Stranger Than Fiction

It was mad, bad and dangerous to know Lord Byron who once asserted that "truth is always stranger than fiction"; and Mark Twain who is supposed to have added the rider "because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn't." Make of that paradox what you will. Owen Oyston, Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump are regular subscribers to the Twain maxim!

You might have deduced already that the revelatory theme of the blog this week is...

 

...and your diligent Saturday blogger has travelled to 16th century France and back in the interests of researching today's piece. It has been an eye-watering voyage of discovery and I hope you are all sitting comfortably before I begin. The men among you may not be, by the time I've finished!

Back in that pre-enlightened age of religious orthodoxy, the Roman Catholic church made it extremely difficult for people to get divorced, as Henry VIIIth of England discovered. The Vatican allowed very few permissible grounds. Not everyone had the option of establishing a new state religion in order to sanction their uncoupling.

In France, however, which has traditionally taken a more liberal view of all things sexual, there was an interesting loophole permitted to women of sufficient means. If a husband was unable to rise to his duty (we would call it erectile dysfunction these days) then she could cite "injurious non-consummation" as grounds for divorce. Of course, she couldn't just make the claim and expect to be believed. There was a due process of law to be followed and she was required to pay for the privilege. Assuming she could do so, then - to put it bluntly -  the man had to prove that it could stand up in court!



Zut alors! Pas ce soir!

These were ecclesiastical courts and the real justification behind the loophole related to the religious belief that the primary intent of marriage was procreation, to the greater glory of God. Wanting to have a satisfying sex-life didn't enter into it.

If a man could demonstrate to the court that his reproductive equipment was in satisfactory working order, then the parties were "condemned to live as man and wife." However, one suspects that many men who might normally be as rampant as goats would flag under such circumstances as these ecclesiastical courts - also nick-named the impotence courts. The French judiciary conceded this possibility as well. Therefore any defendant who couldn't bestir his manhood to spit in the eye of his detractor (so to speak) could have recourse to what was called Trial by Congress if he so wished.

The majority of men who failed to satisfy the impotence courts chose not to follow this route. They accepted the harsh reality that their women wanted shot of them.  The ecclesiastical court would then order the marriage to be annulled. Not only did such unfortunate men have to pick up the cost of the action (and refund their ex-wives both the court charges and the wedding dowry), they also had to live out their lives with the ignominy and could never marry again. Some were simply miserable, many went mad and there are reports of men having died from embarrassment.

Any individual who elected to go to Trial by Congress would then be required, with suitable examination of both parties beforehand and afterwards, to perform the sexual act with his estranged wife in front of a panel of experts - doctors, midwives and priests - to prove beyond a doubt that he possessed the ability to procreate. Such men were either masochists or desperate to hang onto a wife for her money. If he succeeded, the marriage stood. If he failed, he effectively lost everything.

Apparently there were as many as 10,000 such trials in France in the 16th century. I am sure there were some, perhaps many, women who deserved to be free of their husbands (for a whole variety of reasons) and the mechanism of the impotence courts served them well. I am equally sure there were many men who were ill-served by the processes outlined above. Thankfully we are slightly more civilised about it all six hundred years down the line.

And so to this week's poem, which seeks to furnish some light-hearted relief at the end of what has proved a deeply disturbing journey through the mores of our (French) ancestral past. If it sounds somewhat puerile, blame it on regression caused by shock! It attempts to put a positive spin on the whole thing - as why wouldn't it?

Arise Sir Loin!
Arise, Sir Loin,
knight of the wronged wives.
Spring forth
and put these pining plaintiffs
to the sword of pleasure.
Stay strong,
bury your measure up to the hilt
in their treasure
and feel no guilt
for our country loves
your gallant stand
and in so servicing the ladies
you do serve the Lord.
Ride glorious then,
ride on at His command
till kingdom come,
that when at last
your lancing days are done,
all your good seed being sown,
you may withdraw at leisure
to hang your head with pride.


Thanks for reading. May all your Easter rabbits be generous, S ;-)

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Strange But True

At 2:10 pm on 5th December 1945, five U.S. Navy Avenger torpedo-bombers comprising Flight 19 take off from the Ft. Lauderdale Naval Air Station in Florida on a routine three-hour training mission. Flight 19 was scheduled to take them due east for 120 miles, north for 73 miles, and then back over a final 120-mile leg that would return them to the naval base. They never returned.

Two hours after the flight began, the leader of the squadron, who had been flying in the area for more than six months, reported that his compass and back-up compass had failed and that his position was unknown. The other planes experienced similar instrument malfunctions. Radio facilities on land were contacted to find the location of the lost squadron, but none were successful. After two more hours of confused messages from the fliers, a distorted radio transmission from the squadron leader was heard at 6:20 p.m., apparently calling for his men to prepare to ditch their aircraft simultaneously because of lack of fuel.

