Desert Island Discs

Desert Island Discs, which is on Radio 4 these days, is another throw back to my childhood, like Mrs Dale’s Diary and Sing Something Simple when we listened to the huge, polished wood wireless in our living room. I expect it would have been broadcast on the Light Programme or the Home Service in the 1950s. 

Its first home was the BBC Forces Programme from 1942-1944. The unchanged opening theme is “By the Sleepy Lagoon” by Eric Coates, which makes me imagine bright, azure sky, warm beaches, hammocks fastened to palm trees and gentle, clear water stroking the sand. It might be appealing to some, but this is not my Desert Island.

My chosen island, St Kilda, fails to meet the criteria of ‘desert island’, so I’m breaking the rules here. Oops. I haven’t had the privilege of visiting and probably never will. I’ve been to the western edges of the Outer Hebrides from where St Kilda is still too far away and difficult to reach. 

St. Kilda, Outer Hebrides

I’ll keep her in my dreams and pretend that I’m cosy in a little cottage with a peat fire, or whatever the departed inhabitants used. A blizzard has been blasting the islands for days, even weeks, and there is no visible definition of sky to land. I love the sound of snow hitting the windows and occasional howling wind. It is calm and restful. I don’t miss the irritating noise of traffic, especially sirens at all times of day or night.

My music, and eight pieces isn’t enough, would be: ‘Honky Tonk Women’ by the Rolling Stones. I love the beginning where the rhythm is joined by other instruments one at a time until they are all playing together. ‘Music’ by John Miles because I think it’s amazing. ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty for his remarkable voice and the saxophone. ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles, the words speak for themselves. Anything from ‘The Peer Gynt Suite’ by Edvard Greig – there’s a surprise. I know I’m not allowed to take it all. While I’ve gone classical, ‘Troika’ by Sergei Prokofiev, a favourite piece, not just at Christmas. ‘Holding Back the Years’ by Simply Red, my first introduction to Mick Hucknall and it always makes me stop to listen properly. ‘Isn’t Life Strange?’ from the Moody Blues, written by John Lodge and needs no explanation.

I’m stuck on choosing luxury items and this is where I’m probably breaking rules again. Food, water, strong tea, my laptop for access to everything else? Such things work perfectly well in fantasy land. I would love this poem in a frame on my wall:

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

                                     Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

The Greatest Dancer - It Isn't Me!

Sunday afternoons in the winter, watching the ‘Hollywood Musical’ at the home of my school-friend, Lorna, were very happy times. It was cosy, relaxing in front of the coal fire, drinking tea or sometimes hot chocolate while Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire had us mesmerised. It didn’t matter which musical was on, there was dancing and Lorna, her mum and I wished we could do it. Sometimes we would try to spin each other round or make a few steps up – not much space in the living room – we would lose balance and end up in a heap of laughter. It was simple pleasures for two fourteen year olds sharing an interest. Not surprisingly, neither of us became dancers, apart from a few twirls round our handbags when we were older. Great memories. R.I.P., Lorna.

As for the greatest dancer, I think I’ve established that it is certainly not me, but not for the lack of trying. From a young age I pestered to go to dancing class, when I decided that I wanted to be a ballerina, quite a common aspiration for little girls in the 1950s. I remember the disappointment of not being given a frilly tutu but I soon accepted being in the tap class and loved my noisy tap shoes. Apart from loving the sound, I couldn’t get the hang of it. I couldn’t follow instructions, even literally one step at a time. I just wanted to tap my feet but not in any particular order. I was probably too young or awkward, but the teachers didn’t give up on me straight away. They were planning a little concert and chose me to be the Pink Toothbrush and someone else to be the Blue Toothbrush as we did a simple tap dance to Max Bygraves recording of ‘I’m a Pink Toothbrush’. I don’t remember how far we got into it, but it didn’t happen. One of the teachers gave my mum what would be my costume. It was pieces of something pink, later I knew it was seersucker. It had been cut out from a pattern and just needed sewing together, apparently. My mother did many things but sewing dancing costumes was not amongst her skills. Popping a button back on or repairing a hem was about her limit, so she would task the costume to my dressmaking grandmother. Before that happened, dancing class and I parted company as it was decided to be not my forte. Many years later, I was helping my grandmother to sort out my late mother’s things and there, in its paper bag, was the fabric for my dancing costume.

In my teens and still at school, I escaped to London as much as I was allowed during the holidays. An aunt, uncle and cousins lived in Roehampton and were always happy to have me to stay. I usually travelled on my own by train and my aunt would meet me at Euston station. One such visit, I met Kathy, who was the family’s au pair, close in age to me. She was, well, still is, lovely. We are still in touch. Kathy didn’t speak much English then and I didn’t speak German – she’s Swiss-German, but we became friends and managed to communicate well enough. We went to the cinema one evening to see ‘The Boyfriend’. I really liked Twiggy and enjoyed the musical, but it was Christopher Gable who stole the show for me and I couldn’t take my eyes off his dancing. He made it look to easy, like Fred and Ginger did. That was my introduction to the ballet dancer Christopher Gable. He became a director of the Northern Ballet and was involved in ‘A Simple Man’, the ballet about L.S.Lowry. The combination of the greatest dancer and my favourite artist.

My poem,

When I was a child, I longed to dance
And I was given chance after chance
By a kind lady at dancing class,
Who thought I was a sweet little lass.

I was picked to be the ‘Pink Toothbrush’
My mum could make my costume, no rush.
It was all cut out, ready to sew,
Pink seersucker with satin bow.

The teachers had to admit defeat,
I was cute enough, but two left feet.
I tried my best, all the ‘heel and toe’
Tap, tap, tapping, but I had to go.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

We Are Not Amused - Let's Have A Laugh

The comment “We are not amused” is widely believed to have been said by Queen Victoria in response to an inappropriate joke or remark made by an equerry. I can’t help but wonder what the equerry actually said in front of the queen. If he was trying to make her laugh, perhaps he was shocked to discover it wasn’t acceptable. According to Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Alice, her grandmother told her that she hadn’t said “We are not amused” at all. Alice and other young members of the royal family of the time loved Queen Victoria’s sense of fun, finding her jolly with a great sense of humour. She laughed a lot and was amused by many things, apparently. In her later years, she gave the impression of an austere woman with strict moral values. I expect that she held the moral high ground, but I think her facial expression after the death of Prince Albert showed her grief and huge sense of loss rather than austerity.

