I've an urge to write more about my visit to the Bishop's House (http://www.museums-sheffield.org.uk/museums/bishops-house/home) in Sheffield this weekend than just a passing Facebook update, so here goes.

Most people know I've got quite an interest in genealogy, but possibly don't realise to what an extent it goes. I consider myself an advanced amateur at it - I've not only hacked away at various different lines within my own history, but regularly take on research work for friends. I adore the challenge, and the thought processes involved, and the puzzle-solving element, but also poking at documents and records, and exploring aspects of social history.

This interest started in childhood really, when I had to ask my grandparents about their relatives for a school project, but with the advent of the internet I've been able to start poking at the history from my desk. And poke and poke I have. Starting a bit before the Who Do You Think You Are boom, with a bit of initial help from my stepfather-in-law, I've done quite a whirlwind journey into my maternal grandmother's history.

This was a side of the family we knew very little about, past a couple of names. That family hadn't been talked about in my grandmother's home when she was growing up, for a number of reasons that we now understand after doing the research.
Once I found this great great grandfather of mine, Alfred Maurice Blyth, the journey really took off. Every turn over of the records was like treasure trove. I kept delving and bring up new pearls, revolations that practically blew my head off. It was like being caught in a strong breeze, with objects rushing past at dizzying speeds, and I could reach my hands out and touch them.
We found an incredibly prominent Scottish family, some of whom have their own wikipedia pages - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Blyth and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Blyth and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Blyth_II - with a civil engineering company that still continues today. We also found missionaries, reverends, bishops, artists, lawyers, wannabe politicians, golfers, willing emigrators to Australia when it was still largely a penal colony, the wife of a German baron, and a good portion of black sheep. And there's even supposed to be a link back to Charlemagne on a female line way back in time.

Which leads me to The Bishop's House. My family supposedly built it. And if they didn't actually do the construction, they definitely lived there. One of the lineage books links me back directly to William Blyth, who was known to have owned the house until his death in 1631.
I've known it was there since I bumped into someone online years and years ago who had a copy of the lineage book of 1893, which is now held by the Sheffield museum service. But Sheffield is such a long way away that we'd not managed to visit until now. James' party this past weekend was all we needed to plan to go.

So, on Sunday I went and stood in a house that belonged to my family more than 500 years ago.
I walked the same floors, touched the same walls, looked out of the same windows. And held back a few tears as I felt very overwhelmed.
You see, I'm quite a tactile person. Sensation, particularly in the hands, is a very important part of how I experience life. I love the cool smoothless of glass beads, the trickle of rocailles over my fingers, the fluidity of fabric as it skips my fingertips, the squidgyness of soft wool as it trails over my palms when I'm knitting. I love to hold handfuls of flour and feel it squeak, and I can never resist popping the buds of fuschia flowers for that dash of silk petal and soft burst of air.

I might be a document junkie, a research-a-holic, a puzzle solver, a relentless historian, but Sunday's experience at the Bishop's House brought me something tangible, something I could run through my fingers and connect with. And that knocks all that research into a cocked hat. I have no way of knowing just what genes and traits from those people of 500 years ago survive in me. Probably not a lot. I cannot imagine at all what their life was like in that house, past a few fleeting images provided by the well-thought-out museum.

But I feel as if I've stretched out into the past, and touched them somehow by visiting their house, and made the whole genealogy experience far more real than it can be on pieces of paper and computer images.
I am very lucky to have this as my past, and not page after page of farm labourers (they appear on other family branches). And so grateful to my forebears who did so much research in the 19th century.

The author of the book finishes his preface with:
"I am indebted to a great many relatives, particularly to Edmund Kell Blyth, and to some strangers, among whom I desire especially to mention the Rev. G.W. Hall, Vicar of Norton, for kind assistance and considerable trouble taken to enable me to make the notes as complete and correct as possible.

If they are acceptable to my relatives, and to others who may come after us, I shall have accomplished the object I had in view."

Hell yeah!

Date:	2012-01-30 22:48
Subject:	Things I have learned from watching Bollywood (so far)
Security:	Public
Mood:	accomplished