By this time, several land radar stations finally determined that Flight 19 was somewhere north of the Bahamas and east of the Florida coast, and at 7:27 p.m. a search and rescue Mariner aircraft took off with a 13-man crew. Three minutes later, the Mariner aircraft radioed to its home base that its mission was underway. The Mariner was never heard from again. Later, there was a report from a tanker cruising off the coast of Florida of a visible explosion seen at 7:50 p.m.

The disappearance of the 14 men of Flight 19 and the 13 men of the Mariner led to one of the largest air and seas searches to that date, and hundreds of ships and aircraft combed thousands of square miles of the Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico, and remote locations within the interior of Florida. No trace of the bodies or aircraft was ever found.

Although naval officials maintained that the remains of the six aircraft and 27 men were not found because stormy weather destroyed the evidence, the story of the “Lost Squadron” helped cement the legend of the Bermuda Triangle, an area of the Atlantic Ocean where ships and aircraft are said to disappear without a trace. The Bermuda Triangle is said to stretch from the southern U.S. coast across to Bermuda and down to the Atlantic coast of Cuba and Santo Domingo.

There is a long catalogue of missing aircraft and ocean-going craft lost without trace in this notorious region of the Atlantic.

• 1945: July 10, Thomas Arthur Garner, AMM3, USN, along with eleven other crew members, was lost at sea in a US Navy PBM3S patrol seaplane, Bu. No.6545, Sqd VPB2-OTU#3, in the Bermuda Triangle. They left the Naval Air Station, Banana River, Florida, at 7:07 p.m. on July 9, 1945, for a radar training flight to Great Exuma, Bahamas. Their last radio position report was sent at 1:16 a.m., July 10, 1945, with a latitude/longitude of 25-22N 77.34W, near Providence Island, after which they were never heard from again. An extensive ten day surface and air search, including a carrier sweep, found nothing
• 1945: December 5, Flight 19 (five TBF Avengers) lost with 14 airmen, and later the same day PBM Mariner BuNo 59225 lost with 13 airmen while searching for Flight 19
• 1948: January 30, Avro Tudor G-AHNP Star Tiger lost with six crew and 25 passengers, en route from Santa Maria Airport in the Azores to Kindley Field, Bermuda1948: December 28, Douglas DC-3 NC16002 lost with three crew and 36 passengers, en route from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to Miami. 1949: January 17, Avro Tudor G-AGRE Star Ariel lost with seven crew and 13 passengers, en route from Kindley Field, Bermuda, to Kingston Airport, Jamaica. 1956: November 9, Martin Marlin lost ten crewmen taking off from Bermuda.

The list continues into modern times. The explanations given for the disappearances range from the sublime to the ridiculous;

1. The paranormal -  Some writers have blamed UFOs for the disappearances. They believe that aliens use the Triangle as a portal to travel to and from our planet. The area is like a gathering station where they capture people, ships and aircraft to conduct research.

2. The lost city of Atlantis - Theorists believe the fabled city once resided under the Triangle and mystical crystals which powered Atlantis are still resting on the seabed transmitting huge waves of energy that destroy the vessels on the sea above.

3. Gigantic structures under the sea - Paranormal explorers claimed they found a massive crystal pyramid lurking beneath the ocean within the triangle. They implied that this might be responsible for crashing aircraft and sinking ships.

4. Souls of African slaves - One of the most significant theories is that the Triangle is made up of the souls of slaves who had been thrown overboard by sea captains on their journey to the States. In his book Healing the Haunted, Dr Kenneth McAll claimed that a haunting sound could be heard while sailing in the notorious waters.

5. Government testing - The US Navy's Atlantic Undersea Test and Evaluation Center (AUTEC) is located in the mysterious Bermuda Triangle. It's used as a hub to test submarines, weapons, sonar, secret projects and reverse-engineered alien technology, and some say it is behind the phenomenon. 

 

A more recent theory was posed by scientists investigating strange hexagonal patterning in cloud formations over the 440,000 square mile area of the Bermuda Triangle. While looking at satellite images of coastal clouds above the North Atlantic Ocean, the meteorologists reportedly noted strange patterns of hexagonal gaps as large as 88 kilometers (55 miles) in the cloud formations, according to Science Channel. It just so happens, this bizarre phenomenon was found on the west tip of the Bermuda Triangle, as well as a precarious point in Europe's North Sea.“These types of hexagonal shapes in the ocean are, in essence, air bombs," Dr Randy Cerveny, a meteorologist from Arizona State University, told the Science Channel’s What on Earth show. "They’re formed by what is called microbursts and they’re blasts of air that come down out of the bottom of the cloud and then hit the ocean and then create waves, sometimes massive in size..."

