Old fashioned GPS

We don't have GPS in our car - my husband says I'm the GPS. Could stand for 'Girl Points Somewhere' - actually when I point I invariably point to the some 'where' where we are supposed to be going - I am quite good at directions. Could call it 'VPS' - 'Virginia Plots a Sightsee' - I enjoy planning a day out and getting my Ordnance Survey maps out. I rather love maps so imagine my excitement when I came across the Auto-mapic in a charity shop last year, the GPS of fifties Europe.

It's a GB road map in a plastic casing with tabs on the side. You adjust the tabs and a new section of road map appears before your eyes. As the blurb on the casing says "Safer and quicker to use than a folding map, the Auto-mapic is a permanent solution to the road map problem."

I think it dates from the 1950s and 1960s - quite early on as mine doesn't have the M1 marked on it. In fact a previous owner has felt-tipped the M1 and M6 in. It is very very splendid with lovely detailed maps with all the little towns included. There's even a rather wonderful London map showing clearly all the arterial roads and places I've heard about but never visited like Greenwich and Chiswick and Chelsea.  At a flick of the tabs you are in another part of country. GPS - pah - we now live by the Auto-mapic at 88.

My Dad's voice

My 'OK' post set me thinking about voices, about intonation, cadence and timbre. My Dad died four years ago and of all the things I miss about not having him here, it's his voice. I can hear him as I write. His voice had a wonderful timbre. It had a very distinctive quality that had nothing to do with his Yorkshire accent although the shortened vowels of the North probably enriched it. It was very very pleasant, strong and warm and easy on the ear. There was a slight hesitancy in the voice, a thoughtfulness. There was a landscape to his voice, ups and downs, valleys and hills.

It's funny how senses other than sight can evoke a person so vividly. I can also smell my Dad - specifically I can smell a particular jumper of his circa the 1970s that was a dark mustard colour, probably more French than English. I suppose I got lots of cuddles in the 70s and got to breathe in that jumper. Dad was a farmer so wasn't in his best clothes that often and I remember this V shaped thick knitted jumper that he had for best-casual.

In fact, when we cleared his wardrobe - the one that contained all his best suits and jackets and trousers and jumpers - that was the smell. The wardrobe smelled of him or did he smell of the wardrobe? I think the drawers and interior wood were made from cedar and that is the aromatic perfume that will forever evoke my dad. I wish I could have removed that fitted wardrobe with its beautiful red wooden drawers and reconstructed it in my own house at 88 but alas I couldn't. In fact, my husband bought some leather shoes last year and was supplied with some shoe trees, made from cedar wood. When he unpacked them, exposing their aroma, my dad was there in the room with me. Funny old things smells and voices.