1. Anupam Kher (the dad from Bend It Like Beckham) is in practically everything.
2. Most houses appear to have a wind machine (this may possibly be a fan – which is ok for scenes set in India, but a bit daft for those in Britain).
3. Touching someone’s foot is a mark of respect.
4. Stunts/risky bits are generally appallingly segued to – stunt doubles are used, but not very well blended in.
5. While singing and lip synching are done beautifully, miming playing instruments is generally not very successful.
6. Flashbacks in time aren’t particularly accurate – often in terms of dress, business, technology, etc. But who cares if it gets in the way of a good story.
7. Vermillion is worn in the hair parting to show that the woman is married.
8. India has ski resorts! Seriously, in the Himalayas there are places to ski – Shimla for example, which was apparently the summer playground of the British Raj.
9. Nautanki, a form of folk theatre, was a popular entertainment in north India before the rise of the cinema, and continues today.
10. Often there’s a dream sequence, which features exotically beautiful locations. Or a rainy priory in Scotland.
11. Labour the point at least five times, until you’ve squeezed every possible drop of emotion out of any given situation. Then labour it some more, just in case there’s someone at the back who still hasn’t got it – after all, there must be some buttocks that aren’t completely numb just yet (films are at least 2 hours long, if not much much longer).
12. Once you get used to the no snogging bit, it’s actually kind of cool. Very sexy and sensual, and the actors use their body language to convey far more subtle attraction than the usual tonsil hockey default setting. And there are sorts of kisses – necks, cheeks, legs etc – just not lips to lips.
13. At the feast of Karva Chauth (look it up), women look at their husband’s faces through a sieve.
14. Pulling on your ears means you’re sorry. Who knew!
15. Christianity is far more ingrained in India that I’d initially thought – I’d estimated about a handful of churches left over from the British Raj period, but there’s loads more in evidence. Or maybe it’s just the films I’ve seen so far.
16. Single, unattached men can be affectionate to and play with children without any fear of public censorship, it appears. I think this is lovely. Men also seem to be allowed to cry without losing masculinity. I approve of this too.
17. There’s not a lot of variety in names used for characters. If you’re called Rahul, Rohan, Anjali, Pooja, Priya, and Raj, you appear to be extremely common. Confusing if you’re watching with a four year old though,
18. A thirty year old man, even if he’s playing someone ten years younger in a flashback, looks daft on a skateboard.
19. Hrithik Roshan is one of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen
20. Nobody makes anything out of small aubergines

... it's not like we're short of soap in this house, since I started making it over the summer.
I ran her some water, handed her a bar of soap, and she played happily for an hour. I sat on the loo seat behind her and read Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief. So we were both happy.

The latest in the saga of the toddler group accusation is that I'm going to have to look for a new playgroup, sooner rather than later.

I eventually got through to the organiser, who was really nice about it, seemed to understand where I was coming from about addressing the issue from a more general point of view about parenting and trusting in group situations, rather than bringing up the ugly accusation again. She said she'd try and speak to the women involved, and would say something to the whole group at singing time this week. I took this as a positive step, and felt better.

Singing time this week rolls around, and there's no attempt to talk to the group from the organiser, and I found it impossible to catch her eye.
Then as we were clearing up she caught me and said that she'd spoken to the other mother involved, and she really wanted to drop it, and as the two main other accusers weren't there (one was actually) they'd decided to do nothing and let it all blow over.

I don't give a flying fuck whether the other mother wants to drop it or not - she's not the one that's been made to bloody suffer for all of this. If this playgroup was run properly, they'd have found some method of healing for the group, and proper redress for the slandering that went on.
As it is, I now feel that I was placated enough into not standing up myself and saying something - which is what I'd have done if I'd had known that they weren't going to do anything - and they never planned to do anything in the first place. I feel fobbed off, and still very hurt and very angry.

Nick is furious, and says he's going to ring the organiser himself and forcefully put over his exact views (hopefully minus the profanity) to her about how I've been treated on all of this. I don't know whether it'll do any good (I suspect not), but if it makes him feel better, he can but try. My methods have all failed, so I'm open to anyone else having a go.

The horrible thing is, Nushie and the same child had another tussle this week over a high chair - and I felt I couldn't go in and separate them. I had to get my friend L to do so, and felt horrendously uncomfortable. Similarly, when a baby fell over near me, I really felt like I couldn't stick out a hand to stop him hurting himself for a few seconds (eventually I did catch him), and as if I can't touch another child in that room.

Unless something is done, I'm in the market for another playgroup. I'm not sitting there week after week feeling like I can't take an active part in a group.

Am finally calm enough to write in here exactly what happened on Wednesday this week, having spent about 36 hours in a rather shakey and near-tearful-at-times state.

Wednesday morning, at toddler group, I was accused of grabbing and shaking somebody else's child.

Of course I didn't do it. Everyone who knows me will know that I couldn't do it to a child. But the accusation is there, and it's horrible.

My version of events is this:
Nushie and small boy, at clearing up time, are fighting over a small bag of something, in the way that toddlers will do - if someone else has something you automatically want it yourself. They were pulling it between themselves and shouting at each other. Small boy manages to rip the bag from Nushie's grasp, then proceeds to whirl it through the air and whack her round the head with it. Nushie dissolves into tears.
I race in. Grab the bag to stop small boy using it as a weapon again. It appears to be full of quite hard objects - possibly marbles or something, so it's understandable that Nushie is crying. I say "That's very naughty!", and turn to Verity having put the bag down.
Mother of small boy then rushes over, says "I can tell off my own child, thank you". And drags him off. I say "sorry", and attend to Nushie who is still crying, rock her on my knee. A couple of other mums come over and say things like "Is she all right?", "Is everything all right?", and I of course say that it's fine, because I know my child and she'll be as right as rain once the shock's worn off.
Once Nushie is sorted out, I start continuing to pick up toys, as I had been when all this occurred.
The next thing I know, I'm faced with a round faced blonde woman, not the mother of the child, but one of her friends.
"You shouldn't have shaken that boy!!" she says forcefully.
My reaction is of course WTF?!? I didn't touch the child. My instinct was to still the weapon, and then attend to my own child once he couldn't hurt her any longer. If the tips of my fingers caught his hand on stopping the bag in the air, that's the nearest I got to touching him. I certainly didn't grab his arm and shake him, which is what this woman is repeating to me now.
I of course protest my innocence, but it's clear she doesn't believe me, and she gives me a horrible snide look that seems to say "I know you're lying", and turns away saying nothing further.
I get other looks from other mothers over the following minutes, so small boy's mother has clearly been telling her side of things (which she can't have even seen, given I didn't actually touch him) to anyone who'll listen.
Matters are not helped by Nushie now being all smiles and shrieks and running around like a loonie, and small boy still wailing and clinging to his mother.

