Genealogy (tracing yourself back to better people)

After an eventful week involving such things as choosing paint for our bedroom (Raspberry Pink and a dash of Walnut – What does Blokey think? asked Mumsy, in the belief that he has any say in the matter!) and being girly (oh, the problems we have had with the car were worthy of their own mundane little post) on the phone (me! on the phone!) to appeal to the paternal instinct of car dealership manager men folk people things, I took myself down to Gip to visit my Mumsy.  I took The Blokey with me so that I could actually get there, but then I sent him home again so that myself and Mumsy could discuss important things, like Mo on Big Brother and how long I should leave it before sending The [Real] Big Brother an email wishing him a Happy [Belated] Birthday.

We went to the deepest, darkest parts of Suffolk to visit the villages/hamlets of my maternal grandad’s family.  We drove down one track lanes – swerving occasionally to avoid hitting p[h]easants – and we wondered no more at my great-grandfather’s desire to leave the area in the 1890s and find his [mis-]fortune in London. 

Ssshhh …

It’s Oh So Quiet.

Even today there is no noisy traffic.  The air is clean and fresh and the only noises we heard belonged to farming vehicles or animals.  A man spooked us by saying a cheery Hello! as he wandered past to post a letter in a postbox set in the wall of a dilapidated pink cottage.  It used to be a Post Office.  There were no Chav/ettes lounging around on street corners.  Indeed, there were no street corners, just curvy country lanes.  There was no litter drowning the wide open spaces, and there were no teenage boys playing House/Garage/Punk/Rock, loudly, out of their bedroom windows. 

It’s the sort of place I would like to live, if I had the money.  The Working Class Farming Community of these parishes are simply now Middle Class Commuting Communities.  And I can understand why my great-grandfather didn’t want to follow his father and grandfather into the Ag. Lab. career …


The churches were open and inviting.  Peaceful.  Serene.  Nice …


complete with warnings …


and cool interiors.


But there were no family graves to dance on, although we searched long and hard.  We suspect they were too poor for expensive headstones that would last for generations.  Pffft.  It was a shame really, especially as I was very much looking forward to meeting Phoebe, my great-great-great grandmother. 

Later, after food in a pub with a randy landlord, my Mother put me on a train and sent me home to The Blokey. 

I still haven’t emailed The Big Brother to wish him birthday greetings; it was his birthday on Monday.  I’m not bitter about him forgetting mine, honest Guv’.

Please God bless my Phoebe-Grandmother xxx Elsabeth

“Man who stand on hill with mouth open will wait long time for roast duck to drop in.”

Goodness … how long? 

The funeral was beautiful.  The sun shone brightly, so many people turned up to the crematorium that we had to move from the small East Chapel to the larger West Chapel, and I did good with the flowers.  On the way from my house to The Blokey’s childhood home the radio played Coldplay’s Fix You [which reminds me of my nana’s funeral], and Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars [which is the track myself and The Blokey had as our first dance at our wedding, and is also the track I want played at my funeral].  That freaked me out a tad. We’ll be scattering his ashes at Silverstone in the summer some time, which will be fitting for a man who so loved his motor racing/Formula 1.  It still seems unreal though.  And I do worry about my MiL.  And The Blokey …

I took Mumsy up to London last weekend for the Who Do You Think You Are? Live show.  She made scathing comments about Ian Hislop [whose voice is far squeakier in real life than on the tellybox], Bamber Gascoigne [isn’t he dead yet?] and some chap who is disliked by The Eldest Brother.  We came home with oodles of free goodies, and some not so free goodies, and very tired legs. I discovered that the reason I can’t find my great-great grandparents marriage certificate is probably because they didn’t get married [those pesky Victorian’s].  I was too scared to talk to the Scientologists [why were they there?] and I missed the Family Society stand so I didn’t get a bag – but this is good because I would probably have argued with the Mormons [because they won’t change something on their website which is blatantly wrong, and I know it’s wrong because it’s my family history].  Sheesh.  I realised that I hadn’t been on the tube since the events of 2005, which made me a bit sad because I do quite like London and should visit more.

On Tuesday evening we went and saw The Manics in maC.  They were loud and fun.  I felt very old – it’s the fourth time I’ve seen them live, the first being way back in 1992 which is fifteen years ago.  Fifteen!  Yikes.  We were near the front [the last time we saw them was at Nottingham Arena and they were mere dots roaming around a big stage] but unfortunately the crappy camera on my phone doesn’t take good pictures.  Pfft. 



The Baby Brother was staying with us this last week, so we kindly took him to the cinema to see Spider-Man 3 on Wednesday evening.  I almost fell asleep three times, but I don’t think that’s because it wasn’t very good.  It’s because I was tired.  I did think that Tobey Maguire should be bad more often though.  He was cute as a bad boy. 

TBB has been doing up our back garden.  My Green Fingers are struggling to bud [they are getting there, I do like to maintain – it’s just the actual creating] so he comes and helps to dig the soil, move the gravel, buy screws, plant plants, move Buddha, sow grass seed [yay! we’re going to have a (little) lawn!], and put up arches. 

And an arch plus a sunset on a stormy night equals good photo opportunities.  Not my photo, obviously.  TBB’s photo. 


Time for some grub …

please God bless this next week and make it less exhausting xxx Elsabeth

[Oh, and lest I forget … Last night we played the Eurovision game, you know, the one where you drink alcohol and guess which country gives which country twelve points … I did bloody good, I nearly got them all right.  Yay!]

I trace my family history so I will know who to blame.

I have almost gone as far as I can with my own family tree.  Oh, not to the extent that it’s completed, oh-deary-me-no.  The Internet is a very useful tool but it only goes as far back as the records, which in England began in 1837.  Anything further back than that has to be gleaned from parish records, or rampant geneaologists who sometimes get things wrong [oh, the arguments], and involves treks to far-flung places where one can walk across graves and feel the shiver that some long-dead ancestor may have felt many moons ago. 

It’s not only geese that can walk on graves.

At the moment all avenues concerning my family tree have been exhausted.  I got as far back as 1720 on The Father’s side and the 1770/80s on Mumsy’s side.  It doesn’t sound like much, but when you see how many great-grandparents it creates it’s quite staggering.  And then when one realises that they all had lots of children [like folk did back then, breeding like damn rabbits] and those children all had lots of children, one begins to realise that one must be related to thousands of people. 

Hark at me, being all posh, like.

As an aside, there was a chap on Eat Out of Tin Cans last night who was just like me.  Except I think he was putting it on.

So, now that I’m a married woman I have decided that it’s time I thought of the children I don’t yet have … I’ve made a start on The Blokey’s family tree.  It’s not as exciting as when it’s your own flesh & blood, but it is a little bit exciting.  And they are The Blokey’s flesh & blood, the bits that make him who he is.  In front of me I have a pile of certificates, amongst which is a birth certificate for the sister that the MiL knew she had but had no details about.  Tomorrow I shall introduce her to the sister that she never knew, although I won’t be able to tell her how she died: the death certificate was the only certificate that didn’t come rattling through the letter box this morning.  Arse. 

Now I just need to find some Stead’s in Australia to get this bigamy story sorted out …

please God bless the geese xxx Elsabeth

[edited to ask the question, why-oh-why is everybody turning xanga anonymous footprints lock on?  I’m not going to stop being anonymous – you’ll have to email me your posts because I can’t read them! I don’t want to stop reading them! But I don’t want to stop being anonymous! Stop it! You’re making me confused! And paranoid! (this is not to the same person as was mentioned in the last post)]