Laughing is good for us. Seeking amusement, we look for the comedy, the cheerful light-hearted recreations that will make us feel uplifted and happy. It is personal choice, we all have our favourites whether we are going out to be entertained or choosing what to have on TV. Sometimes, the really hilarious moments are self-made. This is definitely the case with my crazy family. Put me in the company of my wonderful niece and within seconds we will have sparked each other into squeals of laughter, usually about nothing, and I will be crying and rushing to the loo with comments about double strength Tena pads making me laugh even more. If her mother, my sister is with us, the hilarity is increased and the three of us are best left to it. We can’t help it. We still laugh at things that happened years ago. At my nephew’s wedding ceremony I broke the silence of a solemn moment with a very loud, giant snort. I will never live it down. I was trying not to cry and holding my breath then the snort just happened. The mirth has lasted far longer than his marriage did, sadly for him. My father had a ‘thing’ about curtains being closed correctly. Two curtains would have to meet exactly in the middle, the drapes had to be equal and the overlap had to be uniform all the way down. It didn’t matter who closed the curtains, he would have to give his finishing touch. Perfectionist. At his funeral service, my sister and I couldn’t look at each other as the curtains closed in front of his coffin. We were both thinking the same thing and finding amusement in the saddest of circumstances. It proved our resilience.

That is us. Amused and amusing at the same time, like lots of families. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had a large family. I hope they laughed heartily at daft things and had silly moments like we do. I hope they broke the silence with a massive snort, or worse, and I hope, like us, they were amused more often than they were not.

I found this poem,

I’m not sure it it’s fact or rumour,
Queen Victoria lost her humour,
Deciding one day she refused
All attempts to be amused.

Some say it was indigestion,
Others claim that’s speculation.
I believe what’s widely known,
That she hurt her funny bone.

Phil Ward, 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

God - Keeping My Faith

 

I believe in God. I don’t know what God looks like and I wouldn’t know where to start to guess. God’s appearance is not important, it’s the sense of being I reach out to and, for me, God is a presence to be aware of rather than something visible.  I have what my husband would call ‘blind faith’. I get what he means, but to me my Christian faith is not blind.  Each to their own and we respect our opposite views. We trust each other to follow our funeral wishes, but hopefully they won’t be needed for a while yet.

Before school broke up for the Christmas break, I was in the infant’s library with a small group of children. I was asked if there was a book about Egypt and luckily I found something considered ‘perfect’. Bright and polite, the boy went on to explain to me that his family were from Egypt and don’t celebrate Christmas, so they were going there for the holidays to visit family and show off the new baby. He wanted to learn about the country before he went. I was pleased to help. I learnt a lot about his culture that afternoon. It was nice to catch up with him in the new term. His family visit had been very good and he’d been much warmer than we were.

It’s not unusual for my six year old grandson to have us in fits of laughter. He has a natural wit about him, inherited from his mum. One family tea time he commanded attention with, “Listen everybody, if I was the Son of God...” he proceeded to list the things he’d do to make a perfect world with lots of football and Roblox involved.  I wanted to know where this had come from so I asked him who the Son of God is. Confusion or Marvel characters had taken over as his answer was something about a man who lives in our heads and eats our brains.  

I’ve turned to God for help and guidance throughout my life. Growing up without my mother, who died young, was hard. Difficulties were magnified by my father’s swift remarriage which resulted in me trying to fit in but left feeling abandoned and not welcome in the new family. It was a long time before I found any hope and I never got any answers, but I got through it.

‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret’ is a book by Judy Blume. It’s a wonderful read for girls growing up, having anxieties about every aspect of puberty and not feeling confident about asking. I believe it’s a film now. I’ll look out for it. I had grown out of that stage of life by the time I read it, but I could relate to most of it and hoped it was useful to my daughter when she built an invisible wall to keep me out.

Life throws hurdles into the mix, or maybe just mine, and some higher to clear than others, but again, I never gave up and any obstacles haven’t been impossible to conquer, so far. Sometimes I’ve been my own worst enemy. I’ve broken more than one of the Ten Commandments, some more than once. I’ve tried to disregard God, only to realise that I can’t get by without my faith. For this and for past misdemeanours I have been aware of forgiveness.

This year has already brought challenges. I’m shuffling about as I write this, easing off one physical pain for another and trying to keep mental stresses in proportion. Someone once said, “When things look like they’re falling apart, it might be that they’re falling into place” or something like that.

Having a faith and believing in God is who I am. I don’t carry a banner, I don’t evangelise, I just do my best for everyone and in everything I do. I live and let live, accepting people for who and what they are, hoping they offer me the same.

The words of Desiderata mean a lot to me.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann. 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Missing - Is it The Borrowers?

One of the highlights of my week is the afternoon I spend as a volunteer in the Key Stage 1 library at my local primary school. I take groups of children from their classrooms to change their books, help them to find what they are looking for and help them to choose something that they could read for themselves. The afternoon usually includes me reading a story to a class, where I love to interact with the children and involve them as much as I can. Aged between five and seven, their smiles have gaps from missing baby teeth, some with new adult teeth erupting to fill the space. A wobbly tooth signifies that rite of passage towards growing up. It’s an event to be proud of, and when that perfect, well-looked after tooth comes out, it is treasure for Peggy, the Tooth Fairy, who sometimes leaves a reward. I never miss an opportunity to remind children to care for their teeth. My grandchildren are all at this stage, but it’s not just teeth that are missing in my house.

All kinds of things manage to become lost. Perhaps The Borrowers have taken up residence under our floorboards – it might be worth checking. There are jigsaws with pieces missing, I am reliably informed by the eldest. No one has bothered to try to find them. They have a 3D wooden dinosaur made of ten brightly coloured interlocking pieces which are numbered. Number seven, which I believe to be a piece of tummy and coloured red, has been missing for ages. They used it for a ‘Hunt the Thimble’ kind of treasure hunt. No one can remember where number seven was hidden and I have exhausted myself searching. Duplo and Lego get mixed together and I don’t bother checking them. The missing things don’t start and end with the children.

We’re still in January, just about, and already something is missing from a Christmas present belonging to my husband. A small charger cable, unique to the electric item it came with. This is odd because he looks after his belongings and keeps things together properly. We have searched everywhere, endlessly. A replacement is not obtainable. He bought something almost the same that would do. It required slight adjustment to which a Stanley knife was the appropriate tool. A Stanley knife can give a nasty cut to a thumb and it can bleed like billy-o for those on Warfarin. We don’t think it needed a stitch.