I explode at the group organiser, who is putting toys away in the store cupboard, saying I've just been accused of shaking someone else's child. "Well, did you?" he says. "Of course not! I didn't touch him."

I stomp off to collect a cup of coffee, trying to work out what the hell is going on. My mate C is grim faced by the coffee table, and has clearly overheard what's being said about me by some of the other mums. She says she'll talk to me about it later. Another nice mum, whose name I don't even know, approaches me and talks to me and asks if I'm all right "Not really, no..."
I protest and insist on my innocence, and this nice mum does believe me. She disappears, and I see her talking to the boy's mother, obviously making an attempt to sort things out on my behalf.

I gave it a minute or two to let that attempt sink in, and then approach the mother myself. I insist that I did not touch her son, and I certainly didn't shake him. She says she believes me, as does her round face blonde mate (who this time apologises), and says that it looked like I had from her perspective. I don't see that she could have been watching very closely, in that case.

C and I then leave with our kids (small boy still wailing), and head to Sainsbury's where we hash the entire lot out over the kids clothes area.

But bloody hell though. For fuck's sake!!!
If you think you've seen something untoward, challenge the perpetrator, don't spread nasty vicious spiteful things around a group of people.
I didn't touch her child. My concern was to stop my daughter being hit, so I removed the object she was being hit with.

In a group situation like that, with 30 or so toddlers running around all over the place, it's hard to keep them in your sight for more than 10 seconds at a time, particularly if you're chatting to your mates on the sidelines like we all do. If you are bringing your child to a group situation, you have to trust that every adult in that group will do some sort of parenting to your child, even if it's only looking out for them. And that they will do it in a way that will not hurt any child.

For me, me of all bloody people, to be accused of something like that is madness.
But the accusation is there. I am so hurt by it its unbelieveable. Every time I close my eyes at the moment I see that blonde woman's face making that accusation. I shook until Wednesday evening.
I am concerned that when I go back to this group (and I have to go back, if I don't it'll look like I'm guilty), that there will be people who didn't see the resolvement of the matter. That I will be watched like a hawk in case I do something else to someone else's child. That if I go near someone else's child again another action might be misinterpretted. That perhaps it was just safer to let Nushie be hit, and suffer.

I spoke to the organiser on the phone yesterday. Talked about what happened and how awful I feel about it.
Wondered if he wanted to do anything for group healing, or would he be prepared for me to stand on a chair next week and talk in more general terms about how we should all trust each other to treat each other's children with respect, but be able to break up problems should they occur.
His response was to quote a verse of the Bible about wrath, (which isn't the point) advise me to keep my head down and it will all blow over, and tell me that he's praying for me.
I want a physical response to this, not a metaphysical one.

The small details of life usually end up on Facebook these days, which means I don't like to repeat myself - despite the fact that not everyone gets to read them on there.
But last night's Nushie fun really sums up how my daughter behaves so well that it really deserves a longer blog about it.

Last night, after dinner (because she'd had a three hour nap during the day, and clearly wasn't at all sleepy), I took her up to the supermarket to get a few bits.
As we pulled up in the car park it occurred to me that I didn't have a quid on me for a trolley, so would have to let Nushie run free for the duration - a thought that must strike dread into the heart of any 2yo's parent.
Thankfully, both ride-on machines were broken, so I was spared a trip in "Momo Pat"'s* van, and got her inside quite quickly.
I then asked her if she'd like to carry the basket for Mummy. "Yes!" she said, and grabbed the handles. The basket is almost as big as her, if you stood it on its end**, but it's unlike Nushie to be worried about that. She dragged it with her straight to a fruit display, and deposited some oranges in it. "There!" she said, looking very satisfied. I swopped the oranges for mushrooms, and suggested we get some grapefruit. "Yes!" she said, running off, and round the corner, dragging the basket after her. Then she spotted the display at the other end of the isle.
"Cheeeeeeese! Cheeeeeeeeese!!" and off she scuttled with the basket banging. We had to replace several blocks that we didn't need, narrowly avoiding bite marks in any of them.

Behind the cheese there was the fish counter.
"Fish!" she squeaked, and ran over. "Harrow fish! Harrow fish!"*** She spent an age looking at them and trying to get them to play with her. Sadly my explanation that they were a bit beyond responding went right over her head.

By this point, the basket was full and heavy. But I WAS. NOT. ALLOWED. to give her any help with it. "Noooo! Noooo!" she said, even when I suggested that I took one handle and she the other to help her carry it.
Eventually, I found a Shaun The Sheep body scrubber that she was happy enough to carry around instead ("Sheeeep! Sheeeep!"), and retrieved the basket, which was being dumped every few feet.

And we made it through the checkouts with the minimum of fuss, and a ride on the conveyor belt, even if she did attempt to get me to buy several packs of chewing gum.

