Retirement - Bring It On!

I looked forward to retiring at sixty, as many of us did, and then, a bolt from the blue took away plans and wishes and sat firmly on our state pension for another six years. I’m there now and I still haven’t received the explanatory letter ‘sent to everyone’ when the changes were made. WASPI (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaigns and protests seem to have been sympathetically listened to in some quarters – Jeremy Corbyn, when Labour leader, said that women were “misled”, the situation “needed to be put right” and “We owe a moral debt to these women.” It was included in the Labour party manifesto. Even if nothing changed, it was going to be looked into. The flicker of hope died with the election result.

Anyway, politics aside, my time has come and I’m trying to decide exactly when to hand in my keys and cross myself off any rotas. I’ve spent lots of time at home during the pandemic, shielding at the beginning, then having to isolate a couple of times when I eventually returned to work.  I like being at home. It’s been good getting a feel for life in retirement and spending more time with my husband who retired early a few years ago.  In normal circumstances we would enjoy the freedom of having lunch out, seeing friends and spending more time with family. These things will come back to us, hopefully before too long. I reduced my hours at work so I’m actually at home more than I’m there, yet I still can’t wait to leave.

I yearn for the freedom to just go where I want, when I want without having to plan in advance and ask permission. Deciding one day that we’re off to Scotland, or anywhere the next day, is the life for me. Spending summer afternoons reading in the garden was bliss last year and I look forward to doing it again. I knit and crochet a lot and love making baby clothes so with a current baby boom going on amongst colleagues at the moment I’ve been  a one woman cottage industry.  My writing has been on a back burner for too long. I was trying to use shielding and isolating time to write a best-selling novel or a brilliant TV series, but they’ve both been done, not by me, by the way, and I’ve been struggling to concentrate lately.  There are lots of things on my retirement list and I certainly won’t get bored. I might get fat(ter) on home-made baking, but never bored. I’ll enjoy finding out who I am, so let’s bring it on.

My poem,

When I can please myself on what I want to do each day
Without the stress and strain of doing my job in the way,
I will take time to rest, to think and to learn who I am,
Apart from a wife, a mother and a nanna called Pam.

My wardrobe’s full of Marks and Spencers matching navy blues,
Formal skirts and cardies and some uniform slim-line trews.
Tunic length NHS blouses, navy with polka dots,
Pockets stuffed with tissues and hair-ties, a tangle of knots.

Let’s get rid of such strict clothing and find a nice, new style,
Dresses, ear-rings, beads and things I haven’t worn in a while.
Skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a home-made Aran sweater,
My family and freedom will soon make me feel better.

I’ll wear long, floaty skirts and lipstick, and I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll join in with other WASPI girls on some campaign trails
And hope some good may come of it, though it’s too late for me
So many ‘50s women need to set their pensions free.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Unlocking the Secrets

There’s something about a key. It teases us. It’s powerful and it seems to know how much we need it. It unlocks some answers. And keeps others hidden. 

When my grandad died at 93 he left behind a house filled with all sorts of ‘useful’ items. Born in the late 1800s he was a product of both world wars and the ‘make do and mend’ generation. Nothing was thrown away that just might come in useful. Old screws and nails; odd pieces of wood that might have been fashioned into a doorstop or filled a hole in the wall; pieces of paper with random writings; hammer heads and their broken handles; the list went on. I remember my dad and his siblings, going through drawers and cupboards and despairing of the rubbish that had been kept ‘just in case.’  

One day my dad came home with a small wooden box. He shook it and it gave a satisfying rattling sound. We wondered if it could be something of value. Jewellery, watches, old coins? Dad obviously knew what was in it. We realised it wasn’t going to be valuable by the way he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Slowly, he opened the lid and held out the box with a flourish. We all peered in. He turned the box over and the contents spilled out onto the table.  We stared at about fifty keys, of various shapes and sizes.  

‘I mean -,’ said my dad, still shaking his head, ‘what good are these?? They’re not labelled, there’s no clue what they’ll fit. Ridiculous.’ 

I liked the keys. I picked one up and turned it in my hand. It was small with a fancy top. I wondered what secrets of my granddad’s it had kept locked away all those years. I thought the keys were beautiful and would love to have kept them, but dad was so adamant they were a waste of space that I knew it would be pointless to ask. 

Just over a year ago my dad died, aged 92.  Going through his desk I found a small drawer that rattled. I don’t know if they were the same keys or ones that he’d collected himself but I rejoiced at the irony, the continuity, the way life goes on. And the way life goes round in circles. 

