buildings progress so much!<br /><br />Another miracle in Dubai is its ski resort. Yes, with real snow and ski slopes with lifts, log cabins and where the temperature is minus 5oC! What's more it is attached to the largest shopping mall in Dubai. One can sit in an air conditioned restaurant in a sleeveless T-shirt and look through the glass at skiers wrapped up in winter clothes not five feet away.<br /><br />On the minus side, the rich manipulate the poor. There is great injustice here. What can one do to equalise the difference - nothing it appears?<br /><br />Well, it is said that money can buy anything. May be so, but it cannot buy justice for the poor nor can it buy love.<br /><br />Helen RenauxHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-41932702321297897532007-10-23T08:34:00.000-07:002007-12-01T01:38:56.323-08:00TodayToday is today<br />Today’s not tomorrow<br />Nor is it yesterday<br />That was filled with sorrow.<br /><br />Today is the now<br />Today is the here<br />Each minute is precious<br />Each moment’s so dear<br /><br />Treasure it; use it<br />Make it count for something<br />Tomorrow you’ll lose it<br />Use it or have nothing.<br /><br />HRHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-21969177182234731052007-10-18T09:15:00.000-07:002007-10-18T09:28:41.427-07:00Tankas by Helen RenauxThe fiery red sun<br />Sank slowly beyond the sea<br />Lighting up the sky<br />With hues of red, orange, gold<br />And clouds had silver linings<br /><br />----------<br /><br />Writers’ solitude<br />Should not be disturb-ed<br />A thought can be lost<br />And a vacant space is left<br />To fill at another timeHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-12647713109373223872007-10-18T09:01:00.000-07:002007-10-18T09:02:41.516-07:00Food Poem by Helen RenauxOde to a Lobster<br /><br />You came from the sea<br />Grey, ugly and wet<br />You’re now on my plate<br />Red, gorgeous and yet –<br /><br />I feel guilty.<br /><br />Why stare at me so?<br />I didn’t catch you<br />Nor did I kill you<br />I just love you – to eat.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-75069666860079383102007-10-18T08:57:00.000-07:002007-10-18T09:11:46.868-07:00Haikus by Helen RenauxHaiku 1<br /><br />Tiny newborn babe<br />Do you like this world you’re in?<br />No. Send me back home.<br /><br /><br />Haiku 2<br />Tumbling mountain spring<br />Shimmering in the sunlight<br />Pure, cold water – drink<br /><br />Haiku 3<br />Fall leaf – it’s snowing<br />You can’t hang on forever<br />Make room for spring greenHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-15263808322445281572007-10-18T08:52:00.000-07:002007-10-23T08:41:09.909-07:00Jewels in the DustA philosophical message for the day – ‘look for the jewels in the dust’ - an idea coined by Virginia Woolf who used it in quite another context with slightly different words, ‘diamonds of the dustheap’.<br /><br />Communication in any form is as necessary to us humans as the oxygen in the air we breathe. We cannot live without it. Each one of us needs to communicate in some form with someone in one of the many ways available to us, from speech, the telephone, high-tech electronic devices such as the PC, PDA and last but not least, to the humble pen. Basically, we have a desperate need to share our thoughts, our experiences, how we feel about various issues, our lives, our loves and even our hates. This is a basic need of humanity. This is why we invented language.<br /><br />Why then don't we listen to what is being conveyed? We need to listen to what the speaker or the writer is saying rather than, with a critical mind, look out for the ill chosen word or a sentence that can be picked up and criticised for its grammar or syntax. When one is attempting to communicate one’s thoughts it is important to realise that the essence of the message being conveyed is not in specific chosen words or the method of arrangement. It is the deep meaning of the mind.<br /><br />Therefore the listener/reader should bear that in mind, perhaps then they will not miss the jewels in the dust.Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-35638668234572116902007-10-18T08:44:00.000-07:002007-10-23T08:42:01.066-07:00Free Writing - A Task to PerformBaffled, bothered, bewildered! Free write. Free write what? My mind is asleep, creativity non-existent. What a negative approach to my task of writing.<br /><br />Start again! OK – I love writing – what is wrong with me? I know – I don’t like hand writing. I’ll talk to my recorder instead, but that won’t fill my ‘note book’. I need to write in my ‘writers’ note book’. That is my task and I will – yes, I will - tomorrow. No, it’s still today and now that I have started I mustn’t stop.<br /><br />Let’s see - be objective. An old lady who doesn’t feel like one, nor looks like one – a misfit – a student still. I don’t like this it is about me without the ‘I’ in it.<br /><br />Try again. I love people, other people interest me; they are so varied, so individual and unique. I love to watch and imagine how they are feeling and what they are thinking about! So let’s write about them.