Swing Lowe

I was not born the proud occupant of a corner cubicle and window desk with a view across the dreaming money mountains of the City. Oh no, indeed. My beginnings were much more humble.

My climb to this locational glory began as a student, a student equipped with, my children entirely refuse to believe, all the essential apparatus of 1970’s studenthood – a magnificent Zappa moustache paid due homage to a great man, fourteen inch flared jeans sat elegantly on my 30" waist, my long golden tresses were habitually tied back in a long wavy ponytail.  Well….  A small ponytail. And the colour was perhaps a little more mouse than golden. And maybe the waist was 32”. Or 34”. Not 36”, absolutely not.  And, looking at the photographs, the moustache seems perchance more Niven than Zappa.

This essay at hippydom was a rather short period of my life, as it turned out.  For my second long vacation I had been expecting to go back to the farm where I had worked in the first long summer and which seemed very appreciative of fashionable dress and hairstyling. To my surprise, my letter seeking renewal of my post garnered an instant response. From this it was very obvious that the incident involving the ditch, the tractor, and the three ton trailer of barley had not been forgotten, or forgiven.

So I applied to the local stately home to work as a guide, escorting the steaming masses round the treasures and trinkets of one hundred and fifty years of throwing nothing away. A colonel’s wife commanded the regiment of guides and my charm went nowhere with her. She perused me over the top of her half-focals, a technique learned no doubt from her husband as perfected at El Alamein

“It would be nice to have a man among the team” she boomed – with a look and in a tone that indicated that yours truly was not helping achieve this objective.

She looked again, eyes narrowed against the desert sun, sighed, and said “Start on Tuesday.  No doubt you can get a proper hair cut and shave by then. Oh, and buy some clothes. Good afternoon”

So the pony tail was cropped, the flares replaced with best country cords and the Zappa zapped, with a razor..But, this sartorial vandalism apart, I took to life at Lowesdale Hall rather well. It was warm and dry, an easy bike ride from home, the guides’ tea was generously provisioned (though one did have to watch the sharp elbows when trying to get at the scones and jam); and the gawping masses generally not too trying.  

The most trying thing was trying to remember the history and provenance of all the clutter which was laid about to amuse the hordes.  Lord Lowesdale was a bit coy about this, and did not care to hear his staff admit that most of it had been bought off dealers in the late nineteenth century, the ancient family and fortune of Lowe going only as far back as a cotton mill in Accrington in about 1856.

After a couple of weeks I was given the heavy responsibility, but more generous tipping potential, of the evening parties. These were not jolly cocktail parties, but groups of, mostly, Americans who were prepared to pay very generously for a tour of the tat by candlelight (much better that way actually, it looked more distinguished and less distressed) and then dinner with Lord L himself – who also by candlelight looked more distinguished and less distressed.

He normally avoided the tours part, presumably to avoid awkward questions as to the presence of a lot other people’s ancestors on his walls, but graciously received the punters in the Green Drawing Room, for a quick glass of something reviving before dinner.

My last evening tour, before I was demoted to the dizzy depths of supervising the correct placement of cars in the car park, was of a party of very Californian Californians, all in jeans and tie dyed T shirts, and indeed probably all relatives or mates of F Zappa. I was very taken by all this laid back coolness, which is probably why I forgot to mention to his lordship that they all had to a man, and to a rock chick, opted for the vegetarian choice for dinner (three courses, each mostly of cheese).

Into the Green Drawing Room we shuffled, with his lordship lolling heavily in front of a large Munnings of the 4th Lord Lowesdale with the hounds of the Lowesdale Hunt, in front of Lowesdale Castle.  His son gave them the ritual three minutes of the charm of the English cotton spinning aristocracy, ending with “Do feel free to ask any questions, though I doubt I’ll know the answers…hohoho”.

The sun-kissed ones were regarding the hunting picture with what a lesser noble might have noticed to be considerable distaste. Silence. Then one blond rock chick spoke up, speaking, one could not help but feel, for them all:

“Gee Sir Lord Lowe, is that you in the hunting gear?”

“Hahaha, my dear, certainly not. Not at all”  The Californians suddenly looked happier, and at the back a short haired clean shaven guide breathed out.

“No no, dear lady, the hunt is banned from Lowesdale Hall and all its lands”  The group began to look as they might raise three cheers for this splendid example of a modern aristocrat.

“I banned them twenty years ago, my dear, absolutely inappropriate. Created havoc with my shooting, can’t run a decent pheasant shoot with my woods full of hounds. Eh? Eh? What? Where are you all going? Mr B, where are they all going?”