*Postman Pat, if you hadn't guessed
**Looked at her growth charts in her red book last night. She's still 75 percentile on weight (exactly 2 stone), but has dropped to about 17th on height (83 cm). Little shortarse.
*** "Hello fish" in translation

I had coffee with (Verity and) CMW this morning, who was one of my major crushes in my lower sixth year at school.
Turns out he's been living in 'Nam for longer than I have, and we found each other on Facebook, so it seemed only natural to meet up at some point for a drink and a natter.
In all very pleasant, nice blast from the past, I'd been worrying that he'd think less of me because I've put on some weight since sixth form (haven't we all) but it turned out he had too so I breathed easier.
He looks completely different - it was only when talking, and then with occasional flashes that I recognised the teenage boy I knew.

However, this has sent me scurrying back to my teenage diary... I can remember various events with absolute clarity (mostly the night he snogged me on his parents' bed... shut up Mum, I know you're reading... which was a highlight of my 17-year-old life), and his various attempts at hypnotism in the common room (which I went along with in the hope of getting another snog out of it - which didn't work). What I'd completely forgotten was how absolutely nuts I was over him. For six months of diary I dribble on and on about him. Admittedly, I did dribble on about four or five other boys in there too - all unrequited, it has to be said (and really I count him as an unrequited, seeing as there was really only the one incident) - and my affections waned and changed and grew as the diary goes on. But he was very consistantly in there.
He went off me after he snogged me, and the friendship changed, and we weren't half as close as we had been during the upper sixth. I put that down to him having got what he wanted, and moved on to other challenges, which was bitterly disappointing at the time but probably part of the course for teenage lust'n'fumbles. And I heard on the grapevine that while at uni he was a bit of a ladykiller and working his way through various students behind the DJ booth - and realised that I was well out of there.

And now I find him settled and happy in 'Nam with a good job and a fiancee. And it was all perfectly pleasant, and lovely to have a catch up.
So yes, trip down memory lane.

It is rather galling to hear one's own language being repeated back to you by one's almost two year old.

At the moment she follows up every request she makes with "All right, all right, all right, in minute".

Definitely time to move to "Frick", I think.

***************

And at the moment I don't know whether to send a Congratulations card to friends on their new babies, for fear that the world might implode for even thinking about it.
Am apparently the antichrist/beelezebub/evil witch cow from the mire for behaving normally when one is told of children's births. Having already made my apologies for this, in light of family situations, being blamed for actions of others is really not on. But have no idea how to proceed, or even if I want to right now.
Cryptic, I know.

I DID IT!!

Today I got the record for the thirteenth and final child in my search for my great uncles and aunts. This was George, born December 1902 and died January 1903.
I wasn't convinced that he was one of ours to be honest - mostly because he didn't fit the naming pattern of the kids, as he didn't have a middle name and just about all the rest of the kids did.
But it's there in black and white that he's one of them.

It doesn't half make sorrowful reading. What a sickly family. Three lost to childhood diseases that we immunise for routienely now. Two babies that didn't thrive. And two more lost to other ailments that were probably beyond the medicine of the time. And one due to complications arrising from an accident.

I wouldn't mind betting that there are some miscarriages in between the lines here, and possibly a stillbirth or two - particularly between 1907 and 1911 where there are no children at all, which is odd - as these would have been unrecorded. But that's the sort of stuff I'll never know.

I am very proud of my detective work on this. I think I've done well.

So here, for the record, are the Barlow family.

Robert and Kate married 1894.

1. Mabel.
Born 1895. Died aged 3 in 1898 of delayed dentition with convulsions.

2. Evelyn
Born early 1896. This was possibly “Cissy”. She survived childhood.

3. Dorothy
Born mid 1898. She died aged 3 in November 1901, of diptheria.

4. Robert
Born early 1900. This was Bob. He survived childhood. He died sometime in the 1960s, says Dad.

5. Hilda.
Born May 1901. She died aged 6 months in November 1901, of diptheria.

6. George.
Born 20th December 1902. He died January 1903 of "inanition from birth"*, aged 19 days

7. Edward.
Born December 1903. He died January 1904 of "congenital debility"**, aged 1 month.

8. Percy.
Born April 1905. He died March 1907, of "blood poisoning following burns accidentally sustained", aged 23 months. There was an inquest.

9. Winifred
Born early 1907. This was Winnie. She survived childhood. She married (there's a picture of Nanny as a bridesmaid at her wedding), but died of a broken heart during World War II after her husband - who worked in the dockyards in Portsmouth - was killed in an accident.

10. Arthur
Born March 1911, died May 1911 aged 2 months of whooping cough with convulsions.

11. Vera
Born 1913. Died aged 6 in November 1919 of an abscess in the brain due to natural causes. There was an inquest held.

12. Joan
Born March 1916. This was Nanny. In 1943 she married my grandfather, who was a widower with eight children (his former wife had died having the ninth, who was stillborn), and had four children of her own - Phyllis, Robert, Alan and Anthony. She died in 1999.

13. Eileen
Born mid 1918. She survived childhood and emigrated to Australia. She also married, and had children - one of whom was called Jackie.

* The best definition I can find of this is "marked weakness, extreme weight loss, and decreased metabolism due to prolonged severe insufficiency of food". Basically, a severe concequence of a breastfeeding problem.

** A quick google has ascertained that congenital debility could refer to any number of conditions for a small baby, meaning that something wasn't quite right with the child. It's probable that Edward was premature/immature, and suffered from malnutrition and/or malformation. In other words, he was a very weak child.