<br /><br />The old lady on the bus today told me her life story is ten minutes - I didn't ask, all I did was smile and she complained about everything that had ever happened to her and ... oh poor soul! Why can't people just be happy to be alive at that age... and of course ...<br /><br />Oh it is freezing! I will snuggle under my duvet and read my relaxing book instead. Gosh it’s ‘me’ again – I give up! I am living in the here and now – that’s what’s wrong. I am not being creative or imaginative but I am still scribbling. I know - put note book away - pick up my book, read and relax - ahh that's better! Soon will be asleep so goodnight!<br /><br />HRHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-31515857217130125062007-10-18T08:38:00.000-07:002007-10-23T08:42:33.061-07:00Post Card From My DeskLamps flooding light on books on my desk - workbooks, note books and all the paraphernalia that is conducive to writing. I love the smell of books held close to my nose. Soft music is playing whilst writing this. I sip a glass of grape juice to quench my thirst, actually it is Shiraz!<br /><br />Helen RenauxHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-87690233371298892442007-10-17T12:17:00.000-07:002007-11-18T14:27:14.758-08:00A Day in London with Max and AnnaI spent a lovely day with my cousin, Max and Anna. We are in the autumn of our lives, me almost in the winter of mine, and have met for the first time. It is incredible that I knew his mother and father in my youth and now, after all these years I have met their first born son.<br /><br />I am delighted and really feel disappointed that I left my camera at home but as Max says there will always be another time. I would have loved to have captured that lovely old pub, <em>The Salisbury</em> in St Martin's Lane. Max told us the history of this pub built in Victorian times and showed us the table where Oscar Wilde sat in his time with his cronies after his play '<em>The</em> I<em>mportance of Being Earnest' </em>finished for the night in the theatre next door. They would sip a drink or so before all went off to the The Cafe Royal around the corner in Regent Street.<br /><br />Max is an Oxford Graduate and was a professor in London for awhile. He is now a writer, a poet and a historian and I admire him and his work. He has endorsed two books of his to me. I am proud to be his cousin and I know he thinks well of me too. Anna is lovely - I like her a lot. Max and I share the love of writing. Unfortunately, he has no computer but he intends to read my blog on the library computer. He will write his critique to me unless he manages to comment on my blog, which will be great.<br /><br />The pub decor was unique with painted mirrors and statuettes holding the lights. This was reflected back to us through the mirrors, giving the place a larger view, doubly lit, but discreetly so. It had an old world look which was conducive to thinking and imagining what went on there many long years ago. I loved the atmosphere.<br /><br />Most important I loved the company of Max and Anna and we talked a great deal about many subjects. What an interesting and enjoyable day. Real conversation that was very stimulatingHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-23580394613523435052007-10-16T10:12:00.000-07:002008-12-08T21:43:44.174-08:00R & E Wedding - Vezilly, France<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ79OTkOl_G4I0s413nAGMWm0nU38H4EDk5kpQ4FFJTZ353MpdIVXHcSa4qhdlbgvEfClSm2z6QreOfUGvvPC6KSqPCPqsRDscQwCWCjnArrktW7ZCh9-ruZJ8A8wcrNsvKaHXhXNp405j/s1600-h/Cheers!.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123847423905805586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ79OTkOl_G4I0s413nAGMWm0nU38H4EDk5kpQ4FFJTZ353MpdIVXHcSa4qhdlbgvEfClSm2z6QreOfUGvvPC6KSqPCPqsRDscQwCWCjnArrktW7ZCh9-ruZJ8A8wcrNsvKaHXhXNp405j/s320/Cheers!.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">Cheers to R & E</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The Wedding Day</span></strong><br /><div align="left">Three cars left from our homes in UK on the morning of the wedding day, amid laughter and joy. This occasion was special and we were all in the mood to celebrate. On the way to Eurotunnel, our car leader somehow missed the main motorway and all cars followed the leader! We were taken on an extremely scenic route, through villages thickly forested in the beautiful county of Kent. Our organiser was perturbed because we might miss our train with this delay as all three cars had to stay together as we were all signed in on one credit card, the organiser's! We did miss our train but caught the next one to Calais.<br /><br />At Calais the three car caravan proceeded to Reims and from then on to Le Vieux Vezilly, to R & E's home. There was just time to be whisked off to our various residences to change and get ready for the wedding in the village of Vezilly - two or three miles away and where most of us were accommodated anyway. Everyone was within walking distance of the Mayoral Hall, and the venue for the dinner and dance. No drinking and driving. It was drinking and walking (or stumbling in some cases) later on after the dinner and disco.