Anecdotes

Anecdote ..... a short and amusing story. I am rubbish at remembering them. I live a quiet uneventful life, and therefore do not have many (if any) proper ones to share.

As a toddler, I absolutely HATED wearing frilly dresses, much preferring to wear my red all-weather dungarees and wellies. So, every time I was placed in one of those dainty and delicate garments, I would promptly start work pulling the frills off it and the matching pants.

There was the time my childhood self decided it would be a good idea to climb inside a cardboard box which was nearly as tall as me, hide, then jump out and surprise whoever was walking past. The problem being the dimensions of said box and my own balance. Once I was in, I couldn't move and toppled over, banging my head on the concrete driveway without being able to raise my arms to break the fall.  The result? A very large egg shaped bump on my temple and quite a magnificent black eye! Try explaining that to your Teacher at School!

Around the age of 8, I received an Action Man for Christmas. I was over the moon! My brother however was not as pleased with the Cindy Dune Buggy he found in his stack of presents though.  Still, he kept it and put his other Action Men in it instead (minus the Cindy stickers). Yes, I kept the Action Man.

Another time, when I was in my moody stage of being a teenager (which thankfully wasn't for long), I grew tired and exasperated of receiving the polyester jumpers which I received every year from my Gran at Christmas. That particular year, it was a rather loud electric blue affair, with white reindeer and snow.  On Boxing Day I took it into the back yard and ungratefully burnt it in a fit of petulance. Sorry Gran! Mind you the look on my Mums' face was priceless!! I was a nice girl who didn't normally act in such a way you understand.

 As you can see, I wasn't a girly-girl, very much a tom-boy. Hee hee.


How times have changed ... :

I used to hate dresses,
I'd pull the frills off out of spite,
I would never hold a tea-party
With my toys, it just wasn't right.
I would never play at dress-up
pretending to be a fairy Princess
I would much prefer to play outside
and dig and make a mess.
A doll in a buggy
would sit and gather dust,
The Girls' World styling head,
Unappealing, was just a bust.
Then came the year
that I received a pedal Police car,
I whizzed around our drive-way
pretending I was going far.
Ok, my parents had to disconnect
the siren, I wasn't keen.
Would cry every time I heard it
but still, it looked real mean!
I loved that little Police car,
I must have pedalled for miles and miles,
Always staying in the driveway,
Full of joy and full of smiles!

How times have changed ...

These days I don't drive at all
Never having taken lessons or a test,
I walk or take public transport,
Which leaves me feeling stressed.
Although practical day to day,
I now love those pretty dresses,
my favourites are of vintage style
with coiffed and curled tresses.
I love to get all dressed up
and try and look my very best,
but I have no functions to go to,
Nor any person to take as a guest.
I love high heeled shoes,
although they don't like me,
I struggle to walk very far in them
I wobble and walk quite manly.
So you see, I may have made my bed
many years ago, it true,
I am not dainty and delicate,
with lady-like qualities to view,
I am and will always be a tom-boy,
playing at being a girl,
So therefore I will have to lay in it,
Dreaming of make-up and kiss curls! 


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Anecdotal evidence

I come from a family that love anecdotes. They're our social lubricant, and usually very amusing. I've lost track of the times I've been embarrassed by my auntie telling people how I once was found as a toddler swearing at an injured pigeon which was hiding under the bed from me for being naughty, and how I tried to turn its legs round because they were "the wrong way round". Poor pigeon. Having grown up around it I find myself loving other people's stories, and it often made me wonder why we enjoy this so much, both the telling of them and the listening. I'm fascinated by folk stories and fables.

Whilst studying on my MA we were visited by a remarkable storyteller Taffy Thomas MBE (http://www.taffythomas.co.uk/). He's the UK's first storytelling Laureate. He suffered from a severe stroke and taught himself to speak again using the art of storytelling. He came in and put on his storytelling coat which was a handmade coat made up of various images, each representing a folk story. He asked us to pick a picture and he would tell from memory the story. He was captivating, in presence and skill. We hung on his every word, amazed that he could remember each of these stories so perfectly and tell them so beautifully. He spoke about how important stories are, particularly to children and how they could develop emotional literacy, empathy and communication skills. The morality in some of the stories also acts as a guide for children to develop within the community. Taffy was keen for us to remember the stories, and taught us a few handy ways to recall them using anchor points within the story. He said as long as we could remember these it didn't much matter how we told it, so long as it was told with conviction and respect for the story.

The art of verbal storytelling has been around far longer than the written word, but is just as important. We've evolved to tell stories to pass on information, alert to dangers experienced in the past, teach empathy and morality and of course help us to communicate with each other better. Both in speaking and listening. In his book Telling Tales Taffy quotes a 12 year old he met at one of his workshops;

A story's like a game of tig that's passed on
And around. A story is like a gift that's
Given by sound. A story is like a Mexican wave
Whirling above the ground. Around and
Around it goes, by word of mouth it flows
Hold the gist as it goes by. Pass it on or it will
Die. A story's a game of tig.

I like this quote, a story is a game of tig. A verbal tale or anecdote is passed on much like any other type of story, and whether it gets twisted a little on the way it doesn't matter. We're wired to tell stories, whether in verbal or written form, so pass em on.

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Anecdote: Learning to Count

On Monday afternoon my eldest nephew, who started school in September, snuggled beside me on the sofa to show me what he’d been learning.

Still dressed in school uniform, looking far too grown up, he thumbed through his workbook, explained each page and then decided it was time to test my number skills. He randomly pointed at a ‘7’ and said, “What’s this number?”

“Seven?”

“Correct.”

This continued until I’d named all 20 numbers and Joshy finally declared, “Yes, you’ve done it.”

“Do I get a sticker?” I asked with a smile.

Joshy thought for a moment (a fleeting look I wish I could capture and keep) before these words fell as beautifully as sycamore seeds from his mouth:

“You can have my sticker,” he said as he peeled a small black and yellow sticker from his jumper, “It’s from my orange.”

I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated a fruit sticker before; I’ve certainly never loved one, but, as Joshy pressed this one onto my knitted cardigan, I loved it. Not because it was aesthetically pleasing (because it wasn’t) and not – like those metallic stars from my own school days – because it marked an achievement, but rather I loved it because it was kindness in its simplest and purest terms.

To Joshy it wasn’t complicated like the subtraction he’s grappling with, and it wasn’t homework he’ll be marked on and praised for, yet, he still gave his sticker freely, asking for nothing in return and reminding me that some things just can’t be measured by numbers.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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