The scientists believe that these “air bombs” could pump winds to move at over 273 kilometers (170 miles) per hour, which could account for the handful of reports of ships going missing in the area.

Whatever the real reason for these tragedies, I have always found the phenomenon totally fascinating.xAnd of course, Barry Manilow wrote and recorded a song about it.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIsdMO6TBx4

Thank you for reading. Adele  

 

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Strange but True - Amsterdam Funeral

I was trying to find something different to fit in with the theme of Strange but True when I came across this, I think it was in a ‘100 Strange but True Facts’ article.

“If you die in Amsterdam with no next of kin and no friends or family to prepare funeral or mourn over the body, a poet will write a poem for you and recite it at your funeral.”

I was impressed and wondered where to apply for the job…

     I must visit Amsterdam.

I’ve laughed and I’ve cried reading ‘The Diary of a Young Girl’.  Anne Frank wrote witty and amusing accounts to ‘Kitty’, with honesty about her feelings as she coped with her family’s situation and truthful about her mixed up moods and personal concerns as she emerged from childhood into puberty. For two years, summer 1942 until summer 1944, the Frank family were in hiding from the Germans with another Jewish family in the top floors of an office block in Amsterdam.

This is my real reason to visit Amsterdam, just to see for myself the place known by the family as ‘the annexe’ that Anne Frank called home and learn more about how they managed. I believe it is tiny and I’m told it’s much commercialised but I would like to see for myself and show respect for their hardship and later suffering.

One of my father’s pubs had a live-in barman. He was an elderly gentleman known as Old Joe and he had lived there for many years. The only family he had was a nephew who came to take him out on his day off. He worked in the pub, played snooker for the team and always had toffees in his pocket for me and my sister. He blended in with us like family and even had his favourite ‘tripe and cow heel pie’ made for him by my mother or our housekeeper once a week. He was very deaf and had the tv on full volume when he sat in our living-room to watch the sport on a Saturday afternoon.  According to my father, he’d heard a rumour that Old Joe had a drawer full of unopened wage packets. Joe had free board and lodgings with us, the locals kept him in beer with a pint or two and his nephew treated him to lunch and whatever else on their days out. My dad was concerned and thought that if Joe really did have so much money around, it would be safer in the bank. Apparently, Joe neither confirmed nor denied the rumour, just laughed it off and told my dad he was alright, there was no need to bother. Joe lived a few more years into his nineties. There was no significant amount of money in his room. Strange, perhaps, to some, but true.

 

My chosen poem, I'd love to believe it's true.

 

 

The lost Lost Property Office

 

‘On buses and trains you wouldn’t believe

The crazy things that passengers leave

 

A ventriloquist’s dummy mouthing a scream

Two tickets (unused) for Midsummer Night’s Dream

 

Handcuffs, chains and a spiderman suit

The tangled remains of a failed parachute

 

Rucksacks, tents and rolled-up beds

If they weren’t screwed on they’d lose their heads

 

Two bull terriers and a Siamese kitten

Suicide note, hastily written

 

Garden forks with broken handles

A birthday cake with four candles

 

A file with TOP SECRET stamped in red

(Inside a card, April Fool, it said)

 

Safe and secure behind a locked door

Priceless works of art by the score

 

Paintings by Hockney, Warhol and Blake

Two Mona Lisas (possibly fake)

 

Magritte’s bowler hat and Van Gogh’s chair

Duchamp’s urinal and a paint-stained pair

 

Of trousers belonging to Toulouse Lautrec

(short in the leg, black and white check)

 

A painting by numbers of Rembrandt’s head

Dirty sheet and a pillow off Tracey’s bed

 

Jigsaw by Rodin, of two lovers kissing

Damien Hirst skull with the diamonds missing

 

Am I overworked? Of course I am

The list goes on ad nauseam

 

A shot putter’s shot and a pole vaulter’s pole

A partial eclipse and a Black Hole

 

A bucket of toenails and a wooden plank

Two air-to-air missiles and a Russian tank

 

The Statue of Liberty and an oil slick

Mountains of mobiles and an old walking stick

 

Lost any of these? Bad news I’m afraid

The Lost Property Office has been mislaid.’

 

Roger McGough, CBE, FRSL

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Spotlight

What I like about this weekly blogging malarkey is the good prodding it gives one to delve into, mull over and then write (creatively, I hope) about something not ordinarily on the radar. Three out of the four themes that are dealt out each month are chosen by my fellow bloggers, so I've learned to expect the unexpected and to try and make something worthwhile of the opportunity. It's usually a stimulating challenge; just occasionally it stumps me. Sometimes the link between what I write and the given theme is tenuous, to say the least - last week's blog, Yarn, being a case in point. But that's half the fun. I had no such issues with  In The Spotlight..