Their father Robert died in 1931, aged 57. Their mother Kate died in 1935, aged 63.

Two further successes today - we got through the certificates for two little boys who died between 1904 and 1907.
I'm still at the stage of hopping around the kitchen, fist in the air, going "I rule!" when the certificates turn out to be our family, as I'm proud of my detective work and the aptitude I seem to have for family history, names and dates.
However, as this story unfolds itself it becomes all the more harrowing and I also find myself more and more tearful as I discover the fate of Robert and Kate's kids.
Today was a case in point - one of the little boys died at 23 months old, which is exactly the age Verity is now. I know what a 23 month old is like, what a joy they are, what they're capable of - and to think that these people lost a child at that age absolutely horrifies me. And he died of complications from burns, and I'm only too aware how hard it is to keep a child of that age safe. I can understand only too easily how a toddler could end up burnt.
The other boy was lost at a month old - no easier, perhaps, but very different. This one appears to have been a very weak child, if I have understood the medical definition correctly, and would have failed to thrive.

The other information on the certificates is interesting. It would appear that by 1904 their father had changed his job from a soldier to a waiter - which puts paid to my theory that there are no children that appear to fit for our family between 1907 and 1911 because he'd been sent away fighting, then got injured, and returned - which would explain the change of job and the resuming of the line of children.
I will at some point look for his military record, and see where he was during these years, but as for why no kids during those years... I can only assume his wife kicked him out of bed, or perhaps suffered miscarriages, or perhaps even aborted to avoid the pain of having to loose others. Stuff to ponder on.

The upshot of this is that we now only have one child left to identify to complete the set of 13 that Nanny always said there were. There are three possibles between 1902 and 1903, which would be about right, that fit - George, Lily, and another Dorothy. My gut feeling is the second Dorothy, but we shall see.
And I shall procure the death certificates for the later children too, at some point, to discover why they died too.

Therefore, as the investigation stands, here are the Barlow family.

Robert and Kate married 1894.

1. Mabel.
Born 1895. Died aged 3 in 1898 of delayed dentition with convulsions.

2. Evelyn
Born early 1896. This was possibly “Cissy”. She survived childhood.

3. Dorothy
Born mid 1898. She died aged 3 in November 1901, of diptheria.

4. Robert
Born early 1900. This was Bob. He survived childhood.

5. Hilda.
Born May 1901. She died aged 6 months in November 1901, of diptheria.

?????????

6. Edward.
Born December 1903. He died January 1904 of "congenital debility"*, aged 1 month.

7. Percy.
Born April 1905. He died March 1907, of "blood poisoning following burns accidentally sustained", aged 23 months. There was an inquest.

8. Winifred
Born early 1907. This was Winnie. She survived childhood.

9. Arthur
Born and died 1911. No cause of death known yet. He’s 3 weeks old on the 1911 census.

10. Vera
Born 1913. Died aged 6 in 1919. No cause of death known yet.

11. Joan
Born March 1916. This was Nanny. She died in 1999.

12. Eileen
Born mid 1918. She survived childhood and emigrated to Australia.

* A quick google has ascertained that congenital debility could refer to any number of conditions for a small baby, meaning that something wasn't quite right with the child. It's probable that Edward was premature/immature, and suffered from malnutrition and/or malformation. In other words, he was a very weak child.

Typical photo of Verity, as she bustles about. I like this one because she started to run into the picture, rather than running out of it, and it captures the usual busy movement.

( More pics under here )

Another success yesterday. We had the death certificates through from the third child, Dorothy, and a formerly-unknown-but-suspected fifth child, Hilda.
Both died from diptheria, within four days of each other, in an isolation hospital. Hilda was a mere 6 months old. Dorothy was only three, which wasn't much better.
My dad remembers that his mother had a real thing about diptheria - which is explained now by the loss of these two siblings within such a short space of time.
So, by Christmas 1901, Robert and Kate had been married for seven years, and had had five children - but only two of these remained alive. Horrific to contemplate isn't it, particularly by today's standards. And I've never seen a better argument for mass immunisation.

Therefore, as the investigation stands, here are the Barlow family.

Robert and Kate married 1894.

1. Mabel.
Born 1895. Died aged 3 in 1898 of delayed dentition with convulsions.

2. Evelyn
Born early 1896. This was possibly “Cissy”. She survived childhood.

3. Dorothy
Born mid 1898. She died aged 3 in November 1901, of diptheria.

4. Robert
Born early 1900. This was Bob. He survived childhood.

5. Hilda.
Born May 1901. She died aged 6 months in November 1901, of diptheria.

?????????

?????????

6. Winifred
Born early 1907. This was Winnie. She survived childhood.

??????????

7. Arthur
Born and died 1911. No cause of death known yet. He’s 3 weeks old on the 1911 census.

8. Vera
Born 1913. Died aged 6 in 1919. No cause of death known yet.

9. Joan
Born March 1916. This was Nanny. She died in 1999.

10. Eileen
Born mid 1918. She survived childhood and emigrated to Australia.

This means we still have three to find. To be investigated next are George, Lily, and Edward. One of those at least should be another of these children.