The other day, going through some old papers of my own I found a diary from when I was about eight. I can’t be precise as it’s locked, with no date on it. It’s locked, and there’s no key. I can see that key now. I can feel it’s lightness in my hand. I was aware, even at that age, that it was cheap and flimsy and could bend if twisted too far. That diary holds my sixty year old secrets. Should I try and find a key?  I pull out the secret drawer in my desk, and poke my finger in. There’s no tiny key hidden at the bottom but there are plenty of others, all with their own secrets. 

No Key to That Time by Jill Reidy

I’m eight

My life revolves around school

And friends 

Mum and dad

What’s for tea

And arguments with my brothers

Of parties

And dresses with netting

The dread of school dinners

Handstands at playtime

Perfecting French knitting

Susie, my baby whose eyes never close

Playing out on the streets 

with Iris and Edward

Penny lollies and dancing

These are my ramblings 

An eight year old's secrets

They’re locked in my diary

They’re locked in my diary

With no key to that time 

Thanks for reading........ Jill

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What Really Scares Me - It's The Dark!

What really scares me? Well, apart from mundane worries about growing old, having enough money to live on and what the future holds for the next generations, I have to say it is ‘the dark’ and horrors from my own imagination.

I remember feeling very scared of the darkness at the top of the stairs in my great-grandmother’s house, and waking up into pitch black when we stayed overnight there. My mother soothed me, put a light on and settled down beside me.  My great-grandmother passed away sixty years ago but the memory remains and so does my fear of the dark.

There was the time when I got locked in at work. It was a cold, wet, winter tea time, a long time ago, decades before mobile phones. I was upstairs in the office of a small department store, just gathering my things and getting ready to go when the low buzzing of fluorescent strips ceased and I was plunged into silent darkness. The last person to leave would turn off the lights with the main power switch, situated next to the door. No chance to shout, not that I would have been heard on the ground floor anyway, but I was literally frozen to the spot with fear. I had keys, but I couldn’t bring myself to try to negotiate my way out of the office and through racks and rails of clothing and merchandise that filled the top floor. As my eyes adjusted to a small glow of street-light coming through the tiny window, I could see the telephone. Luckily, I knew the home number of the person who had locked me in. With a trembling finger I managed to feel my way round the dial and sob my dilemma to his wife, who knew me well and kept me company on the phone until her husband got home then set off straight back to release me. No harm done, but it was very scary at the time.

Then there was the last ghost hunt my friend and I went on, and oh my, I was so scared that we haven’t been on any others, up to now. This was at the Spanish Hall in the Winter Gardens, something we had looked forward to for ages, after the fun we’d had at the Grand Theatre. It was semi-dark, but we had torches and we were in a group, though everyone had spread out into different rooms and areas. I was coping with the dark and with the odd things we kept hearing. We had a medium with us a lot of the time, though I confess, I don’t believe everything I’m told, I like to work things out for myself.  My friend and I went into a dressing room somewhere back-stage in the Spanish Hall theatre.  We sat down, my friend on my right. I felt something at my left, but no one was there. The presence became strong, so strong that I was too scared to look, but many times since, I wish I had.

I’m used to staying at the lodge we go to in Dumfries & Galloway, but the first time we went, the darkness, or rather, my imagination outside late at night, scared the life out of me. I was taking our dog out on my own for his last little walk before bed. I had my torch, a dim outside light on the lodge veranda and a sky full of stars. I was shining the torch on my dog and the path immediately in front of me when my mind started giving me horrors. I was sure I’d see the feet of someone facing me. I didn’t dare to shine it on the trees, terrified by what might be hanging there. I worked myself into a blind panic rushed back to the safety of the lodge, only a few steps away, before anyone could grab me. These days, confident that our dog won’t venture any further than the first tree, we watch from the veranda and let him go by himself. Maybe seeing ‘The Abominable Snowman’ when I was eleven has affected me for life.

 

 

This is my own poem,

 

 

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

 

An evening in the Spanish Hall

Fun-time promised for one and all.

Exciting times for you and me,

Paranormal activity!

Hopes and desires, all are risen,

Someone’s speaking, we must listen.

“Enter the rooms with open mind,

And be prepared for what you find.”

The semi-darkness of torch-light,

Anticipation of the night;

Wondering what there might be here

To chill us with delight or fear.

We heard a strange and weird sound,

Quiet growling from underground.

Distant laughter, joyful patter,

Ghostly party fun and chatter.

Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,

Passing orb gives us a twinkle.

We crept across the ballroom floor

To where we hadn’t been before.

A woman beckoned from her chair.