I have a younger sister, occasionally mentioned in blogs. She was a toddler in 1964 when we lived in a pub in the village of Padfield, near Glossop. I had my ninth birthday there. The village was considered safe and I was allowed to play out with friends, either on the street or further along to the swings and slide on a cinders-covered playground. My mum let me take my sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the playground. I don’t know what happened, I guess I became distracted and forgot about her. Later, back home, Mum’s asking where Anne is – I still have that sinking feeling – I’d left her in the playground. We ran all the length of Temple Street and thank goodness, she was still there, sat in her buggy in the twilight. My mum muttered something between clenched teeth about what I’d get if Anne had been missing. I’ve been dealt a few good hidings from my mother who was definitely a smack first, ask later sort of parent, but the smacked bottom I got for this was by far the worst. I mentioned that Padfield was a safe village and all the children had the freedom to play out. Another year and news of the Moors Murders broke. We had been on their doorstep.

My Haiku,

Do The Borrowers
Live underneath our floorboards
Claiming belongings?

Wooden dinosaur,
Its tummy is still missing
After sev’ral years.

We’ve waited for this,
Tooth fairy on full alert!
Wobbly one is out!

Front teeth are missing
And he’s got a gentle lisp,
Lovely impish grin.

It’s just a charger,
Ordinary, not special.
Why can’t we find it?

Where is your sister?
I felt my insides drop down.
Another smacked bum.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Housework - Squeaky Clean, Not Quite

 

Housework, that never-ending project that always starts with good intentions, but there are so many distractions and a complete lack of interest. That’s just me, obviously. Some people (other women) can’t rest until everything sparkles, nothing is out of place and a mixed fragrance of polish, disinfectant and Shake’n’Vac fill the air, a little diluted by the open windows. This is the opposite of me. I once saw a quote on a fridge magnet or something, along the lines of “Boring women have tidy houses”. With that in mind, I can promise you I am not boring. My house isn’t a tip, not exactly, but looking around, there are areas of ‘a work in progress’, things just started or not quite finished. It is the multi-tasking that does it. For example, the laundry can be happening while I’m doing something else. A loaded washing machine, switched on, looks after itself. How helpful it might be to have the magical finger clicking skills of Mary Poppins when the grandchildren have been and left everything out.

One evening, over Christmas, we had rain seeping in through the lounge bay window, dripping from the blinds on to the sill. It wasn’t much, just an annoying drip, with no obvious point of entry. I had to squeeze myself behind the Christmas tree to place a folded towel to soak up the water and silence the drip. It had rained constantly for days, so there must be a weak spot somewhere. We never found it, inside or out, and it hasn’t happened since. Watch this space. We noticed loose wallpaper, hidden by furniture, needing further investigation after Christmas, and when I had recovered from whatever virus plagued me for about a week.

The time came. The tree and everything festive, removed, boxed and returned to the attic. Spring cleaning can commence, but first, the wall needs checking. It was simple enough, remove the contents of the small bookcase, move bookcase out of the way – note to self for next time, the shelves are not fixed – I squeal in pain, but mind my language because I’m a lady. Examine the wall. The wallpaper has come off because the plaster is crumbling. A slight tap and lots of powdery plaster comes away building a pyramid shape on the edge of the carpet. All is dry, bone dry. A few spoken thoughts, then dustpan and brush followed by the vacuum cleaner. There’s nowhere else for the bookcase and contents to go, so it is put back to where it was. The post-Christmas cleaning and tidying continued, until I found something more appealing to do. Someone who knows about walls and plaster crumbling has been sent for. This might mean that the purchase of new chairs has to wait.

Housework is summed up perfectly in this poem by Pam Ayres, followed by one of mine,

Dust If You Must

Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world’s out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go – and go you must –
You yourself will make more dust.

                                                            Pam Ayres

I’m With These 2018 Heroes

The kitchen floor needs mopping
And the beds are left unmade
But I’m not doing housework
While there’s matches being played.

The perfect football pitches,
Neatly mowed and lush and green,
Ready for the world’s finest
To give us the best we’ve seen.

So bring it on, DeBruyne,
Ronaldo and Messi, too.
Fellaini and Suarez
I’ll be watching all of you.

A huge shout out for England,
For Harry Kane and the boys,
I’ve taught my grandkids to cheer
And to fill my house with noise.

Fav’rites Rashford and Lingard,
The skilful Eric Dier,
I’m loving every moment,
Applauding Harry Macguire.

The crumbs stay on the carpet
While the football frenzy flows
And the pots wait in the sink
‘Til the final whistle blows.

Pamela Winning 2018 (edited 2024)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Light in the Darkness - Shine, Jesus, Shine

I was born into a Christian family. It was a mix of Catholic and Protestant and some had a stronger faith than others. I was baptised in a Church of England church, but my Sunday Schools were always Methodist. One was a strict Wesleyan Chapel that could not accept monetary gifts from my father, a publican. I have always had my faith, never faltering in my darkest of days, and believe me, I have pulled through some dark, hard times. I believe in ‘each to their own’, respectful of family and friends beliefs, non-beliefs, thoughts and preferences. If I have a grandchild sleeping over, they always get a ‘night-night, God bless’.

My christening gifts included a C of E Book of Common Prayer and a bible with my initials on. These were from both sets of grandparents, I think. As a child, I was fascinated by the picture inside the prayer book, ‘The Light of the World’ by Holman Hunt, and found the person, who I later learnt to be Jesus, a bit scary looking. The light in my darkness. 

Our recent stay in Dumfries and Galloway got off to a confusing start when there was a mix up concerning our accommodation. We’ve stayed in the same lodge so many times that we consider it to be our own. It took a few moments to accept that it was occupied. All turned out fine. There are only six lodges spaced between trees and shrubs, all very private and all much the same. We soon found ours. It was only tea-time, around five, but dark already. This is a recognised Dark Sky area and glancing up, I couldn’t believe my eyes, especially my peculiar eyes. The sky was full of more stars than I’d ever seen, sparkling brightly, some tiny, some big, millions of them. We stopped unloading the car and switched off the lights and torches we were using, and just stood, staring at the sky. I could actually see them, my eyes, with problem vision giving me a struggle to focus all the time, could process this wonderful night sky. The most amazing lights in the darkness.