Nanny (my Dad’s mum) had a black and white picture of an older woman with a friendly, kind-looking face that sat in a frame on top of her gas fire.
When I was 11 or so my junior school set a project to find out about our family trees – so Mum and I started questioning our older relatives for names and dates and stories that they could remember, and we started to piece things together. I still have all those original family trees – done in pencil on scrap paper, and kept in our family filing cabinet for years – and they’ve proved invaluable for my more recent genealogy research.
At that point, Nanny told me that the woman in the photograph was her mother – Kate Barlow, nee Murphy – and that she was Irish. And that she and her husband, Robert Barlow, had had thirteen children together but many had died young.
Nanny was the twelfth child, and we knew about her younger sister – Auntie Eileen, who had emigrated to Australia and whose rather pink 1970s photograph had pride of place on the telly in the same room.
But who were the others, we asked her.
Well, said Nanny, there was Bob, and Cissy, and Winnie.
But that’s only five – you said there were thirteen. Who were the others?
Nanny’s face creased up as she tried to think. I can remember a Vera, she said slowly, but… no, no-one else.
From this we surmised that not one of the other children, her other brothers and sisters, had really lived past her birth. And, probably, in good stoical Victorian and Edwardian Britain, their existence wasn’t talked about and was swept under the carpet to block out the pain.

Quite apart from the unimaginable horror of birthing thirteen children, it seems especially horrific to have eight of them die on you. This was in an age where infant mortality was dropping – and so it seems extremely harsh that these poor parents had to suffer eight of their children dying. It boggles my mind how they managed not to go to pieces, and why Kate managed to have such a calm and kindly face in her later years. Though of course I never knew her – she could have been bitter and twisted inside for all I’d know.

Nanny died ten years ago now, so she’s not around to ask any more – not that we were able to get much more out of her anyway. But having done lots of the more exciting end of my family tree – with prominent Scottish civil engineers, Bishops of Salisbury and Litchfield and even a rumour of a link back to Charlemagne cropping up – I’m settling down to try and figure out some of the more recent family mysteries. Like who were the thirteen siblings, eight of whom (eight!) appearing to have died very young.

Through the 1901 and the 1911 census I found some names – some of which we didn’t know before, and others that we did. I correlated it with the Births Marriages and Deaths indexes from the period – as after 1911 they include the mother’s name with the birth record – and turned up a couple more. And then I’ve gone through all the possible Barlow children in the area that died young to try to find those who might be part of our thirteen – going on the average being one child every two or so years due to breastfeeding being a natural contraceptive (so you weaned one child, then conceived another), but if that baby died young when was the earliest you could have had another, and so on.

The upshot is now I have a narrowed down list of possible children to investigate, which shouldn’t break the bank with buying death certificates from the GRO. And two days ago I had my first success – I turned up their first child, a daughter called Mabel, who died at the age of 3 – purely by this deduction.

Naturally I’m proud of this. And I want to record my successes and pitfalls along the way. So, here are a list of the definite children, with a row of question marks in the gaps where there were almost certainly others. And as I discover who they were I’ll add to the list and hopefully I’ll have the full thirteen names at some point.

Robert and Kate married 1894.

1. Mabel.
Born 1895. Died aged 3 in 1898 of delayed dentition with convulsions.

2. Evelyn
Born early 1896. This was possibly “Cissy”. She survived childhood.

3. Dorothy
Born mid 1898. She died 1901. No cause of death known yet.

4. Robert
Born early 1900. This was Bob. He survived childhood.

?????????

?????????

?????????

5. Winifred
Born early 1907. This was Winnie. She survived childhood.

??????????

6. Arthur
Born and died 1911. No cause of death known yet. He’s 3 weeks old on the 1911 census.

7. Vera
Born 1913. Died aged 6 in 1919. No cause of death known yet.

8. Joan
Born March 1916. This was Nanny. She died in 1999.

9. Eileen
Born mid 1918. She survived childhood and emigrated to Australia.

To be investigated are: Hilda, George, Lily, and Edward. I am fairly sure that three of those will be our family, and one will not be. And then that just leaves one more.

This weekend Madam has learnt two new words: "guitar" (that's my girl!) which comes out as "tee-tah", and was said repeatedly while leafing through one of my folk music magazines. I think she's interested because Murray from The Wiggles plays one - but hey, it means she's learning something during this current obsession.

The other was "pretty", which came out much like it's supposed to sound. This was learnt while wandering round the garden centre at the local B&Q, while I was looking for lavender. "Pretty", she said, while attempting to pull the heads of a bunch of French lavender. Later, "pretty" was applied to the daffodil buds she'd pulled out of my mate C's garden. She knows "flower" too, so quite what she thinks pretty means I don't know. But it's a new word anyway.

She's also started applying the nearest word in her vocabulary to objects that she doesn't know the word for. So "apple" got variously applied to peas, cauliflower, and aubergines this weekend. "Purple" ("Pup-ple") to many of the felt tips. Purple appears to be her first colour (that's my girl!).

We have also done LOTS of drawing with felt tips this weekend, and yesterday practically went tribal with her running round the garden absolutely butt naked apart from finger paint. People who saw this/had it mentioned to them looked slightly uncomfortable at the idea - but frankly paint's a lot easier to get off skin than clothes, particularly if you know that she's just going to smear it all over her body anyway. Perhaps I'm too liberal and hippy for today's climate, but it made perfect sense to me. And she loved it.