<br /><br />We all arrived at the Hall and awaited the Bride. She arrived, nearly on time, in her father's car. There was a gasp when we saw her and her gown - E looked radiant and the gown was magnificent and must have cost a fortune! Oyster shot silk (I think but not sure) - she looked a dream in it anyway.<br /><br />The sun shone brightly on one and all - like a blessing from above.<br /><br />The service was very informal, but in French, so none of the English contingent understood much. However, nothing could mar the mood of the guests - we were all enthralled and excited. Two very happy families, one French, one English. Language was no barrier because love and happiness united us.<br /><br />Because the Hall was small, there was no provision for music, but the little bridesmaid provided it, but making us all hush, while she opened a beautiful card that played the Wedding March. It was magical, like the whole day and night. Just pure magic! It was like a fairy tale wedding. The newly weds were showered with real rose petals in various colours instead of the traditional confetti.<br /><br />They got into their Spider, with hand drawn French and England flags hanging on the bumper, and drove off home. The rest of us followed for Champagne in their garden. The ladies glasses were tied with silk rouched ribbon - a touch of panache by E & Co. The long table was draped in white with bowls of flowers and canapes. Champagne fizzed, sparkled and flowed non stop. This first reception was perfect. E's father provided most of the Champagne from his vinyards, with her brother adding his touch of Moet Chandon. Laughter and love was ever present making this a very special occasion.<br /><br />We then drove back to Vezilly proper for the big dinner dance in its only restaurant. We were welcomed by our host, Ginette. Her husband, the chef, did us proud with a wonderful repast of foie gras to start, with scallops and dressing as a second starter, then divine lamb with asparagus and other vegetables. Homemade bread and fresh butter accompanied the food. Cheeses galore and salads too were there for all to enjoy with at least 20 - 30 minute intervals between the courses - so civilised! Much Champagne and wine was consumed during the meal and everyone was lively to put it mildly! And then came the the blue flaming desert, filled with wonderful things, including liquers and brandy - rich and amazingly presented.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">The disco music began and the bride and groom took the floor to be cheered and toasted yet again. Guests soon followed suit and the disco floor was full till the early hours of the morning.</div><div align="left">It was a night to remember!</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Mostly, we must thank the Bride and Groom for their generosity to their English family members. Thank you both from all of us here in UK and thank you too to our French family for their part in making this a most memorable and enjoyable occasion.</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>An Appreciative Poem</strong></div><strong></strong><br /><div align="left">Well, the food was divine, </div><div align="left">With yet more Champagne and wine</div><div align="left">To inebriate the guests more</div><div align="left">To dance all night on the disco floor</div><div align="left">What a party: what a show</div><div align="left">Will we ever forget it? Not ever - No!</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">We all made our way </div><div align="left">To Le Vieux Vezilly</div><div align="left">Where a bar-b-cue breakfast was served</div><div align="left">With Champagne saved and reserved</div><div align="left">For the next day of sore heads and blurry eys</div><div align="left">We all met again to eat and say our goodbyes</div><div align="left">No one wanted to leave; say adieu</div><div align="left">But we had to part; nothing else we could do</div><div align="left">So we kissed and we started</div><div align="left">Our cars and with flying kisses we finally departed.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span><strong>Another little poem for our Restaurant Host.</strong><br /><br />Ode to Ginette’s in Vezilly</div><div align="left"><br />If you want to party on a Saturday night<br />Ginette’s is the place, Vezilly is the site<br />With sparkling champagne and bottles of wine<br />It is the one restaurant to be in to dine<br />The food is magnifique, the ambience sublime<br />The disco is dazzling with music of our time<br />And the beat and the rhythm makes one want to dance<br />So come to the venue and party in France.<br /><br />Helen Renaux</div></div>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-1523546926662207862007-10-15T03:06:00.000-07:002008-12-08T21:43:44.226-08:00Childhood Memoirs of the British Raj<div>The Tiger Shoot<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyQRLaff_xG52qAWrKVSIwaeK4KIUVKct0_4vQeE9xl1j7W8Vlx6hLO0zJlRC6rZPWP5U_xsKWFprP-iw6RnA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />When I was about nine years old, my father who was a great <em>shikari</em> (hunter) supervised many tiger, wild boar, deer hunts for the British elite of India. I disapproved of these sports in principal. My father was my idol in many ways, but not in this. These hunts were the pastime of the ‘elite’ of the British rulers of India, who took great pleasure in shooting the beautiful Bengal tigers and other big game, prolific in India at that time.