As we approached, she wasn’t there,

Just vanished, like she’d never been

But we both knew what we had seen.

And later, on the wide stair case

I froze as something touched my face.

I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;

Someone was with me, there’s no doubt.

When we sat in the back-stage room

We both smelt dated perfume

Like musky lavender and rose

Stagnant, lingering in repose.

And that mirror! I dared not see

The presence sitting next to me.

I felt their breath upon my cheek

And could not move, too scared to speak!

I must now be most explicit,

Show respect to restless spirits.

Never ridicule, tease or taunt.

It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

 

                                                                                            PMW 2012

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone. Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Key facts and the passing of a great.

So the devil is in the detail, isn't it.
We have been born as an age of analysts, critical thinkers, quantum philosophers and forensic detectives. A vast age of improvement, always learning from what has been before us. In such a time, you'd think we would relish the little details more.
This week, we mark the passing of Seamus Heaney- the poet most famous for 'Digging'- taught across the land to teenagers clutching for an understanding.
"Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun."
Those are the opening lines to Heaney's legacy- from his own poem that both teaches us to relish the lessons of our ancestors whilst voicing our quest to at least follow up their footsteps.
With that in mind, we should cast our thoughts to World War I. Remember how the assasination of a little known Archduke Indie Band led to carnage as old allegiances stood their ground? From that 'great' and bloody war came Wilfred Owen's "shrill, demented choirs or wailing shells" (Anthem for Doomed Youth, 1917). The lessons had to be learned.
Move forwards a generation- and in a post war age the former bad guys aren't allowed any weapons. Or navy. Or most things, in fact. They got them, with mainstream car manufacturers of today even producing tanks in the process.
In the second world war that followed, millions of people perished at the hands of a tyrant with no qualms about chemical weapons. Never mind mustard gas. Never mind international outrage. How he got them and why appeasement ever allowed things to get that far was a lesson that had to be learned. No amount of theorising can bring those people back and the world was supposed to have grown.
Why then, in such an age of 'terror' and 'vigilance' are we still allowing this to happen. Is there a different value on a Jewish life to a Kurdish life; a Palestinian life; a Syrian life?
Of course, war is not something that should ever be rushed into and after recent brushes with weapons intelligence, it is as important as ever to have the key facts straight before charging in. What is unacceptable, however, is the politicising and deliberating over immediate intervention. Currently, a man with a recent record of using chemical weapons against his own people is accused of again doing just that.
Inspectors will have no further certainty in three weeks when the report comes than they already have, though. There will be no way of proving who launched these attacks- hidden by a legion of winks and signals by a cowardly puppet master, the hard evidence cleared on the wind- but in a room full of bodies with gunshot wounds, you'd arrest the man with the gun, wouldn't you?
There must be an intervention because enough is enough. There needs to be no other reason in my eyes- everybody knows the rules and so any violation towards defenceless men, women and children must be reprehended by humanity itself.
If it does come to war- and I sincerely hope that in a world again allied-up and hankering at a change it doesn't come to that- it must be remembered what exactly the purpose is. We all have belief systems- whether based on Gods, morality or ancient rules long since considered compulsory- but whatever spurs those on, it comes down to simply whether you can have any force for good or not.
I'm not much of a fighter. I'm not much of a killer either, being a vegan, but since I read 'Digging', I write.
It is important in an age of mis-information that as a society we record the facts- the key details from the ground in whatever walk of life. From the diaries of Anne Frank through to Heaney's sectarian detail we learn that history does not have to be written only by the winners and we all have a part to play in recording the nitty gritty, the key issues that affect us.
As I said, I'm not much of a fighter but "between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests. I'll dig with it".

Thanks for reading,
S.

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Bunch of keys

Happy bank holiday Monday. I decided to write a poem today. “What where you thinking?” Radical thinking, I know.

This scribble has been designed as a groan fest performance piece with the player going through a very large bunch of keys picking out a different one for each ‘key’ line. Anything in brackets is a stage action.

So I hope you can image it being delivered on stage with props.

Have fun.

Colin

Bunch of Keys

Chunky
Funky
Spunky
Monkey
Is it true
Major Tom’s a junkie?

Oky
Dokey
Pig in a
Pokey
who’s gonna win
Thor or Loki?

Flaky
Shaky
Achy
Snaky
The one who hatesButler?
That’ll be Blakey

I have one for my Combined Harvester
I have one for my heart
And this one shows which bit looks like Pac-man
On this yellow and blue pie chart (Hold up a printed out Pie Chart)
This one opens happiness
And to life it’s this one I’m sure
But this one I have in my right hand
Will open my front door.

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