The first bit of research I did was into Spotlight, which began as a UK publication in the 1920s, a directory listing profiles of actors and actresses who worked or aspired to work in theatre or film. As a yearbook it became the primary reference for anyone looking to cast a film or theatrical production. It's still going strong ninety years later, only it has a digital/online platform as well now, with over 60,000 performers listed on its database - and it's still the go-to place for agents and casting directors looking to put on plays or shoot movies in the UK and Europe. Michael Caine has been listed in Spotlight for over fifty years.


The inimitable Michael Caine in the spotlight

Last week we went to a preview screening of 'My Generation', the new documentary movie narrated by and starring (it must be said), the inimitable Mr Caine. Directed by David Batty, it tells the story of Caine's 1960s, that momentous decade in which youth culture came to the fore, London (and then much of the UK) switched from monochrome to Technicolor and opportunities opened up for white working-class lads and lasses to make a cultural impact. Caine personally interviewed his generational friends David Bailey, Roger Daltrey, Marianne Faithful, Paul McCartney, Mary Quant and Twiggy for the project and their words are heard over fabulous footage from the times - much of it rescued from rushes stored in the garage of pioneering 1960s film-maker Peter Whitehead. (The interviews will eventually be screened as six separate TV programmes.) Over 1,000 hours of film and newsreel have been reviewed over a three-year period and edited down into 2 hours for the documentary which makes fascinating viewing, as it cleverly intercuts Caine and London then and now in the same locations. More than that, though, it would be worth it just for the music on the soundtrack which was provided by a roll-call of those groups whose recordings made the decade so special: Animals, Beatles, Kinks, Rolling Stones, Small Faces, Who (plus many more). Catch it if you can when it goes on general release.


Michael Caine and Mandy Rice-Davies in the Swinging '60s

'Zulu' was Caine's movie break-through in 1964. He only got the part because the director was American. No British director would have given the role to a cockney lad! He was on his way.

The film that first brought Caine massive international fame came two years down the line. 'Alfie', in which he played Alfie Ekins, an east end lothario with a weakly nagging conscience, was written by Bill Naughton and directed by Lewis Gilbert. By a curious coincidence, it had its world premier in London on this day, 24th March, back in 1966.

At the Q&A session that followed the preview of 'My Generation', Caine explained how 'Alfie' had been a huge box office draw all over the world... except for France. When he'd asked a French friend why the film hadn't been taken seriously in that country, he was told no one had believed an Englishman could make love to ten women!

Reviewing Caine's character as heartless serial seducer in 'Alfie' put me in mind of a line from the work of Jacobean playwright John Webster: "What cannot a neat knave with a smooth tale make a woman believe?"

Consequently, for a poetical challenge this week, I've taken the theme song from the US version of 'Alfie' (as sung over the closing titles by Cher) and I've revamped it into a dastardly parody, the would-be theme song for Webster's revenge tragedy, 'The Duchess of Malfi' - a dark and bloody play also first performed in London on this day, 24th March, but way back in 1613. Incredible, no?


"Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust."

Sing along if you can remember the tune...

Malfi
What's it all about, Malfi?
Is it just for revenge that we live?
What's it all about when the knives come out, Malfi?
Are we bound to kill those that we love
Or are we meant to be blind?
Only fools don't mind, Malfi,
When you're tricked then it pays to be cruel.
By my life, revenge must be sought for wrongs, Malfi,
No one can bend that immutable rule.
I surely believe there's a hell down below, Malfi,
Where you go if you're proven untrue;
No option remains once your honour is stained.
I believe in blood, Malfi,
Without revenge injustice persists, Malfi,
Unless you exact retribution, you're failing, Malfi.
Only the weak let their hearts rule the day -
There is no other way, Malfi, Malfi.

I must just add that this blogger opposes knife-crime (or any act of cruelty apart from the batting away of wasps).
Thanks, as ever, for reading. Always look on the bright side, Steve ;-)

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Being in the spotlight

From a young age I enjoyed being in the limelight. We, local children, devised back garden concerts and I recall singing "Tulips from Amsterdam" aged about 6, wearing a rather too small flower girl dress. Finally after many years of pleading I was taken to Donald's ice rink in Aberdeen. I had to have an outfit just like Sonja Henie's, as I'd seen her wearing in a movie. Full of confidence, and thinking I'd glide effortlessly across the ice, I launched myself. It didn't work like I'd seen in the film! A couple of years later and I was competing. My mother remained a nervous wreck, whilst I took it all in my stride. So it was that entering competitions or taking tests became second nature.