On Christmas Eve, my daughter and I took her three children to the Christingle service at our local church. The children had been before to various services and to Christingle last year, so knew to sit quietly. After a while they were a bit fidgety. Matilda had seen a classmate across the aisle and wanted to sit with her, but was too shy to move. The boys, who had been sitting together, now had their mother between them and the threat of no Christingle orange. There was respite in the chance to sing as a well-known hymn began. As we stood, I heard one of the boys say ‘It’s Nanna’s God bless you song’ as I popped Matilda to her friend, with a ‘thank you’ to her Nanna who is a friend of mine. Shine, Jesus, Shine. I used to choose it a lot when my children were small and part of my Sunday School class. With all the children joining in the chorus, it must be a popular hymn from school assembly. A little later a loud chorus of ‘Sing Hosanna’ was raising the roof. At the end, all lights were switched off and flames from all the Christingles flickered around the church as everyone sang Away in a Manger. Beautiful lights.

A light in the darkness, a light at the end of a tunnel, a flicker of hope, that cloud with the silver lining. There is always hope for everyone, faith or not.

No poem today, sorry, but thanks for reading. A Happy New Year to everyone. Pam x

Read More

Blizzard - The Postie Stone, Moffat

The Postie Stone (i)

How exciting it would be to become snowed in when we have our pre-Christmas break at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. I think of this every November into December, when we spend a couple of weeks there, wrapped around my birthday, to do some Christmas shopping in the fabulous, privately owned individual shops. In anticipation of having to stay until March, unless a tractor from the farm comes along to rescue us, I take a supply of ‘emergency’ tinned food and packets, and stock up aplenty on arrival.  This time, it nearly happened. It was our last morning, the day we were leaving. Snow was about eight inches deep and still falling thick and fast. A huge mound shaped over and around our car so it looked like an igloo. We never have snow at home, not like this proper ‘build a snowman’ stuff and we stood in awe gazing at the most amazing landscape through the window.

One day, we went to Moffat, an enchanting market town north of Dumfries. We’ve been before and enjoy a stroll along the high street, seeing what the shops have and this visit was pretty with festive lights and shop windows trimmed for Christmas. It was a cold but calm, sunny day and for me, a wander into the Old Graveyard was appealing. John Loudon McAdam, of tarmac fame is buried there, also are the graves of James McGeorge and John Goodfellow. They were enroute to Edinburgh from Dumfries with postal deliveries when they were caught in a blizzard and died. 

The Postie Stone (ii) Detail

Taken from Atlas Obscurer –
“A roadside memorial commemorates the lives of John Goodfellow, the coach driver, and James McGeorge, the coach guard of a mail coach.

The pair were on a mail coach traveling from Dumfries to Edinburgh in February 1831. They became caught in a fierce blizzard which forced them to abandon the coach and set off on foot through the snow to try and deliver the mail and make it to safety.

They took the mailbags and horses but eventually, the men were overcome by the elements and died of exposure near the head of Cross Burn. The horses continued on, eventually reaching a nearby farm which raised the alarm.

The stone was erected in their memory in 1931, a century after the event. The men were laid to rest in the churchyard in nearby Moffat.”

(A full account of this can be found online, titled The Coaching Disaster.)

Such a sad story and I thought of them again as I watched the falling snow on our journey home. All was well until we were driving into Cumbria and coming over Shap. Late afternoon and it was going dark, the snow clouds were low and visibility was poor. The blizzard soon reduced the motorway from three to two lanes and traffic slowed accordingly. We were grateful to arrive home unscathed because soon after we heard about abandoned cars in Cumbria and jack-knifed wagons on the M6.

Being snowed in at the lodge would have been cosy, though, in my fantasy world.

 During my childhood, age 8 to 9, we lived in Padfield, near Glossop in what became one of dad’s favourite pubs and B&B to manage. We got snowed in, which still happens up there. The village was cut off for days and I remember my mum helping the neighbours out with food where she could.  School stayed open, which meant the fun of snowball fights on the walk down and up again. All the teachers – there was only four of them – lived near the school so it wasn’t likely to be closed and we were allowed to play out in the snow. Times have changed. If the travel news should mention The Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow I think ‘That’s Padfield cut off, then’. Fond memories.

Leaving the Lodge

Emily Bronte passed away on this day in 1848. This is one of her poems. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights as I imagine a blizzard over the moors.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
The storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

             Emily Jane Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thanks for reading. A Merry Christmas to all, Pam x                                        

Read More

Wonderland - My Happy Place

I’m privileged to be in my happy place in this season of Winter Wonderland and witness again the splendour of the Dumfries and Galloway countryside. An ice-cream in August by the Solway Firth seems like a million moons ago to me now. Lush green has given way to shades of copper and rust in hedgerows and woodland and every view is simply stunning. It is nature at its best.

I was nine years old when my family and I moved into our pub on south promenade. During that first summer of settling in and exploring, we went to the Pleasure Beach. Candyfloss, rock, hot-dogs, fried onions, burgers and seafood. Imagine all these strong scents mingled together and this is the all-round smell I grew up with, including beer and tobacco closer to home, but this was my first impression of the Pleasure Beach. I remember going on the Alice in Wonderland ride and being scared. It was the falling down the rabbit hole bit. Very effective nearly sixty years ago and I can’t say if any changes have been made as I haven’t returned. In those days, there was no charge to walk round the Pleasure Beach and no such thing as wristbands. Rides were paid for individually. The current way of doing things and the costs prevent me from taking my grandchildren any time soon.

Snug in a cosy lodge, outside white with frost, I’ll make the most of the rest of our stay. I’ll top up the bird-feeders every day and enjoy watching them being emptied. Red kites are fascinating and entertaining, gracefully circling, looking for prey. This unspoilt simple life is my chosen wonderland.

My Haiku

Surrounded by trees,
A cosy and peaceful lodge
Is my wonderland.

Beyond evergreens,
Rhododendrons, firs and pines,
Acres of farmland

Glisten in the frost
Of early winter morning,
Waiting for the sun

To rise above hills.
Gentle clouds streak a blue sky.
Beautiful daybreak.

Admiring red kites,
Gracefully soaring above,
A roost of hundreds

Watching and waiting
Whistling their high pitched shrill call,
Then swooping to feed.

