Colour

 

How dull life looked in monochrome. My old photographs are all black and white, including my christening. I expect my family heirloom gown was white, but I’ve no idea what colours my relatives were dressed in and there’s no one left who would remember. I can understand why my grandchildren might believe there was once a world without colour. My dad, a keen photographer, though he often forgot his camera, preferred colour slides and I have his collection from the late 1950s until he passed away in the mid 1980s. I love the early ones. Memories of my childhood in a vibrant, colourful Lancaster. Through these, I will always know that my favourite dress, on holiday in Jersey c1961, was pale turquoise.

Television was black and white. Ours was rented, probably from Rediffusion, or similar. I think most people rented their television in those days. The first time I saw colour television was at the home of family friends around Christmas in 1969. I thought it was rubbish until told it wasn’t working properly and was being returned. We were watching a chat show, long before Michael Parkinson, but that sort of thing. Wide, horizontal stripes of separate primary colours slowly climbed the screen over and over again. I thought that was it, Colour TV, what a swizz. We got one the following year, rented, I expect. Lots of programmes were still broadcast in monochrome and those that weren’t were advertised ‘In Colour’, it was such a major thing. I remember being impressed seeing my favourite cartoon, The Flintstones, in colour for the first time. It was amazing and I was at least fifteen years old.

I don’t think I have an absolute favourite colour. It depends on the mood I’m in and if I’m choosing clothes or home décor. Our new bathroom, well, two years old but still new, is beautiful, high-gloss white with tangerine towels and mats. Perfect.

Colours are important. School uniforms, sports teams, businesses and retail outlets are all instantly recognisable by their colours and logos. When I went to high school, I wanted to wear the distinctive Air Force Blue uniform of Collegiate Girls Grammar, but I’d failed my 11+ so that was that. Navy blue for a disappointed me.

I found this amusing, colourful poem with no known author,

Five little crayons coloured a scene.
Yellow, blue, orange, red and green.
“Look,” said Yellow, “My sun is bright!”
Blue said, “Great! My river’s just right”
Orange said, “Flowers! I’ll draw something new”
Red said, “Great, I’ll add some too!”
“Sigh,” said Green, “I’m tired of trees,
And grass and bushes and tiny leaves.
I think I’ll draw a big green cloud!”
“A big green cloud should be allowed!”
The crayons all smiled and didn’t think twice.
A big green cloud sounded rather nice!

                                                                      Anonymous

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Hot and Cold

How lovely it was to spent time in a warm and cosy lodge gazing out on to a wintry landscape. It was very cold outside, definitely hat, scarf and gloves needed even for a quick nip out to feed the birds. Coming back inside to a welcome hot drink was a perfect reward and I would sip it while watching for the birds to notice the replenished feeders. Being prepared for any amount of snow, ice or blizzard, we were stocked up with extra food and provisions, but coastal Dumfries and Galloway has its own micro climate and despite the minus degrees temperature most of the time, we had sunshine and blue skies every day and the local roads remained passable. We saw a fine layer of snow at Galloway Forest Park on one of our adventures. Of course, all good things come to an end and after a couple of restful weeks we were driving home for Christmas – go on, sing – through patches of freezing fog on the M6 with the snowy Cumbrian hills looking majestic in the clear bits. Family and festivities beckoned in Blackpool.

I was nine years old when my family’s second move to Blackpool became our permanent one. Dad’s wished for ‘pub on the prom’ was our home. My sister was still in a cot and we shared a big bedroom right at the front with an amazing sea view. The place was just a pub with three separate bars, but was originally a residential hotel. There were many nooks and crannies to explore but what fascinated me was the wash-basin in our room. It was fixed to the wall in the corner with a frame fastened to the floor on a square of lino. The frame provided a small towel rail. The taps were labelled ‘Hot’ and ‘Cold’. Mum and Dad’s room had one and so did another bedroom that was right next to the bathroom. At the time I thought that was hilarious. Our kitchen was miles away on another corridor. This wing had more bedrooms with wash-basins, which accommodated grandparents on their visits. The two floors above were out of bounds to me, but I had dared to have a peep and decided that whatever was up the curtained stairs was far too scary. Fast forward a few years to teenage and some of us did go off exploring. Very creepy.

A recent adventure was ‘Two Go Off in a Caravan’. This is our retirement asset to enable us to take off where we want and when we want to, within reason, while we can. We got it at the beginning of November, intending to have a couple of short trips in it before packing it away for the winter and before we disappeared to Scotland. In the end we only managed one weekend away, but it was good fun and a learning curve. On the second day, we, well ok, not me, figured out ‘hot and cold running water’ which was bliss to wash up without boiling the kettle. I expect we will have forgotten what we’ve learnt by the time spring comes, though we’ve made notes.

I found this from a Scottish poet, Alan Jackson,

The Three

In the depth of winter
In the dark of night
There was only one house,
Only one light.

I walked down the path,
I knocked on the door.
I do not think
I’d been there before.

Music and light,
Three smiling faces.
I was by the fire
In seven paces.

Oh what a blossom
Oh what a feel!
They showed me a seat;
I joined in their meal.

After we’d eaten
We cleared out the things;
‘One of us plays,
One of us sings,

One of us dances.’
‘Then I will too,’
I laughed and looked,
‘I’ll dance with you.’

The stars in the window,
The birds in the trees,
The fire in the chimney,
We were all these.

The sun in the morning,
The moon on its way,
Roses and silver,
Nothing was gray.

A rich deep blue,
A scarlet bloom,
Like living liquids,
Filled the room.

Then we sat down
And talked till dawn.
Our eyes were shining.
We could not yawn.

‘Where were you going?’
‘Coming to you.’
‘But you didn’t know.’
‘Of course, I knew.