Failing my 11 plus I went to a Junior Secondary School. However the education I received there was superb. Encouraged to sing, I had lessons and was an active member of the school choir. Gleefully taking part in operettas and once singing solo in St Machar's Cathedral. The English teacher encouraged us to debate, and I took part in inter school debating. She also involved me in plays, giving me major roles. The Duke Of Edinburgh Award scheme was in full swing in this school and I was asked to attend a first aid course where the Duke of Edinburgh himself was to attend. I was elected to tell him what was taking place. I left that school with 5 "O" grades and 1 "0" level...that being in oral English (an actual 'English' qualification, as there was no equivalent ).

At college I was elected as class representative , taking any issues to the rector and staff.

As a teacher I thought of my work as rather like acting...giving tuition, encouragement and maintaining discipline. Front of house...so to say. I was not averse  to taking part in many extra curricular activities, and displaying interests other than those of being 'teacher'.

I returned to ice skating and took up ice dance with a partner and we competed for Oxford in the Southern league. So this was a form of being in the spotlight once more.

Giving up teaching after 20 years and moving house, with a new husband. I was suddenly propelled into more limelight as he was such an exuberant and outgoing person. Together we formed an ice skating club in Elgin, giving tuition and organising shows...taking part ourselves too, thus encouraging youngsters and adults to take up skating.

It was then that I took up dancing. My husband was very keen on ballroom dancing and rock and roll. We liked to join in 1940's and 50's events...dressing in the era and letting our hair down. Never phased at being the first on the floor, trying to get people to join in and have fun. Fancy dress events were looked forward too and eagerly planned for and organised. Yes. We had a good life together.

After his death I returned to skating after two years absence taking care of him. Two weeks in, at Blackpool Arena, I was invited to do a solo programme in a charity show to raise funds for "Help for Heroes". So aged 60 I was the oldest participant and I featured in a figure skating magazine.

Those early days paved the way and made me a confident, energetic person, willing to embrace life ...be a participant and not an audience member. It's not for all, but it's stood me in good stead. I don't mind being in the spotlight....

   This morning I sat down and quickly drafted this piece....

                    Places, Lights, Action

              Places, lights, action.
              No camera required, yet.
              This dear child, is life.
              The cameras come later
              When you're cleaned and wrapped.

              You are in the spotlight -
              On the stage for life.
              No shying away.
              No return for you.
              Face the world, little mite.

              Places, lights, action.
              First day at school.
              Be a leader or be led.
              It's up to you -
              In the spotlight, or the shadows ?

              Take part, or sit back -
              That's your only option.
              Follow your dream,
              Stand in the beam,
              Or fall by the wayside.

              Places, lights, action.
              First day of work.
              Climb the ladder or stay at the foot.
              You're here for the duration.
              Shine in your work - your choice.

              The spotlight dims- the audience silent.
              Curtain slowly falls.
              You've taken a bow - a final exit.
              So how did you do ?
              Places, darkness, stillness.......CUT !


       Thanks for reading, Kath
             

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In the spotlight.

Did someone switch on a spotlight?  Well just point me in the right direction. Some of my happiest memories have been made bang smack in the middle of a dance floor as I danced my heart out in the spotlight. In began in 1968 with an ecstatic run onto the floor of the Royal Albert Hall to a fanfare as my partner and I took our place in the final of the International Championships, Juvenile Ballroom competition and I have been hooked ever since. I was only ten years old then. I am 60 now but I still love to hit the middle of the floor and dance.

Recently I was flattered by the organisers to help muster people onto the dance floor at The Winter Gardens Film Festival opening night party. Well ladies and gentlemen - you only need to ask me once.  Happy to oblige. However, I wouldn't want to live my whole life under a spotlight. I don't envy celebrities and public figures whose lives are constantly under scrutiny.  I really am quite a private person. Being famous has many pitfalls. The press are relentless in their search for human frailty in the private lives of our best loved stars.

This week has seen the fall of a much loved TV presenter, Ant McPartlin of Ant and Dec fame. His regular appearances on ITV's Saturday night programming have been cancelled while he books in to a clinic to battle his addiction to alcohol and prescription medication. We have witnessed the demise of many stars in recent years and it seems that many turned to substance abuse to cope with the pressure of being constantly in the spotlight.

The short, tragic life of Amy Winehouse was self-documented in her song lyrics as she tried to battle drug addiction. The beautiful and incredibly talented Whitney Houston fell into addiction and died far too young. If I wrote a list of all those for whom invasive press and the constant glare of the spotlight brought about their demise, I am sure that Diana, Princess of Wales would be at the top. I know that they all courted publicity in their professional life but didn't they deserve a chance to live their private lives in private?

Anyway, I want to wish Ant all the best for a speedy recovery with a poem.