A short drive away,
The quiet of the forest
Brings tranquillity.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Solitaire - Alone

My mother loved her diamond solitaire ring and wore it all the time. It was a gift from my father, bought in Hatton Gardens on one of their trips to London. She was delighted with it and I watched it twinkling like a rainbow on her finger. It would have been dwarfed by Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond, but it was large enough to be the status symbol it was intended to be. Sadly, within the year, Mum became ill again and succumbed to the cancer she had battled off and on for three years. The ring was eventually passed on to my sister. It sparkles on her hand and looks lovely. I chose pieces of my mother’s jewellery for what they mean to me, yet I rarely wear them. There will always be the pain of loss and how life changed.

Singer Andy Williams cover of Neil Sedaka’s song, ‘Solitaire’. I can’t remember exactly when I first heard it, but for some reason I associate it with moving into the small bedroom – I think I’d swapped rooms with my sister – and sorting my belongings into the fitted furniture.  I listened to music all the time, records or radio and I really liked this song. For a week it was Radio Luxembourg’s powerplay, every hour, every show. To hear it now throws me right back to that moment in time and being seventeen.

‘Solitaire’ is a card game to play solo. I learnt it as ‘Patience’ but it’s the same thing. Cards are set out in a row of seven, first one face up, others face down. The next row, miss the first card, place a card face up on the second card then place cards face down along the rest of the row. Repeat until the last pile has six cards facing down and one facing up. Remaining cards will come into play as needed. The object of the game is to place cards in sequence, King at the top, Ace at the bottom, and alternating red and black. If a face-up card is moved on to another, the face down card can be turned over. Only a King can move into a space at the top. The remaining pile of cards can be turned one by one as needed. Completion would be four columns going from King to Ace in alternate colours. I’ve never introduced myself to a points system, I’ve just taken it as far as I can then either started again or made it work out –no, it’s not cheating when you’re playing by yourself.

I found this poem by John Updike,

Black queen on the red king,
the seven on the black
eight, eight goes on the nine, bring
the nine on over, place
jack on the queen. There is space
now for that black king who,
six or so cards back,
was buried in the pack.
Five on six, where's seven?
Under the ten. The ace
must be under the two.
Four, nine on ten, three, through.
It's after eleven.

 John Updike 1932 - 2009

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Twilight - North and South

 

"Twilight - The soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the reflection of the sun's rays from the atmosphere."

We enjoyed a break away last week. A mix of visiting family and sight-seeing, with three things ticked off my wish list. Heading to the South Downs, we arranged an overnight stop near Banbury to break the long journey. It was great to catch up with family members we don’t get to see often enough and a good time was had by all. We all went to the coast, spending the day between Arundel, Brighton and Worthing.  The weather was better than expected, blue skies and sunshine, and very mild for late October. This was my first time on this stretch of the coast, apart from Butlin’s, Bognor Regis, when we’d only ventured out of the holiday camp once, briefly, to see the sea. My wish list included Brighton, to see the pier and the pavilion, so I enjoyed the drive along the coast which took in both of these and more. We strolled along the front at Worthing, pebbled beach and calm sea with the occasional wave breaking onto the stones. We had a leisurely dinner at a water’s edge restaurant, looking out on to the twilight seascape as the late afternoon became early evening. A beautiful end to a perfect day.

Looking out on to the sea and sands used to fascinate me when I lived in the pub on South Promenade. I loved walking on the beach or the prom with my mother when I was a child. It became for me, our special time together. Mum would take me across to South Pier for a game of bingo and a play in the amusement arcade, then we’d have a walk, sometimes up to Central Pier and back. It is an area I associate strongly with her, and always will. After she passed away, I took myself there to be alone with my thoughts, my sorrow. It had become a special place.  It was a place to think of happy memories, a place to release tears and a place to shout out in anger. Fresh air and freedom, in all seasons and all times of day, but mostly in the calm of early evening, a quiet sunset with the tide out,  then the twilight dimming my vision.

Homeward from the South, we spent a couple of days in Shropshire, visiting more family members, but sight-seeing on our own. This ticked off two things on my wish list, The Iron Bridge, which I’d wanted to go and see for ages, and the Blists Hill Victorian Town – a living museum – which I’d wanted to visit since seeing it on an episode of The Apprentice earlier this year.

Autumn Twilight,

On a south coast beach
Built of white pebbles
The crash of waves reach
Over the edge.

The daylight fading,
The Channel dark’ning,
Twilight sky shading
The horizon.

On a north west beach,
Miles of smooth, fine sand,
Evening seagulls screech.
Late colony.

The sky, pinkish grey.
Sea claims the sunset
At the end of the day.
Autumn Twilight.

PMW 2023.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Canals - Boatmen, Old and New

Working on my family tree by searching online ancestry sites is something I’ve been doing for a long time. I enjoy dipping in and out and finding new information. Sometimes it can be hard to stay on task when something grabs my attention and takes me along a different path. I wish my dad had lived long enough for me to share my findings with him, or better still, discover them for himself. He would have been fascinated and would have learnt a lot from the World Wide Web. He had a computer which he used for writing letters when hand-writing was too uncomfortable. He could print them and post them. There was no internet and mobile phones were just starting to turn up, like bricks with a pull up aerial. How sad that his untimely death denied him so much. He had started to build his family tree with the help of a niece during one of his visits to the USA. Twenty years or so after his passing, I was able to take things further back.

My dad was actively involved with the Lancaster Canal Boat Club. He bought his first boat sometime in the early ‘70s. It was a small cabin cruiser. This growing hobby soon found him to be the proud owner of a larger boat, another cabin cruiser and a wooden one, which reminded me of a galleon inside. Being made of wood, it needed lots of care to keep maintained, and lots of time to do it, which he had plenty of. With the boat club, he was on the committee for the campaigning of re-opening the Northern Reaches – the stretch of canal between Tewitfield and Kendal – where the canal had narrowed a great deal and become too shallow to allow a boat through. I think this was due to a lack of dredging. When he died, he was treasurer and President of the boat club. I’d been to a boat rally once, and a couple of dinner dances, but I’m no sailor, not even slowly on a canal, and his boating hobby belonged to a part of his life that wasn’t mine. However, I wish he’d known this.

Going back generations in our family, 1840s and 1850s, there were many boatmen, working the canals as carriers transporting all sorts of goods, mainly coal haulage, cotton and wool. They lived on their barges or flat boats, having a very meagre existence, working hard in all seasons. What I learnt, though very interesting, was also heart-breaking to me, and made me wonder if my dad’s fondness for the canals in all their glory, was some inherited thing. If so, it bypassed me. Dad had enjoyed lots of different canal holidays. His favourite was the trip on the Caledonian. If only he had known that his ancestors had carried goods up and down the Grand Union Canal before he was sailing on it. Sadly, he knew none of it.