<br /><br />We lived for a short time in the province of Hyderabad (Deccan) when the Nizam (Prince) was one of the richest men in the world.<br /><br />Our home was a large rambling house with many bedrooms, two sitting rooms, dining room, and study. In addition was a playroom cum nursery, games room and bathrooms. The ceilings were high, with electric fans suspended from long connecting poles. Every room had two or sometimes three fans. We had many servants and lived as well as the privileged British ICS (Indian Civil Service). In our sitting room was a prized tiger skin rug. My father shot the tiger and I showed my displeasure by totally ignoring the significance if it. I dreaded news of yet another tiger hunt but soon heard that one was to take place.<br /><br />These hunters used the tiger skins as trophies to be displayed and to exhibit their prowess as killers of these noble beasts, helping to make this exotic animal species almost extinct. I remember my grand parents’ home had one of these skins, used as a throw on the sofa. When I was a child of eight, I rested my cheek on the head of the tiger skin, whilst stroking its soft silkiness, admiring its golden brown glass eyes and whispering how sorry I was that someone had shot it.<br /><br />My father instilled a spirit of adventure in me from an early age and was determined that I should overcome my aversion to this sport. To him it was a challenge and something very exciting and so he took me on a tiger hunt, convincing me that the jungles and the excitement of the hunt would thrill me and I would not dread it so much in future. He said it was a sport and that the animal had a chance to escape if it was clever enough. There were a couple of other children on the hunt. I was not the exception.<br /><br />This was the age of British Empire supremacy and big game hunting was considered to increase one's power and status. The more big game a man shot, the more he was revered by his contemporaries. They shot cheetas, leopards, lions, even the wild buffalo in the Nepal terai and of course the prized elephants were also targeted and killed. This massive slaughter of wild animals would today be considered horrific by present eco standards. As a child I too loathed this distruction of animal life.<br /><br />The hunt began in the Palace grounds as the Prince supplied the elephants for the hunt. On this particular occasion there were only three elephants, with howdahs in place on their backs. The howdahs held about four adults. I was squeezed into the howdah of the lead and largest elephant with my father, two Englishmen of the Indian Civil Service and of course, His Highness the Prince. This was high class society in the days of the Raj. My family was included because of my Father’s skill and experience as a hunter – a pastime from his regular job as a train driver on the British/Indian Railways. He was respected for his skill and intuition in the sport of big game hunting, but I was hoping and praying that we did not encounter a tiger this time as was occasionally the case. I loved being on the elephant, rocked to and fro with its rhythmic motion. I adored elephants and rode on them often though, unlike some ICS member’s children, I did not own one as a pet.<br /><br />It was exciting going through the jungle. My Father was right. We would soon be in the tiger haunts of long grasses without the trees. The beaters (natives hired for the day) did the dangerous job of shouting and beating the grasses, driving the animals, if they were about, towards the hunting party. These poor men were on foot, unarmed except for sticks. The hunters were moderately safe on the elephants and they had their guns for protection.<br /><br />Every moment was tense, the hunters almost holding their breaths as the moment drew near of the possible appearance of the tiger or tigers. Suddenly the tall grasses moved and waved as the crazed and frightened animal appeared. Everyone froze. Most tigers charged towards the first elephant and leapt towards the <em>mahout</em> (the rider who sits on the neck of the elephant – in a vulnerable position). He has no gun, just a stick to defend himself. The hunters behind the lead elephant were there for back up in case the first shooters missed the target.<br /><br />This tiger leapt towards the men in the howdah, not the mahout. The height of the leap was amazing. I crouched down in fear and dread. There was a blast of gun shots, the bullets hit the mark obviously by the cheering and down went this glorious animal. I lifted my head to look and was horrified to see the tiger in its death throes which quickly, thank God, ended in death. Its huge head flopped to the side and its mouth was still open, showing its large and dangerous teeth, its red topngue hanging out.