Dec without Ant

What is going happen?

Will life ever be the same
for the millions of ITV viewers
who switch on the box every Saturday night
expecting to hear your name?

What will your little mate Declan do

without your funny quips?
How can joke at the side of the stage
on Britain’s Got  Talent
if you’re not at his hip?
I’m a Celebrity, Get me out of Here
just won’t be the same without you.

Our Saturday nights will be terrible

if there’s only one and not two.
Like Morecambe and Wise,
the Two Ronnies,
like Laurel and Hardy before,
a comedy duo like Ant and Dec
are the ones that the Nation adores.

So hurry up Ant and get better,

have less booze with your takeway,
Your country needs you in the spotlight
every Saturday!

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In The Spotlight - Let Me Hide

I prefer to watch the drama unfold, rather than have a part in it. Some things are impossible to avoid but as far as possible I keep out of the spotlight. I’m not comfortable being the centre of attention, even at my own birthday parties.

I remember having a gathering of school friends for my eighth birthday. It was games and a tea party upstairs in whatever pub we lived in at the time. Everything was fine until the cake arrived and my friends sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. I burst into tears and clung on to my mother’s skirt. What a softie. Birthday parties were best avoided, that is, until the more senior adult years.

My fiftieth birthday was a milestone worth celebrating as I had pulled through serious illness the year before. It was good to gather the clan and all the friends who had been helping, supporting the family and generally gunning for me. It seems mean to confess that I couldn’t wait to go home to my knitting and clock watched all evening, yet at the same time it was lovely to be amongst the people I care for the most, all together in one place. I’m a strange one.

Even stranger when, ten years later, I’m the one who wanted the party to end all parties, bells, whistles, balloons, a live band and a posh buffet in a posh venue. I got my wish and it was great. I threw myself into it and enjoyed every expensive minute, even the bit where I’ve got the microphone and I’m singing with the band. I cringe at the thought of it now. One of my friends filmed it. Up to now, and its been years, I haven’t seen it, which is just as well as I think I’d die of embarrassment and never go anywhere ever again. No, I hadn’t been drinking, I was simply having fun.

When I was at primary school, I used to feel physically sick with nerves at the thought of maths lessons with Mr Jackson. He would call us individually to the blackboard. I shudder to hear him now, ‘Miss --- to the board!’ I was a skinny, geeky looking girl, and would stand red-faced and trembling at the blackboard feeling everyone’s eyes burning into me and hearing muffled unkind comments. With shaky, clammy hands I would hold the chalk tight and write the sum that Mr Jackson bellowed from the back of the classroom.  I would then have to work it out and explain what I was doing, loud enough for everyone to hear. It gave me nightmares. Everyone got a turn, no one was spared, but the whole thing turned me inside out. I was fine with maths and got my sums right, unlike some who were ridiculed for messing up. I got laughed at for needing glasses and my general appearance.  Mr Jackson was a great teacher of his generation and in every subject, he liked the class to be interactive and learn through ‘doing’. He always told us there would be plenty of written work to do when we got to senior school, so we didn’t need to do it now. Primary teaching is different these days and children are not thrust into the spotlight quite the same, thank goodness.

We recently lost a great comedian who adored being in the spotlight, Sir Ken Dodd. He was a national treasure and part of my childhood. He was always there when I was a girl, either on television or playing one of Blackpool’s theatres.

I first saw him on stage when I was nine. We hadn’t been living in Blackpool very long. It was our first summer season and my parents received complimentary tickets to various shows and the Tower Circus. My mother took me to see the show Ken Dodd was in and I remember just constantly laughing and being in awe of seeing the Diddy Men in real life. In later years, I was a guest at a summer Midnight Matinee concert where Doddy was topping the bill. I’m not exaggerating when I say daylight was breaking when we left the theatre. He loved to be in the spotlight and the spotlight loved him. Thank you for the memories, Sir Ken Dodd. You left me suitably tickled.

One of my poems today, 

 

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

I’m really quiet and shy

Away from all attention,

Any fuss might make me cry.

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

I never know what to say

And to be a nervous wreck

Would simply ruin my day.

Don’t put me in the spotlight

I’m not going near the stage

Nobody needs to see me

Read my poems from the page.

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

Just leave me alone to hide

My feelings, thought and talents

Wrapped safely, tightly, inside.

 

PMW 2018

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Yarn

Yarn emerged blinking into the light of a cold March afternoon. She was flanked on either side by two soldiers whom she judged to be of an age with herself. In childhood they could have been friends of her brothers in the town, but now they wore the drab olive uniforms of the State Guard and she was an irksome obstacle to their supremacy.

