Reading - I Love Books

 

This is a favourite poem by Julia Donaldson,

I opened a book and in I strode
Now nobody can find me.
I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,
My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,
I’ve swallowed the magic potion.
I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king
And dived in a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends.
I shared their tears and laughter
And followed their road with its bumps and bends
To the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came.
The cloak can no longer hide me.
My chair and my house are just the same,
But I have a book inside me.

                                           Julia Donaldson

I spent yesterday afternoon reading a book, an actual book with paper pages. I found a quiet corner, made myself comfortable and escaped into a gentle Josephine Cox. She could weave a good yarn and I found this one to be an excellent page turner. I’m often reading, but this was a bit different. I was out of the comforts of home to the clinical, basic décor of a hospital waiting area. My husband was having a procedure and needed a responsible adult to take him home and stay with him afterwards. That’s me, then. In sickness and in health. With him safely delivered to the appropriate department, I wandered off to find some lunch. I’m very familiar with our hospital, but new bits keep being added and I was thrown off course for a few minutes, until I recognised something. I’d gone the wrong way, so about turn, and quickly found where I wanted to be. Soon, fed and watered, I was back in the correct waiting room, ready to read for hours on end, which I did.

A few people came and went, though it seemed to be a quiet department. Patients had a minder to accompany them, sitting in pairs. Conversation was whispered. Occasionally, a phone rang at reception or a mobile phone trilled. I seemed to be the only person reading. Most people had their phone out. A sign of the times, I suppose. I like to do a quick ‘Wordscape’ or remind myself of something I’ve forgotten on Google. Of course, they could be reading on their phones. I have Kindle on mine. It’s not the same as turning real pages. I miss that. I soon stopped people-watching and continued with Josephine’s novel.

Before Covid restrictions put an end to it, waiting rooms everywhere had a pile of well-thumbed magazines spilling off a table. I would fish out the most interesting problem pages in Woman’s Own. It was better than getting called into an appointment mid-way through an absorbing read of a riveting article, disturbed from and never to return.

I’ve always been a bookworm. As soon as I learnt to read, and I was a keen pupil, I was off into wherever stories could take me. I would get into trouble many times for continuing to read in bed after ‘lights out’, sometimes with a torch under the covers, which really angered my mother. She would threaten to take my book away, but she never did.

As a volunteer at primary school, I’ve enjoyed listening to children read aloud and praising them for an excellent effort. Now, based in the library I’m happy to help them to choose a book and give encouragement to read for themselves. I used to tell my own children that if they can read, they can do anything. Here’s a quote from Ricky Gervais, in his support of keeping public libraries open,

“I had no money growing up. My dad was a labourer and my mum did everything to make ends meet. Men worked hard. Women worked miracles. But education was free. As was the local library. I knew books were my passport to a better life.”

I agree, and Roald Dahl must have thought along the same lines. His ‘Matilda’ is terrific.

By the way, all went well at the hospital. We were there for hours, but those hours of waiting gave me a perfect opportunity to enjoy reading without feeling guilty that the kitchen floor needs mopping.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Gardens - Sanctuary Sometimes

How lovely it is to relax in the peace of a garden with a cup of tea and a good book. This desire doesn’t happen much in my easy-care outside space. It is pleasant enough, on a warm afternoon, to sit out by the flower beds and planters, admire the emerging seedlings, the fruits of my labour and settle for a quiet read. I have to choose my moment. We live in a busy neighbourhood, popular with families and there’s always someone having noisy work done. One day recently, hoping for a calm half hour, maybe longer, before children play out after school, I sat out there on our new garden bench. Within minutes, an electric lawnmower was started up close by. Not my lucky day. We have to live and let live, of course – or move to somewhere remote, north of the border – so headphones might become my new best friend for these occasional summer moments.

There is a walled garden in the grounds of the lodges where we like to stay in Dumfries & Galloway. We always go for a stroll and take an interest in what’s going on as we look round. We’ve watched it develop over many years and it is nice to follow the seasonal changes. On a sunny lunchtime last November, we enjoyed a picnic in a sheltered spot. Get the timing just right and there will be red kites circling above, coming to their feeding and conservation station nearby.

It was a warm summer day when we decided to go to Threaves Gardens in Castle Douglas. Dogs are not allowed, so we’d been denied this excursion for years. This time, it was just the two of us. Our beloved springer had gone over the rainbow bridge to doggy heaven and we were visiting new places. The gardens are beautiful and much bigger than we expected. We were as far from the shelter of the entrance gift shop and cafe as we could possibly be when the blue sky turned cloudy, quickly becoming dark, then a heavy downpour caught us, and others. We can’t rush so we just got wet. Another visit on a dry day would be good, to see what we had to miss out.

