Not Dead Yet

 My sister's dive into our ancestry has brought her into contact with people who are investigating other branches of the family- one of whom commiserated with her on having lost her only brother at such an early age. According to his researches I died in 1988. She put him right.

Which goes to show you can't believe everything you see printed in a genealogy- or any other historical document- no matter how dustily factual it may seem.

I have started signing messages to my sister "T (deceased)" and "T (who is sadly no longer with us)". The joke will soon wear thin but for the time being I'm enjoying it.

Of course in a parallel reality I might well have died in 1988. That was the time in my life when I was at my most volatile, rackety, periodically miserable. I don't believe I was ever properly suicidal but who knows what nastiness I might have drawn to myself if circumstances had been just a little different....

Ancestor Worship

 This is something my sis dug up in her investigation into our family history.

The year is 1908. Annie Grist is marrying Archibald Mitchell. The ceremony was conducted at Christ Church, Erith.  Afterwards the bridal party poses for photographs in somebody's grotty back yard. They have done what they can to cheer it up by spreading carpet and hanging a flag. 

Ohmigod, the things the women have put on their heads! Words fail. Those Edwardians, what were they like!

I'm mostly interested in the two people on the far right. The boy- the bride's brother- aged about nine or ten- is my grandfather Cyril Henry, and the woman behind him, half hidden, with wary eyes, is almost certainly my widowed great grandmother (another Annie). This is the first picture of her I've ever seen.



And here's Cyril in his prime- a company director who- like the girl in the song- has long since shaken off his "lowly born tags" ...

Going Down Into The Mist