They propelled her without undue force and yet with barely disguised contempt onto the crunching snow of the prison yard. As her eyes squinted to adjust to the brightness of outdoors, she set her gaze resolutely on her unavoidable destination. Yarn had promised herself in the solitary hell of her dark cell that she would display as little emotion as her captors when the time came, so now she walked with proud and measured steps, commencing to traverse the white expanse towards the infamous wall of death.

In her peripheral vision she couldn't help but be aware of the phalanx of soldiers, dull grey rifles pointing skywards at their shoulders, who were being marched into the yard in readiness. But she knew that, in order to deny anyone the pleasure of seeing her suffer, she mustn't allow herself to speculate on the drama that was about to unfold. So she tried to concentrate on what lay immediately in front of her, to view it with detachment if possible, as she would be seeing it for the first and last time.

Her feet in dilapidated boots soon felt both sodden and leaden but her progress couldn't falter. As the trio approached the wall, Yarn observed two sets of manacles fastened to the backboard to which she was to be secured. The board was splintered and pock-marked with a wide spread of bullet-holes. She realised with a rising queasiness that her impending execution, though an effective end, would not be a very efficient one. On closer inspection, she noticed bloodstains on the backboard. She wondered if they knew it was her birthday. Had they chosen this day especially?

She had heard that prisoners sometimes tried to run at this point - but you can't get far with your hands tied behind your back and the guards were said to derive additional sport from breaking both legs before tying their hapless victim to the manacles. So Yarn, comported on reaching the wall, allowed herself to be turned about. Her hands were then roped tightly to the right-hand set of rings and her escort marched away as the officer in charge of her execution approached.

Twenty yards off she could see the firing-squad lined up to face her. Beyond them was the squat grey bulk of the infamous prison block and beyond that a pale sun hanging low in the sky. The only sound she could hear was the calling of rooks in the trees behind her. Was this, her last view of the world, a sight to treasure? She shivered.

Wall Of Death

The officer read to her in a bored monotone the official statement from the military governor which was read to all enemies of the state at the end. Occasional phrases about her crimes against the Motherland penetrated her consciousness but she was not really listening. She knew she would be given one last chance to confess but would decline it, for she was destined to die anyway. Rather, her thoughts were occupied by recollections of her parents, her brothers, her lover. She gained some comfort from reflecting that all of them except her poor mother had stood in turn where she was standing now, with their bruised and beaten bodies tethered in exactly this spot, their hooded eyes looking through the darkness of impending death towards some time in the future when their people would be free again.

She was asked if she wanted to confess. She braced herself and spoke as evenly as she was able the slogan of the rebels. She was half expecting a blow to the face but the officer, with a cruel glint in his eye, stroked her cheek before pulling the rough woollen hood down over her head.

After that, there was a deep silence. Even the rooks had stopped cawing. Though she was tense, and wetting herself despite her best endeavours, the wooden board behind her felt supportive in this moment of severest trial. At what must have been a visual signal, she heard the rifles cocked in unison. She mumbled some names, as in a prayer, and was lifted off her feet for a second as the explosions rang around the yard.

When the rooks and the quiet had descended again, Yarn's lifeless body hung ungainly from the wall of death. There was not much blood and her piss was already beginning to freeze.


Thanks for reading. Never underestimate the speed of dark. Keep on rocking in the free world, S ;-)

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You Can Never Have Enough Yarn!

I trained in Dress and Design at the "Do School" in Aberdeen, part of Robert Gordon Institute of Technology...now University. I'd been sewing since a child, as my mum had been a tailoress and she passed that skill onto me. My grandmother could not sew...but she knitted and knitted and knitted. The family always had knitted jumpers and cardigans, usually in Fair Isle or Icelandic style. How she managed all those colours was a mystery. Yet my mum didn't knit and I wasn't keen either, though I had to produce some knitwear for coursework.

Instead, I focused on weaving as a specialist subject. I had a small 4-shaft loom at home to do samples on, at college I used a "Harris" loom to produce fabrics from which I designed and made tailored garments. Also I did "tablet" weaving ...a portable method of weaving braids just like the Laplanders used to decorate their garments. For a theme I used "Inspiration For Weaving" . Using designs that appeared in textiles within the North Sea areas...so Scotland, Norway, Iceland, Fair Isles, and Shetland featured in my work. In those days there was no internet, so all research was done by reading and writing to embassies and organisations for information. I recall that I received some lovely information regarding Hardanger embroidery, so when I visited Norway a couple of years ago I was delighted to be taken to the Hardanger Fjord.

When I was pregnant I decided to sew and knit most of the garments required. I'm afraid to say that the knitted garments were mainly plain or striped as that was the extent of my knowledge at that time. Once more I was later encouraged by an elderly neighbour and she nurtured my knitting skills ...and so it was that I took up Aran knitting, with great gusto! My family benefited from real wool sweaters. I only have one cardigan left that I knitted myself. It gets an airing every winter. Why only a couple of weeks ago I looked at it in wonder...just how did I do all that? I thought.