A poem from A Child’s Garden of Verses, by Robert Louis Stevenson, a favourite poetry book from my childhood,

The Flowers

All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse,
Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames—
These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people’s trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

                        Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 – 1894

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Rocking Chair

Call me a softy if you like, ‘The Woman in Black’ is the scariest film I’ve ever tried to watch. I’ve had a few attempts. One was at the cinema with my daughter. I think she begged me to take her, only to discover how fearful it is.

 “Tell me when it’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking.” I had no idea what ‘it’ was.

There’s a particularly creepy scene concerning a room full of clockwork monkeys playing musical instruments and an empty rocking chair, rocking. Too spooky and reminds me of something chilling my son said when he was little.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair, I’ve probably mentioned it before because it is special item and means a lot to me. I remember him with fondness, gently rocking as he read the paper or his book, often sharing an orange with me when I was a child. After he died, the chair was untouched in the house he’d shared with my aunt since he was widowed. My sister had children before me and I think our aunt gave her the rocking chair to nurse her first baby. When I bought my house, the chair came to me and for a while, it was the only furniture I had to sit on. It moved with me when I got married and had a special place in the back room. I don’t know if our son, a young child at the time, was teasing when he told me that he’d seen the rocking chair rocking on its own. The thought of it gave me shivers. I felt sure I would be aware if there was anything odd. Over the years, the chair began to look tatty. Covering it with a throw and a cushion wasn’t enough. I had it repaired and recovered, and moved it into my bedroom.

As for ‘The Woman in Black’, I’m told by a friend that the stage play is more scary than the film. I can’t imagine that, but I’ll accept the opinion without the need to see for myself.

Robert Service had the right idea,

My Rocking-chair

When I am old and worse for wear
I want to buy a rocking-chair,
And set it on a porch where shine
The stars of morning-glory vine;
With just beyond, a gleam of grass,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking-chair.
Then I will light my corn-cob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.
My morning paper on my knee
I won't allow to worry me.
For if I know the latest news
Is bad,-to read it I'll refuse,
Since I have always tried to see
The side of life that clicks with glee.

And looking back with days nigh done,
I feel I've had a heap of fun.
Of course I guess that more or less
It's you yourself make happiness
And if your needs are small and few,
Like me you may be happy too:
And end up with a hope, a prayer,
A chuckle in a rocking-chair.

Robert Service

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Most Boring Place - Sunday Afternoon, Age 6

I’ve always got something to do or something to think about.  I like to be alone with my thoughts but equally, I like to enjoy good company. There have been things I’ve had to endure that could be called boring, or made me feel extremely fed up. These would be events out of my control, not going according to plan and causing frustration.

Flying back to the UK from the USA should have been an exciting adventure. It was winter time in the early ‘80s and I was fortunate enough to be waiting in the Club Class departure lounge at New York’s JFK airport.  I was travelling alone and on a registered stand-by ticket, happy to wait, sitting on a comfy armchair by the window, watching the snow. Flights came and went. Hours passed. I had everything I needed and felt looked after, but I was tired, jet lag without the jet. I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a flight I could have taken, though I’m sure someone would come to get me. O’Hare International, Chicago, had redirected their UK flights to JFK due to heavy snow, so planes became full. By the time I was called, I was dead on my feet, but happy to get a place anywhere, on any plane that could fly me home. I had a seat in the centre block of a 747, next to a pleasant German gent who kept trying to make conversation with me. No common language between us, so we occasionally smiled at each other instead. He was going to Heathrow, then on to Frankfurt. He went to sleep. I’d finished my book, couldn’t get into the in-flight movie and probably slept a little, but I remember sitting there, annoyed with the drone of the engines and willing myself home – there was a long train journey to come next. I think I was more fed up than bored. Boring is what I’d call some winter Sunday afternoons of my childhood.