My Haiku,

They travelled canals,
Boatmen of my ancestry,
Hard work in haulage.

Coal, cotton and wool
Carried across the country
For meagre payment.

Generations passed.
My dad loved his boats,
Two cabin cruisers.

Lancaster canal
His chosen sanctuary
For peace and quiet.

He stuck his oar in
With the Inland Waterways,
“Re-open the North!”

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Adolescence - That Difficult Age

 A definition –

‘Adolescence is the phase of life between childhood and adulthood, from ages 10 to 19. It is a unique stage of human development and an important time for laying the foundations of good health. Adolescents experience rapid physical, cognitive and psychosocial growth.’

We all go through it, some better than others, but I think it’s a fair assumption that none of us would like to go through it again. The itchy personal areas sprouting body hair, blushing, sweating, feeling awkward and embarrassed, suffering acne, the onset of menstruation and, if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridicule of peers. We change and grow at the right time for our body clocks, so a twelve year old male or female might already have a mature body and be a fascination to their less developed friends, those later developers came under similar scrutiny. I suppose I was one of the many Miss Averages, but that didn’t mean it was an easy time. I had added problems. My mother always made sure I had a supply of sanitary towels. When she became terminally ill and no longer able to see to me herself, our helper, Auntie Kathy, was tasked with such things and I could bounce all manner of questions off her. My mother passed away when I was thirteen and a half. Auntie Kathy, who wasn’t a real auntie but a member of staff, was my rock. I had my grandmother, too, who was more special than words can say, but she lived away. When my father remarried within months, Auntie Kathy was no longer needed as our housekeeper and left us, but continued to be my saviour for many years. I was a frequent visitor to her home. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on, sometimes a good laugh. She was good at both. All this going on and adolescence, too. Oh, and at school there was a small team of horrid girls who stole sanitary protection by bullying others to hand things over, or steal from their school bags, teasing anyone who didn’t have anything because they hadn’t ‘started’ yet. Children can be cruel.

There was a boy in my high school class who looked the same in the fifth year as he had in the first year, though maybe a bit taller. About ten years after our school days we met by chance at the Derby Baths, of all places. He was in the forces, Army or RAF, doing very well and looking like a blond Adonis, what my dad would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’. He had grown up. I wouldn’t have known him, but he recognised me.

When it came to growing up, adolescence and puberty, I wanted to be the best parent I could possibly be to my children. I’ve always been open and approachable about anything. I attended meetings at school about Personal & Social Education so I would know exactly what was going to be discussed in their lessons and how various questions might be answered. Armed with information and confident to be on the right level I was ready. Our son, having reached a silent or grunty, living in his room stage, coming out to get fed, was fine. Our daughter, starting periods refused to have a conversation with me about it. I respected her wishes and privacy. I made sure she had what she needed and wrote her a letter explaining what I wanted to say. It was ripped up and put in her bin. I felt so hurt at the time. I wasn’t wanted, not allowed to even do this for her. Hormones, from both of us, firing in different directions.

My chosen poem, from Philip Larkin, it just had to be...

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

In The Freezer - What's For Tea?

Travelling home from a few weeks touring southern Scotland in our caravan, our conversation turned to “What’s for tea?” We had been eating out more than usual and the meals I’d put together on board were perfectly adequate though simple, using the microwave, toaster or George Foreman mini grill, and lots of salad. As yet, the pristine gas cooker is untouched by me, due to being timid of gas bottles. The answer to our question was “Something in the freezer,” as it often is.

We have a massive larder freezer and you’d be hard pressed to find a gap amongst the contents. It matches the massive larder fridge, which by comparison, is almost empty in our absence. We used to house a family of four or more. Just two of us now, but feed any number of grandchildren a couple of times a week, depending on after-school activities and us being helpful. There is always something to eat in the freezer or the tins cupboard.

I think we take it all for granted because we’ve got used to relying on being able to store food the way we do. Not too long ago it was different. When I was a child, one of our pubs had a few bedrooms for residential guests and provided meals. I was fascinated by the chest freezer in the cellar, and the ice cream inside it. I’m sure there was plenty of food as well, but having ice cream at home was a novelty. As a young adult, my flat was a cosy little home but without a fridge, never mind a freezer. I managed. I stood my bottle of milk in a bowl with cold water to keep it fresh and hoped for the best. I got a cool box and that was good for butter as well. I had tins and packet foods and bought fresh food as I wanted it, usually picking up something for tea on my way home from work. I didn’t have a handy shop nearby back then. I have two or three now within walking distance – and a stuffed freezer.

I try to keep some sort of order in my stuffed freezer. Homemade items are labelled and dated, there’s a drawer for vegetables and another for potato based food. Fish, meat, pies, pizzas and a supply of Bernard Matthews unicorns, dinosaurs and similar goodies all have their place and a generous amount of ice lollies so we are always ready for visiting children. With all this organisation, I can’t understand how the entire contents are always untidy and often lost, to be found in another drawer.

My poem,

In The Freezer

Some of Iceland’s apple strudels,
Opened stir-fry veg with noodles,
Gregg’s sausage rolls to bake yourself
Pushed to the back of the wrong shelf.
Someone’s put all the chicken pies
In the same drawer as oven fries.
Only ‘tatoes in those spaces,
McCain Jackets, Smiley Faces.
Fish in batter, salmon fish cakes,
Our favourite butcher’s gammon steaks.
Tubs of homemade Bolognese sauce,
Curry and chilli, too, of course.
Escaping sprouts and corn and peas
And tasty pastries filled with cheese
Left over from our Christmas fayre,
Like croquettes I forgot to share.
It’s past its best, that corned beef hash
And so is that left-over mash.
The Dinosaurs are good to eat
And Unicorns, the children’s treat.
The kids will love a freezer feast,
Pasta and garlic bread, at least,
A triangle of pizza, too,
Coleslaw and a few dips will do.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Plague - Bubonic, Covid?

I haven’t been to Eyam, but I believe it to be beautiful and interesting. It is on my bucket list of places to visit. Eyam is a small village in the Derbyshire Peak District which worked hard to be self-contained during an outbreak of a highly infectious disease.