<br /><br />The hunters were exuberant; I was devastated and the tiger was dead. I wanted to get down and stroke its head, to caress it and bring it back to life. These futile childish thoughts went through my mind at the time. I was extremely distressed.<br /><br />Then began the ceremony of the hunters - which shot killed the tiger? Whose gun did it come from? Whose foot would be placed on the head of the beast, while the others in the party stood around it for the photographer to take the pictures? These pictures took pride of place in a hunter’s sitting room. I sat down in the howdah, despondent and sad. I hardly remember the journey back.<br /><br />It was an exciting adventure until the killing of the tiger. I hated the act and, with a child’s passion, the hunters with the guns.<br /><br />After the hunt, the Nizam held a flamboyant celebration, which ended with a splendid dinner for the adults.<br /><br />My family were welcome guests in some of the princely palaces because my father was a hunter and was always included in these parties. At that time he was with the BB&CI railway (Bombay, Baroda and Central India) and drove the prestigious ‘Deccan Queen’ train. The DQ was the longest train carrying passengers between Mumbai (Bombay in those days) and Pune (Poona in the days of the Raj). Its 'life' began in June 1930 - one of the few trains that was never powered by steam. It was also the longest train, with a complete carriage used for dining.<br /><br />On return from tiger hunts the party was invited to dine at the palace of the Prince, and even though I was young at the time, I recall the splendour of these feasts and the lavish glittering chandeliers that hung from ornate ceilings of the banqueting halls. The scent of exotic meals being prepared attacked one’s nostrils with tantalising spicy odours - this mixed with the scent of many vases of exotic flowers was strangely intoxicating.<br /><br />After the early evening festivities that included magicians who performed for the children and clowns who made us laugh, we were sent off with our <em>ayahs</em> (nannies) to bed whilst the adults remained for the formal dinner party that followed.<br /><br />My mother was a very beautiful woman who caused a sensation with her French-Oriental type beauty. I noticed that everyone stared at her and the ladies whispered behind their fans. It never occurred to me as a child that they were saying anything detrimental about her, but in later years I became aware of racism and that perhaps they were wondering why she was there amongst the British elite. My Father and Mother totally ignored any snobbery, if it existed at all. My Dad was a very proud man with a great deal of self confidence. This whispering was surreptitiously done, behind hands or fans and not spoken out aloud.<br /><br />We often overheard snippets of conversation amid all this affluence and splendour, of affairs between the rich princes and white women and of the offspring that came from these illicit liaisons being adopted by the Princes’ official wives. It was feared that if the real mothers acknowledged these children, they would be ostracised by British society. There was a great deal of this mixing of races during the days of the Raj. Men married Indian women more than the other way round. The white women mostly had 'affairs' with native men of class. Therefore there were many such offspring. The Prince’s many wives were subservient to their husband and did as they were told. I knew one such mixed blood boy who was doted on by his adoptive mother and by the Prince. His skin was light and he had big blue eyes. He was very smart too. Many of these children were friends with us. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><strong>My Fabulous School<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELJTAMceetnzKnfxzWxfqn_f8DAwsoty3_CHhq3XJ0GizMmOqgP2r32EBcPFuKeVQ-eD4zxevVvRMNZfP4Dc1Rt4rUaR7aPp1crUkJgU_iiaR_F7ii1RSTOCMI7WPmaKtkInW_832H5G9/s1600-h/st_denys_winter1940.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122749720459261186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELJTAMceetnzKnfxzWxfqn_f8DAwsoty3_CHhq3XJ0GizMmOqgP2r32EBcPFuKeVQ-eD4zxevVvRMNZfP4Dc1Rt4rUaR7aPp1crUkJgU_iiaR_F7ii1RSTOCMI7WPmaKtkInW_832H5G9/s320/st_denys_winter1940.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></strong>Anglo Indians, as my parents and our family were known, in later years became the buffer between the two cultures – British and Indian, a transient connection between the two. We were given the cream jobs, sent to the best schools and colleges where we obtained a high standard of education to fill the important jobs that the British needed done by people they could trust.<br /><br />My school was in the Himalayan foothills, about 9000 feet above sea level. It was a boarding school situated at the highest point of my little town in the clouds, as I called it, because our parents did not want us to live in the plains during the summer’s intense heat. Most Anglo Indian and British children attended these prestigious schools. I was sent to school in the Hills when I was eight. I recall sitting on the school’s upper playground bench and looking down in wonder on clouds covering the valley below, totally obscuring the village nestling in this valley. Glancing in the opposite direction, towards Kashmir, I was able to gaze at the snow capped peaks of the Hindu Kush mountain range. It was truly a magical place to be educated in and I consider myself lucky now to have had the privilege of attending this school for my entire High School life and later to attend the Teachers' Training College there.