I was an only child until age seven and a half when my sister arrived, so I was used to being doted on by both sets of grandparents and any number of aunts and uncles. Nothing changed, my family was her family and she just slotted in and got passed around for a cuddle. Being a baby, she didn’t spoil whatever I was playing with. I was a well-behaved little treasure, most of the time. Our family ran pubs and in those days licensing hours meant that they were closed in the afternoons and for longer on Sundays. This was family time when we’d all get together for a meal. This is when it got boring. It started well, lots of fun and me being made a fuss of. We would all get round the table to eat, which was always good. At one set of grandparents, I would eat jelly and fruit with a small, shell-shaped spoon, sitting up straight on a high stool. At my other grandparents, homemade rice pudding which was deliciously creamy. Once, as the roast dinner was being served, I rudely remarked, “Oh no, not peas again!” I was swiftly removed by my mother, taken out of the room for a wallop on my bottom, left to cry for a bit then brought back in to apologise. I must have been having an ‘off’ day from my usual sweet little princess self. After dinner, everyone sat in the lounge and eventually fell asleep. I hated it. This was the most boring place in my world. My nanna would sit down, smoke a Park Drive, pick her knitting up and go at it frantically until she nodded off. My dad might go outside to check something on someone’s car first, but soon I would be in a room full of sleeping relatives. It seemed like ages, but probably wasn’t. I’d have a colouring book to do and one of my grandmothers didn’t mind if I turned the contents of her sideboard upside down. Sing Something Simple would come on the wireless which made it even more boring. If I hear Sing Something Simple nowadays, it fills me with happy memories of my idyllic childhood.

My poem:

Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding,
And why did we always have peas?
Apple pie or sometimes trifle,
Fond thoughts of childhood, fam’ly teas.

The nearly quiet afternoon
In the fading November light
Those all around me are sleeping
And they are such a boring sight.

Like book-ends, Nanna and Grandad,
Snooze cosily on the settee.
Grandad’s Brylcreem’d hair all messy,
Nan’s knitting slipped down on her knee.

Has my auntie just stopped breathing?
Uncle Bill has started snoring.
I’m looking for something to do.
Flipping Sundays are so boring!

Sing Something Simple has come on,
It’s time for us to go, hooray!
They’ll all wake up for opening time,
Running pubs is our family way.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Loneliness

I couldn’t figure out what my late aunt really meant when, in her later years, she warned me that loneliness was a terrible thing. She had been a lively young woman. She had run pubs with her husband and continued to do so for another decade after his sudden death, thriving on the social scene of her work. In retirement, life was quieter. Too quiet.  She bought a house for herself and my widowed grandfather. Her social life was reduced to occasional bingo nights with a couple of ladies she had kept in touch with, and our rare family gatherings.  I visited her often, increasingly so after my grandfather passed away. She lived an hour’s drive away and sometimes I would go straight from work, have tea with her then go to her local social club for a while.  I thought she was happy but as time went on, she seemed to have less company and she couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.  Towards the end of her life she had fallen out with most of her friends and she’d been unkind to me and my sister. We were both busy with our young children, but continued to do what we could for her.  Our much loved aunt had turned into a cantankerous old soul, pushing our patience to the limit.  I like to remember the many happy times I shared with her.  Auntie used to be a ‘people’ person, generous with time, money, belongings, whatever she had to spare for whoever might need it. I don’t remember her ever having a hobby or even reading a book.  It is clear to me now that in the last couple of years of her life, not only was her health failing, she was also suffering from loneliness and possibly depression and with regret, I didn’t realise until it was too late.

 

I know how lucky I am to have family, friends and lots of interests to occupy myself with. I feel great sympathy for those who long for companionship yet remain alone to the point of loneliness.

I understand that evenings and nights are worse than the daytime for those with loneliness. I've chosen this poem by Charlotte Bronte, 

Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back - ­a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress­
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.

Charlotte Bronte  1816 - 1855

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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A recommendation

So this man came in, he came up to me, right up, almost in my face with the stench of old vodka and freshly smoked cigarettes and said, well I say said more shouted, demanded, yeah demanded from from.

“Can you recommend any good book?”

I looked at him, enraged at his pertinence. This vile excuse for a human being, invading my personal space and asking to steal from me the knowledge of what I consider to be a good book. His teeth, yellowed by the passing years of self abuse. His eyes giving away the secret state of his liver. This man repulsed me.

“No,” I said, “I can't recommend anything to you”

He pushed me away. This annoyed me even more. He invaded my space then pushed me away. I felt like some had broken into my house and complained about the colour of my walls.

“OK,” I said, “I have a book for ya, a real good one too.”

The man smiled, it wasn't pleasant.

“What?” he spat

“God Laughs When You Die.” I emphasised the Die. “by Michael Boatman”

“Well I ain't dead yet.”

“Well I don't hear God laughing.”

The man grumbled and wrote down what I had said. He licked the palm of his hand hand and rubbed it on the back of mine. I almost threw up. Full exaggerated movements of gagging, tongue out, retching noises and burping in his face.

He hacked up some putrid gunk found deep within his lungs. Snorting it past his naval cavity and into his mouth before spitting it out into a tissue.

“I'll see if I can get this.” He said waving the piece of paper at me.

“I hope you hate it.” I tried to smile but the Bell Palsy made me look like I'd just pulled a stroke. “Please come again.”

And with that he left the Citizens Advice Bureau and out of my life forever.

“Next”

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