I consider myself a sort of 'Jack of all Trades' as regards all needlecrafts. I try any new skills. I have a lucet (look that up). I've done fabric marbling. I crochet, dressmake, embroidery of all sorts, patchwork, quilting, appliqué..... I have a stash of knitting yarn, embroidery yarn, fabrics of all descriptions for a variety of uses. I probably have more than I'll ever need or use. Fellow needleworkers will know exactly what I am on about. You can never have enough yarn !

Recently I've hankered after a small loom ...but just where am I to find the space or  time to  do
any?

Anyway I read this week of the benefits of knitting to one's health...so I'll just finish that cardigan that I'm making, and finish that crochet hot water bottle cover that's half done, and crochet Anne a promised hat, and print some favourite photos onto that special fabric that goes through the printer    (might make a quilt?) ..Oh ! And I have some hand patchwork lurking in my wee campervan to while away the holiday evenings...

So where might I put this loom?

My piece this week is short and was written some time ago..

                  NEEDLEWORK.   May 2015

                  I sit and I sew- I sew as I sit.
                  Sometimes I sew- sometimes I knit.
                  The hours they pass as my fingers move quick.
                  Sometimes I crochet-sometimes I knit.
                  Sometimes I embroider- sometimes I just sit!

                   Ofttimes I pause and have a long think,
                   Take pencil to paper and fingers move quick
                   To record my thoughts.My brows they knit.
                   Sometimes I write a little bit,
                   Then return to my sewing, as I sit.

Thanks for reading, Kath.

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Ripping Yarns

My father was a wonderful storyteller. He would entertain customers at his pubs with raucous tales of his adventures both as a young man growing up in pre WWII Blackpool and as a soldier for five years in India during that war. His tales were fascinating and surely exaggerated but who knows. Perhaps he did meet Neru and Ghandi. Perhaps the consumption of too much palm-toddy does temporarily paralyse the legs, then render the over-indulgent participant subject to unconscious games of naked rugby during the early hours. Every one of his tall tales must have contained a modicum of truth.

I have written my own 'ripping yarn', The Battle of the Hairy Boggert. It is a poetic ballad and centres around my experiences of moving from suburbia to countryside aged eleven, when my father became licensee of The Eagle & Child at Weeton.  My two older brothers teased me terribly, mostly about the boggert, a strange hairy creature that lived in the pub grounds. Unfortunately, the Ballad is 52 stanzas, takes about twenty minutes to read aloud and is far too long for this blog.

There is another yarn that comes to mind. It concerns a merchant in London who owed a huge sum to a money lender and was unable to pay. The debtor was facing prison but the ugly, old money-lender fancied his daughter. He proposed a bargain: He would cancel the debt if could have the girl instead.

Seeing that the two were both horrified by the suggestion, the money lender proposed that they should let providence decide. He told them that he would put a black pebble and a white pebble into a cloth bag, then the girl would pick out one of the pebbles. If she chose a black pebble, she would become his wife. If she chose the white pebble, she would stay with her father but the debt would be cancelled.

The two reluctantly agreed. They were standing on a pebble strewn path in the merchant's garden and as they talked, the money-lender bent down to pick up two pebbles. As he did this, the girl saw from the corner of her eye that he put two black pebbles into the bag. When he held out the bag to her, for her to pick out the pebble that would seal her fate, she had only three possible choices;

• She could refuse to take out a pebble
• She could take out both black pebbles and expose the money-lender as a cheat
• She could take out a black pebble and sacrifice herself to save her father from prison

The girl in the story put her hand into the bag and drew out  pebble. Without looking at it she fumbled and let it fall onto the path, where it was immediately indistinguishable from all  the other pebbles. She had beaten the odds. Now there was only one black pebble remaining in the bag, which meant that unless the money-lender admitted that he had cheated, the pebble that the girl had chosen must have been white. The girl was free to go with her father and his debt was cancelled. There could be no better outcome. Sometimes a problem can  be solved by turning it on its head: A practice called Lateral Thinking - explained in depth by Edward deBono in his book, The Use of Lateral Thinking

I have had a busy week and didn't have a suitable poem in my archive but I believe that the one I have chosen for you is a suitable yarn. Enjoy.

The Highwayman                                             
By Alfred Noyes                        

 

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

 

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
 And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, 
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, 
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; 
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon; 

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, 
A red-coat troop came marching—
         Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! 
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. 

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.  

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; 
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, 
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood 

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear 
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
   A highwayman comes riding— 
       Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. 

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 

 

Thank you for reading. Adele

 

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