<br /><br />I loved the monkeys that lived in the forests surrounding our school. Though the school had meshed high fences enclosing the grounds, the monkeys came right up to the fences and we fed them, against all school rules. The forests around our school grounds housed leopards, their roars heard at night down the hillside near our bedrooms, making us curl up in our beds with fear even though we were quite safe.<br /><br />School term started in March and ended in November. When we went up in March by coach, along the winding road with many hairpin bends and deep gorges on one side of the road and steep rock-faced inclines on the other, there were many who suffered altitude sickness. The climb from the plains to the hills was steep – the journey by coach took about two or three hours. The coach engines groaned and whined on the climb up.<br /><br />When we arrived at our school it was covered in snow, about five to six feet deep. The workmen had cleared the long drive and the porch. We sneaked into school and it was like entering an igloo as the snow covered the whole downstairs of the three storey building. </div><div><br />During my early years of the Raj my life was all about learning, adventure and freedom. It was an idyllic childhood.<br /><br />My beloved Father died on New Years day 1937, catching pneumonia then a fatal disease. I was heart broken but was made to realise that life carried on without him and I too had to carry on. He was my inspiration then and still is today.</div>Helen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-88080315261186298752007-10-15T02:39:00.000-07:002007-11-18T12:36:54.363-08:00An Eastern PoemWoman a Hymn<br />We wonder<br />Whether she wins or loses<br />Earth chooses her as the<br />Hyperion of her earthly sphere<br />She is the essence of the will<br />To be. Woman the emblem that<br />Has been heightened, hallowed<br />Held and lost<br />Tossed upon the Eternal Crest of Sun,<br />She is the soul that made her bold<br />To follow<br />And Eve then she follows him.<br /><br />Woman a Hymn.<br />In the bewildering Buoyancy<br />And vagary of the Earth<br />Its mellifluous mingling of parts<br />Man, Woman, Child<br />All Grain and Grist<br />Not knowing where they come from<br />Not knowing where they go<br />Mankind suave in his flood of tears<br />Woman morose and mollified<br />Ever awake for she will never sleep<br />Woman so very deep<br />The heap upon which fell the<br />Sight of Him as a Hymn<br />Woman a Hymn to society<br />Was awe with intelligent eyes<br />Lissom face, a sad dark girl.<br /><br />RabiaHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8423689862081061642.post-80893374439429506842007-10-15T02:24:00.000-07:002007-10-23T08:43:55.883-07:00Snapshot memoirs from a Nun's LifeShe is born, named Teresa - this pretty, blonde haired, blue eyed baby is there for me. After only having brothers I claim her as mine. The year is 1934.<br /><br />When she is in her fourth year, our adored father dies and leaves us. We are all very sad.<br /><br />I am in my eleventh year in boarding school in Murree in the foothills of the Himalayas. Our school is a real beauty spot, with pine forests and large coniferous trees surrounding the school, with monkeys, leopards and birds that live in the forests. The smell of pines mixed with exotic, mountain flowers add to this profusion of beauty and perfume. The school is safely fenced off, so the animals and the children are kept well apart. But there is no Teresa here.<br /><br />It is now the month of March 1938 and the ground is covered in soft and fluffy snow, about three to four feet deep. The heavy snowfall in the winter months is the norm. The drive and pathway is cleared.<br /><br />Because of my father’s sudden death, my mother has to work and so Teresa and my young brother, Richard, are sent to the nursery in my school as boarders on a temporary basis. I am overjoyed.<br /><br />School days are good times for us. Teresa grows into a lovely little girl but the day arrives when Mum remarries and she and Richard leave for home in Rawalpindi, very near the present capital city of Pakistan, Islamabad.<br /><br />Teresa and I are very close. She follows me everywhere and copies all I do. She is, however, influenced by a Catholic lady who lives near us. Teresa is encouraged at the tender age of seven to go to the Catholic Church with her. Our family, except my step father, are Anglican. Teresa fusses until she is allowed to convert to Catholicism and she is instrumental in converting Richard and my mother too. My older brother and I remain staunch Anglicans.