Taken from ‘The Plague in Eyam ’ by George May,

“The plague which was a highly infectious and very unpleasant disease widely known in Britain and Europe, came to Eyam in the summer of 1665, possibly in a bale of cloth brought up from London. The people in the house where it came to, caught the disease and died in a short space of time. Before long, others had caught the disease and also died, after a short and very painful illness. It spread rapidly. The local rector, The Rev. William Mompesson and his predecessor, led a campaign to prevent the disease spreading outside the village to the surrounding area. This involved the people of the village remaining in the village and being supplied with necessary provisions by people outside.

the boundary stone

                                                            
"There is still on the outskirts of the village a location called the Boundary stone, where traditionally money was placed in small holes for the provisions which those from the local area brought for the villagers. As a result of this action, the disease did not spread, but almost a third of the villagers died. Interestingly some of the villagers who were in contact with those who caught the plague, did not catch it. This was because they had a chromosome which gave them protection. This same chromosome has been shown to still exist in those who are direct descendants of those who survived the plague, and who are still living in the village at the present time. The action of the villagers in staying in the village is almost unique and makes the village the place of significance that it is.”

The nursery rhyme Ring-a-ring-of-roses is thought to have come from this event.

We had to apply a similar process during the Covid lockdown, by relying on grocery deliveries and isolating ourselves as much as possible. I will forever, keep to social distancing when possible and be mindful of handwashing and disinfecting.

Here's poet laureate, Simon Armitage,

Lockdown

And I couldn’t escape the waking dream
of infected fleas

in the warp and weft of soggy cloth
by the tailor’s hearth

in ye old Eyam.
Then couldn’t un-see

the Boundary Stone,
that cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes,

thimbles brimming with vinegar wine
purging the plagued coins.

Which brought to mind the sorry story
of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre,

star-crossed lovers on either side
of the quarantine line

whose wordless courtship spanned the river
till she came no longer.

But slept again,
and dreamt this time

of the exiled yaksha sending word
to his lost wife on a passing cloud,

a cloud that followed an earthly map
of camel trails and cattle tracks,

streams like necklaces,
fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants,

embroidered bedspreads
of meadows and hedges,

bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks,
waterfalls, creeks,

the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes
and the glistening lotus flower after rain,

the air
hypnotically see-through, rare,

the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow
but necessarily so.

                            Simon Armitage, 2020

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Lodgings - Impromptu Days Out

Some years ago, I’d guess about forty, I was on my own in Lancaster where a work commitment had gone awry. Instead of packing up and heading home, I decided to spend time looking around, enjoying the sunshine. Lancaster is the first place I properly remember from my childhood with memories I hold close to my heart including the birth of my sister. Our family, at this point just my parents and a three year old me, moved from our Manchester pub to one in Lancaster. I went to nursery then infant school there. At some point, my maternal grandparents left their pub in Sale to move in with my aunt and uncle, also running a pub in Lancaster. Pure nostalgia, but I had hours to please myself.

Leaving the workplace, I headed towards the city centre. Aimlessly wandering, but comfortable amongst the old stone buildings that felt familiar to me, I realised I was on Church Street and started to look out for The Nag’s Head, a special place of my extended family. It remained unchanged so much that I could almost hear the sounds of the Saturday morning street market which always woke me up early when I’d stayed overnight. Someone was handing out leaflets promoting historical walks and places of interest. The Judges’ Lodgings was open to the public and close by. I went to look round.

From Lancashire County Council,

“Nestled below Lancaster Castle, the Judges' Lodgings dates back nearly 400 years on a site that has been at the centre of Lancaster's history for nearly 2000 years. The current house was built around 1625 by Thomas Covell, Keeper of the Castle and famous for locking up the Pendle Witches during the infamous Lancashire Witch Trials. From 1826 the house became a lodgings for the travelling 'Red Judges' of the Assizes Courts. Dressed in their scarlet robes, the Judges decided the fate of murderers, forgers and highwaymen at Lancaster Castle. Today the house is home to beautiful Georgian furniture by Gillows of Lancaster, elegant period rooms and the popular Museum of Childhood.”

It was more fascinating than I expected. Travelling judges were treated like royalty, the lodgings were like a mini palace.

Still nostalgic, I ate my bought lunch in Williamson Park where I used to play after school and on Sunday afternoon family gatherings. I already knew that the pub which had been my home, The County Hotel, was demolished and some soulless building had taken its place near the railway station.

My unexpected Lancaster trail concluded with a visit to Auntie Vi. Not a real Auntie but a family friend from the old days we’d always kept in touch with – she used to look after me a lot when I was little. We drank tea and reminisced in her cosy back living room, where I used to play. Time flies.

Time passed to when I was working at our local infant school. I was attached to Year One. We were having a school trip to The Judges’ Lodgings in Lancaster. I didn’t need asking twice. It was a fabulous visit. The children learnt a lot about bygone times and the ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ lifestyle of the people who used to live or stay in the building. They dressed up as staff or gentry and had lots of fun trying to spin tops and work other old-fashioned toys. I loved every minute.

Apologies for no poem, I had a few lines in my head but nothing came to fruition. Everything has been hectic since I returned from my extended travels yesterday. And tonight I had to go to a football match.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Terza Rima - JCC and The Machars

Terza Rima is an Italian poetic form which I believe to be invented by Dante Alighieri and used for his poem, the Divine Comedy. The poem is three line stanzas in iambic pentameter with a rhyming structure aba, bcb, cdc, and so on. It can have many stanzas. The poem ends with a single line or a couplet which repeats the rhyme of the middle line of the last tercet.

I'm offering two of my own, this one for one of my favourite modern poets.

Terza Rima for John Cooper Clarke

Those of the time embraced every word,
Listening in wonder to John Cooper Clarke,
The Bard of Salford who had to be heard.

Rapid from the mouth and skinny and dark.
'Evidently Chickentown', effing good.
He's magic with words, bright as any spark.

His wholesome description meant that we could
Smell the inhabitants of 'Beasley Street',
Rich mixture of urban decay and blood.

Life, humour and truth, a picture complete
And painted with colourful language that
Reaches all listeners not just the elite.

So thanks, JCC, I know where I'm at,
Laughing out loud at the poem called 'Twat'.

PMW 2012

Andrew Brown's statue, Port William, The Machars

We're currently away, touring favourite places in Dumfries & Galloway in our caravan and spending a few days in The Machars, exploring the peninsula.