In other news, I've potted on all my vegetable seedlings, cooked spicy French toast (damn nice) and started to arrange an interview with Billy Bragg for the next Taplas this weekend. So it's been good all round.

We haven't had a television aerial at home for roughly about three years now, give or take a couple of months.
To be honest, I don't miss it much. We still use the televisions - but for DVDs only, which means if we want to sit down and watch something we pick and choose when it's on, and we're not just vege-ing of an evening. We got through the early part of having Nushie by watching umpteen DVD box sets, and thanks to LoveFilm we've just continued that. We've just seen the third series of Bones (not as good as the previous two), and I think we're about to get the fourth series of Spooks - which I never expected to love but have really got into.
And if we desperately want to see something, there's always iPlayer on the computer, which means I did manage to catch John Humphries moonwalking last week. Of all the things you never thought you'd see...

This means that Nushie's currently complete all consuming obsession with The Wiggles is a little disconcerting as we've never really had the telly on much when she's been up and around. It's tended to be something we do in the evenings.
But she's seen telly at the childminder's, and occasionally I need to do something like the washing up without small hands pushing me away from the sink - so the other day I bunged on the Wiggles DVD that I'd bought months ago, and left her to it.

Now practically every other word out of her mouth when we're in the house is "Wiggles" or her approximation of it which is hard to phoneticise. She carries the DVD case hopefully about, every time she sees a CD she hopefully asks if it's Wiggles, and she hangs around the telly in case I put it on, and she's been known to try to drag an enormous floor cushion out of its place as that's what we give her to sit on when the telly's on.
Utterly, utterly obsessed.

We're trying to be reasonable, and only let her watch at a certain point of the day (ie when I need to get the washing up done, as the good thing about it is that she's sat there and just doesn't move), but it's very wearing, and if she keeps asking and not getting she starts getting ratty. I rang home this morning to hear that she was sat on Nick's lap in front of the computer, with a YouTube Wiggles video on in the corner of the screen while he worked on the plans for the remodeling of our kitchen. She was happily telling him that it was Wiggles, and he was happy because it meant he could do some work.

They're coming to the area around her birthday. I suspect I know what her present will be this year.

In lieu of any interesting content lately (we got the shoes, eventually), mostly due to Taplas, here are some more recent pics of Nushie to be going along with.


This is why she needed a haircut.

( More under here )

Two and a half weeks ago (I think, might have been three), having noticed Nushie's feet were filling her shoes out considerably, I took her to the shoe shop in Calne (the Clarks outlet in Chippenham being a no-go area due to the fact that Clarks very rarely do the wider sizes).
She measured a 4H. Which is about as wide as they believe children's feet get. And Clarks don't even bother with an H. So it's StartRite for us.

They had only a couple of pairs of shoes in the shop that might have fit her, but the woman tried them and they didn't. So we decided to go for a 4 1/2 H or G just to get a bit of extra width for her. They didn't have any in either size in the shop, so the woman said she'd order some in for us to try, and give us a ring when they turned up. She thought they ought to be in in 3 or 4 days.

A few days go by, and I get a phonecall. They haven't got the style she ordered for us left in stock, so she's going to have to order another one, and it'll take another few days.

Another couple of days go by, and I get a phonecall that I'm not able to answer but is clearly from the shoe shop. However, Nushie then goes down with a tummy bug for several days, and by the time that's over I'm into my two working days, so don't get round to ringing them back. They make no further attempt to contact me in that time.

Monday morning, bright and early, and being organised, I ring the shoe shop.

Oh, says the lady, we've had one pair in but not the other - I was going to check on them and ring you today. We should really have had them in by now - I'll ring the manufacturers and then ring you straight back.
To her credit, she did ring me straight back. They're "on order" apparently. Should be in today or tomorrow. She'll give me a call when they've arrived.
So far, no phonecall.

I am rapidly coming to the end of my tether with the whole business. It's a pair of kids' shoes FFS, not rocket science.
I'm sure you can quite possibly buy StartRite online, but I want my child's feet measured properly and taken care of by someone who fits shoes for a living, rather than me who knows bugger all about it.
But at the rate we're going that might be the only option left.

Madam has had a tummy bug this week. Started on Saturday after a visit to the City Farm (don't think they were related, to be honest), where she got her fingers pecked by hens.
Clean up has been fairly revolting. I have masses of washing, I had to do emergency duvet covers and sheets yesterday because she'd gone through them all, the high chair cover still needs hosing down, and until yesterday when Dad came over I had a mountain of washing up that I hadn't been able to tackle because every time I'd put her down she went "Mummeeeeeeeee" and clung.
Still, she seems to be on the mend now. Trouble is Nick appears to have gone down with it and has been off work and in bed all day. And I'm not feeling too clever either - hence why I haven't gone to clogging tonight. I was planning on not taking my piccolo, so that I'd have to dance this evening and not be skimmed over for others as per usual, but my legs feel a bit wobbly, so probably best not.

On the plus side, this week Nushie has learnt to walk backwards, said "bee" independently, and has started making adorable cat noises.
Clever little poppet.

Slow work day today, so I started compiling a list of words that Nushie can now say.

She's not always clear, and what she says is often hidden in a lot of conversationally-toned babble that at some point is going to turn into language and then we won't be able to shut her up. Takes after her mother.