<br /><br />As a teenager Teresa is a pupil in a Convent boarding school. Our schools are in the same town. Later my brother (17) and I (19) also convert to Catholicism with her influence and that of the man I eventually married. This, however, is not my story - it is Teresa’s.<br /><br />On leaving school she announces to the family that she intends to become a teaching nun. We are astounded and feel she is deserting us.<br /><br />Teresa is beautiful. Her baby blonde hair is now a rich dark/auburn brown and her eyes reflect the colour she wears, sometime blue, sometimes green and at other times blue-grey. It is a shame that all this beauty will be hidden by a veil and a nun’s habit.<br /><br />She obtains her BA and B-ED degrees and is soon an exceptionally good teaching nun. In time she becomes a Reverend Mother.<br /><br />She lives in a sheltered environment and I live in the real world. She is temperate and mild in disposition. I am wild and passionate with a volatile disposition. Though we are not at all alike we are close and agree to disagree on most points. We are like close parallel lines that run along side each other, staying ever close but never meeting.<br /><br />Eventually Teresa is given a village appointment. She is an excellent organiser; practical and pragmatic. She is artistic and architectural, hence her appointment to supervise the building of a school and a church in Mariakhel, a village in the Thal desert of Pakistan, and to run the school as Principal. This is no mean task and the fact that she is chosen to accomplish it amazes me. My little sister, who was my shadow, has now overshadowed me - in a different aspect of life no doubt.<br /><br />In a couple of years her desert blooms. A school is built with housing for nuns and guests and classrooms for the children she hopes will come. A church with accommodation for the clergy is erected. The project is modern and a total marvel. There are orchards of orange, lemon, apricot, pumlo and other fruit trees. A large vegetable garden produces an abundance of crops and exotic flower gardens enhance the buildings. Meat is supplied by the village farmers and their hunter priest.<br /><br />Even though the area is a desert the soil is arable. Just below the surface there is water, which is obtained through the drilling of tube wells. The water is pure and cold. The orchards and gardens are watered by outside pumps and inside the building plumbing supplies running water and water closets.<br /><br />The village people, Muslims mostly, are wary of the religious and the convent. Before long, however, they are captivated by Teresa’s and the other nuns’ outgoing sweetness and kindness to them. Eventually the school is full of students, not necessarily Catholic though some do convert. Education is the primary goal and this is entirely successful.<br /><br />With all this talent, Teresa is naïve. One day a wild boar attacked two villagers and killed one. It had been wounded by a hunter’s bullet and was out for revenge against mankind.<br /><br />Teresa is in her vegetable garden when this wild boar stands on the opposite side to her, menacing, panting, grunting, frothing at the mouth and bleeding. Teresa looks at the boar<br />‘Poor little piggy – who has hurt you?’<br />She has a soft, soothing voice. With this she reaches out her hand with the green cabbage to this infuriated wild beast.<br /><br />‘Piggy’ stood there looking at her in seeming amazement. Here is someone who is not threatening him, nor firing a gun at him and offering him green cabbage to eat. He must truly be confused. Teresa is in grave danger but she is totally oblivious to it, all she wants is to comfort and console this wounded animal. It stands there immobile, looking at her and its pants and grunts gradually subside; it begins to relax when suddenly the Catholic priest (the hunter), the village headman and his henchman arrive with their guns, followed by many others with latis (large sticks) and they shoot the boar. Teresa is furious.<br />‘How dare you shoot this poor pig in my garden?’ She rants at them as they try to explain the necessity to destroy him and also to placate her wrath.<br /><br />When the pig is presented to the school and the priest as a gift, Teresa refuses to even look at the succulent dish that is prepared and that all enjoy. The aromatic smell permeates the air but she thinks it a sacrilege.<br /><br />On another occasion a fete is held in the village. The younger nuns obtain what they think are good value balloons from a shopkeeper.<br /><br />The ‘balloons’ are blown up and are being sold at the fete when the priest notices them and with horror talks to Teresa. The simple village children are buying balloons and they are all over the grounds. Parents and others are giggling. Teresa is extremely embarrassed when she has to tell her nuns that they are selling condoms! There is consternation and confusion as all the balloons have to be burst and money refunded to bring normality back to the village fete.<br />This then is the life my sister chooses. Cloistered and dull? I do not think so. Fulfilling and interesting? Yes, indeed.<br /><br />Helen RenauxHelen Renauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542982245959246396noreply@blogger.com2