The Machars

Garlieston, oh Garlieston, oh so quaint,
Swans on the water, snow-white in sunshine,
Gathered by the harbourside's weak restraint.

Isle of Whithorn while the weather is fine,
Blustery but sunny on the headlands.
St Ninian's Chapel, follow the sign.

Port William, gazing out to sea he stands
There in all weather's, leaning on the fence,
Andrew Brown's statue, the front he commands.

To Wigtown and let some browsing commence,
From bookshop to bookshop in this book town,
A bookshop-cum-cafe for lunch, makes sense.

Exploring The Machars, up hill and down.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Catalogues With Glossy Pages

As an eleven and twelve year old, there was something exciting about the arrival of the latest home-shopping catalogue. It took both hands to lift it on to the table and all day to choose items of clothing, sticking to the given budget. Glossy pages with a distinctive inky smell felt pleasant to touch and were slowly turned from one appealing outfit to another with corners folded down to mark likely purchases. My mother wasn’t well enough to take us shopping and growing girls needed new clothes all the time. The catalogue was a life-line.

Later, when I was considered old enough to go to town with friends, I was given money to buy things from Chelsea Girl – my favourite boutique – and Marks & Spencer for underwear. The catalogue always had a place, though, and as I grew up and raised my own family, it was useful for household items. Affordable credit added to the appeal of the convenience of home shopping.

We used to keep the catalogues in a cupboard with the fat telephone directories. Littlewoods and Grattan along with Argos, Toys’R’Us, and Betterware, when the man came. They’ve all gone now, though sometimes we have Cotton Traders if they think we need reminding that they are there.

The physical catalogues might have ceased to fill the cupboard, but the way of shopping remains. We’re online instead. Amazon has absolutely everything, just a click away. The anticipation of the catalogue parcel has been replaced by the excitement of the Prime van being only three stops away. Marks & Spencer has more appeal online than in store. I was recently disappointed to visit our branch and discover a shop reduced in size by closing off the top floor and carrying limited stock. The food hall was as bad. A wasted trip on my part.

We still get those mini-catalogues stapled into the TV listings magazines, the ones full of interesting gadgets that make me wonder how old I’ll be before I can’t manage without them. They go straight into the recycling.

Haiku for those long ago times,

A nice, grey school skirt
And a navy blue cardy
To start the new term.

Some smart white blouses
A pair of stirrup trousers
That’s what we called them.

Strap under the feet.
And socks and knickers and vests
And some pyjamas.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Court - Anyone for Tennis?

Lush, green grass, white chalk perfectly defining boundaries and I am already spellbound by the untouched Centre Court as Wimbledon 2023 is about to commence. I will make the most of this two week tournament and indulge myself as much as I can, rooted in front of our biggest television which is situated in our less comfortable room but it will do nicely. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be there. Centre Court, Court Number 1, the outside courts, I would be in awe. The rhythmic thwack of racquet on tennis ball has a soothing, almost hypnotic feeling which began sometime in childhood with my mother, a keen player in her teens, following black and white television coverage of Wimbledon in the ‘50s and ‘60s. In my younger days I enjoyed knocking a ball around the hard courts in our Stanley Park. I was completely rubbish, even with my Chris Evert endorsed make of racquet. I’m sure the exercise did me good.

The Tennis – this grand slam being the only one I follow closely – fits in just right, between the end of the football season and the beginning of the next one. When the children were small, I used to look upon it as some ‘me’ time before the summer holidays. In my days of working full time, I would try to plan annual leave around it. Now that I’m retired, it can be a priority, as far as I can push it. And it is only a fortnight, after all.

I love the protocol and tradition that is special to Wimbledon. The All England Tennis and Croquet Club correct and proper, which puts me in mind of the bygone times I wish I had known. I adore the work of John Betjeman for the same reason,

A Subaltern’s Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

                                            Sir John Betjeman CBE   (1906 – 1984)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Feathers - Hair Cut

I did a stupid thing in 1971. Yes, another one. That year was full of it from start to finish and I’m still embarrassed by some of the incidents. This is one of them.

I wasn’t happy to be uprooted from my world which was the pub on the prom, my school, my friends, my nights at the ice-rink and everything I held dear. I would have done anything to stay and tried a few ideas, including moving in with a friend so my GCEs wouldn’t be disrupted. Nothing worked. I wasn’t taken seriously. I was a stroppy teenager. Yes, indeed, and who is to blame for that? It wasn’t all down to hormones. The family, such as it was now, moved to another pub in Cheshire. I was the self-conscious new girl at the local Secondary Modern, a school which I quickly discovered was taking an alternative path towards the exams than the one I’d been following – not too closely, I admit, but that wasn’t the point – there were changes between Lancashire and Cheshire education departments. The National Curriculum was years away. I soon knew that I was different on a personal level. My new friends, pleasant and welcoming girls, couldn’t help but nudge each other and give knowing looks about my embroidered jeans and floaty tops when we met after school. I don’t know what they thought, but over a short time I toned down a bit and dressed more like them when I got a Ben Sherman shirt and some two-tone trousers. I went to the weekly gathering at the town hall where the music was mod, soul, reggae and everything ‘not my scene’ but I wanted to fit in so I learnt the Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’ dance. This is the time that the stupid thing happened. I cut my own hair. I fashioned a feather-cut with nail scissors, taking it into the nape of my neck, leaving long straggly rats tails. I’m not a hairdresser, not even close, so the going blonde turned out hit and miss. No one said anything at home. My friends thought it was ok, even better after one of them went over a bit that I’d missed. What a mess, is what it actually was.

At half term I went to London on the train, on my own, to stay with family who lived in Roehampton. Whether my dad had said anything to my aunt or whether she just took charge I don’t know, but one of the first things I remember was being taken to her hairdresser and given the full treatment of colour, cut and blow. She bought me new clothes back in my own style and I felt like myself again. During my stay, Dad had been in touch to see how I was. My aunt gave me the good news that we were leaving Cheshire and returning to Blackpool to live in a house. Another first.

It was good to be me again with my Moody Blues and Rolling Stones and leave my hair alone for the properly cut feathers to grow out. I learnt something from those few months, ‘To thine own self be true’.  It didn’t stop me doing stupid things, though.

I kept in touch with those friends for a few years and I remember them fondly whenever I hear ‘Double Barrel’. I don’t think my ankles are up for the dance, sadly.

Here’s Emily Dickinson,

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

                           Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

 (Not my photo, chosen for illustration)

Read More