However, this morning we did have a two word sentence of "actual" words for the first time ("See baby"), so we are getting there. And often a lot of the babble clearly has a meaning to her, as she tries to tell us something. I'm sure I got "I sit in the chair" from her the other week when we were driving home from work, but I see that as fluke for now.

Anyhow, the list:

* Bye bye
* Seesoo
* Bear
* Foawn (Phone)
* Uh-uh-uh (up up up - mostly from Rolly Polly, but starting to be used for other occasions)
* Baby (used a lot. She's obsessed. Wants to look at pictures of babies constantly, and walking down the street she'll say "Baby!" to every buggy we pass)
* Sheeze (cheese)
* Chair
* Shoes
* Daddy (often said very hopefully, she looks for him when he's not about)
* Bowl
* Poo
* Bub-buh (bubble)
* Dis-wah (this one, usually said with book in hand)
* Dah-wah (that one)
* Bisc (biscuit)
* Raise! (raisins)
* Suma (satsuma)
* Nana (banana)
* Peese (please - used some of the time but not all, usually when she's after a "Bisc!")
* Ta (thank you - again not used all the time)
* Yaise/ya (sometimes used for yes, but not all the time. I think it's conversational imitation)
* Bah-time (bath time)
* Beh-time (bed time)
* Boo-tah (computer)
* Meh-mee (Mummy)
* Een-nih (Phoenix - best friend)
* Mah-nuh (Magnus)
* Buh-ee (Buggy)
* Hiya
* Door
* Tea (meaning drink)
* Tea (meaning food)
* ee-ai-ee-ai-ee-ai (please sing Old MacDonald)
* Pih (pig)
* Shee (sheep)
* Fssssh (fish)
* Bah-Bah (please sing Baa baa black sheep)

She shakes her head for No, but won't say the word yet. I should be thankful for that.

Socks are called shoes, she’s said various imitated things including Tights, Porridge, Food, Apple, Rainbow, Freya but doesn’t say them habitually.
She also has hand gestures to indicate which song she wants you to sing - flashing her fingers above her head is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, rolling her hands together is either Wind The Bobbin Up or Rolly Polly (you quite often start the wrong one and she tells you off), spreading her arms out wide appears to be Incy Wincy Spider, and stabbing one finger into the palm of her other hand is Once I Caught A Fish Alive. For Baa Baa Black Sheep or Old MacDonald she'll say them.
She can point to parts of her body (ears, eyes, nose, mouth, head, tummy, knees, feet), but won't say the word, she'll splash, clap, stamp feet, pat tummy or head on asking, and sometimes lie down if you're lucky. She understands the words for rooms - bedroom, kitchen, bathroom - and concepts for upstairs and outside and nappy change, but has no words for them yet. She can also point to all manner of things in books and jigsaws - cat, dog, truck, apple, rainbow, house, teddy bear, Burglar Bill, etc - but has no words for them yet either. If you say "can you say ******?" she will shake her head and refuse to try.

So, then, the Folk Awards.

I got there in the end. Trains did their best to stop me, but there was an hourly service running to Paddington when I got to the station, so on I hopped. Nick's sister rang me while I was waiting for the train, and implied that I was bloody nuts for attempting it. I accepted that view, and pretty much subscribed to it too, but I wasn't going to be deterred.
Had a pretty ride up through snowy countryside, but it really didn't look too bad until we hit London.
Paddington was practically dead at ten to five in the afternoon, which was an odd experience. Most of the shops were shut, and hardly anyone about.
Managed to get round to the Barbican tube via the Bakerloo and Metropolitan lines, which wasn't hard. Central London tubes were fairly ok, other than the completely suspended lines.
Met my staff member Iain, conferred over a drink, then trudged off through the slush to the venue with a pile full of magazines to give out to people.
Free champagne and people passing out bowls of nice looking food (not much veggie - I ended up with a bowl of quinoa and vegetables), and obviously chatting. The thing about the folk scene is that much of it happens at the summer festivals, so a lot of people don't see each other from September through till May. Lots of hugging, lots of accquantances being renewed.
Handed copies of the magazine to Sam Sweeney, Saul Rose, Paul Sartin, Genevieve Tudor, and - at the end of the night - David Delarre. Nattered to a few people, careful not to monopolise or hang on to them as that's seriously uncool, then got ushered into the main venue with tables for the ceremony proper.
After that, just like any award ceremony that you see on the telly really, except I happened to be sitting at a table with BBC booze in front of me rather than in front of a screen. Jackie Oates got two awards (both well deserved), Demon Barbers got Best Live Act (yay!), Faustus didn't get best group (boo!), awards presented by various luminaries including Rob Brydon (see Gavin & Stacey's Uncle Bryn). James Taylor played (he got a lifetime achievement award), as did Judy Collins (who really did nothing for me, but clearly impressed a lot of the audience).
After it was all over, more schmoozing, and clearly an after show party warming up. But I had to make a run for it, and get the last train back home, as there really wasn't a way to get out to Nick's sister's place, and I didn't fancy trying to sort out another sort of accommodation in the middle of a lot of drunken people.
So I hared it back across London for the 11.30 train, and got back at twenty to two and jumped in snow drifts on the walk home in the moonlight.

And today I have had a snow day and cleaned out my fridge. Back to reality.


David Delarre with copy of latest Taplas, taken at the awards, photo by Alan Price.