I know what is
And what is not.
I know the cold,
I know the hot

I know what quickens,
I know what kills;
I know what drains;
I know what fills

When I couldn’t see
I followed my nose.
When I couldn’t hear
I followed my toes.’

‘Then many a bump
And many a smack
I expect you got
On such a track.’

‘I certainly did.
I’m covered in bruises.’
‘You’re not, you know.
Who wins, loses.

You are human
And we’re pleased
That you found us,
Though we teased,

But you must go
You cannot stay;
Soon it will be
Another day.

And you are called
Back to your place:
Great is the work
Of the human race.

Now, don’t be sad.
You won’t forget.
And we are there
In dry and wet;

In hot and cold,
Dull and shine,
In wither and bloom’
You’ll see our sign.

Whenever you look
With light in your eyes
You’ll almost see,
And hear our cries.’

The house was fading,
The fire was gone;
It was the earth
I was standing on.

‘Goodbye goodbye,
True hearts can’t fail!
Goodbye, goodbye,
Green is the trail!’

It was very cold
And rosy blue
I heard the cock
A doodle do.

I saw some smoke
And birds in trees
I heard their laughter
In the breeze.

I wasn’t sad
For I understood
My friends were alive
In water and wood.

A wonderful fire
Flamed through my heart.
I’d walking to do;
I made a start.

Alan Jackson, b 1938

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Miscalculation - Don't Trust Me With Quantities

It is a long time since we had a new bathroom installed. Years have passed and it’s ready for doing again but we keep putting it off with all the ‘are we moving, are we staying’ discussions. Whether we upgrade or not, I’m keeping out of it. Last time, when the plumber completed the installation, the tiler came to measure up. I knew exactly what I wanted and where to order them from, so off I went to the tile shop with the information safely in my head. The tiler, very busy and in demand, booked us in on schedule with the tiles arrival and all went according to plan, until, when setting everything out, he wondered if there was a box missing. There were not enough tiles to complete. He measured the walls again and checked his square metre calculations. Oops. I could feel the blush of my embarrassment as I had to tell him I’d ordered the quantity in square yards. Completely my fault, no miscalculation, just an honest mistake, but he was disappointed that he wouldn’t finish the job on time and I felt stupid. More tiles were ordered. We had to wait ages for the tiler to fit us in again – it was only a small area to finish off and I began to think he was making us wait on purpose – all my fault. Don’t trust me with anything important like measurements, ordering and quantity surveying. I’m only really good for colour co-ordinating and knitting.

I expect lots of us as younger individuals still living with parents have run out of money before the next pay day comes round, or maybe that was just me. At seventeen I was the proud owner of an Austin A40. I spent my last pound on a couple of gallons of three star petrol to last me the week, perhaps a bit more, then I’d get my wages. I had been driving to work and back in town and a bit of visiting friends, nothing of any distance.  A few days later, I’d stopped not far from home and couldn’t get the car started again. I did what I’d been told to do and what anyone on their own should do, that’s find the nearest phone box and call Dad. Mobile phones were in the future. Dad listened to my description of the car’s symptoms. The ticking sound on the ignition meant it was out of petrol. He would bring me some. He knew I didn’t have money for a day or two. Bless him. Of course the petrol gauge was on zero, but it often was and I was sure it would last the week, a complete miscalculation. Dad’s words of advice which I followed from then on, was not to allow the petrol tank to run so low, otherwise sediment can get sucked up and cause problems. This might not apply to modern cars, I’m going back fifty years.

A few Haikus:

The diff’rence between
Square metres and yards,
Miscalculation.

When wages are spent
And it’s nowhere near pay day,
Miscalculation.

Austin A 40
Economical first car
That ran on fresh air.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Insomnia - Goodnight

According to my husband who is the only person to know this, I am fast asleep as soon as I’ve wished him goodnight. If only I could stay that way until morning. About an hour later, I’m awake, needing the bathroom and this is the pattern through the night, every night. Most times I’m immediately off to sleep again, sometimes not. The nights of waiting for everyone to be home before I can settle properly are long gone, thank goodness.

It doesn’t take much to spook me. Our neighbourhood is quiet, so the slightest sound outside puts me on full alert and I lie still, listening, worrying about someone on the prowl, tampering with doors and cars. I dare to peep but I can’t focus straight away and I’m scared of being noticed, if there is anyone. I’m on another visit to the bathroom.

I wonder if I heard a noise downstairs, or if the toilet flush just sounded like it was something. I rush back to the safety of the bedroom before anything looms out of the darkness. Sirens, there’s always bloody sirens, even at silly o’clock. I’d love to know what’s going on, or maybe it is better that I don’t. I’m safe and cosy under the duvet.

I’m falling from a great height. There’s a loud bang before I hit the bottom of wherever I was going to land. I don’t know if it was a real bang or if I was dreaming. I’m awake again, but paralysed, listening to silence. It sounded like a car crash. If I’m meant to know, I’ll find out. Stay still, stay safe. Go back to sleep.

Disturbed again. This time my coughing wakes me up. I’m coughing due to acid reflux. And coughing makes me need the bathroom again. I sip some water and sit up in bed for a few minutes playing Tetris or Block Puzzle on my phone. I can settle again now that the coughing has stopped.

Insomnia, maybe it is, or maybe not. Night after night is like this. I don’t fit into any recognised category except having a sensitive bladder, a result of surgery. I’m not aware of stress or anxiety. When morning comes I’m dead to the world, in a deep sleep which probably started around four a.m.

Here’s Philip Larkin,

How to Sleep

Child in the womb,
Or saint on a tomb –
Which way shall I lie
To fall asleep?
The keen moon stares
From the back of the sky,
The clouds are all home
Like driven sheep.

Bright drops of time,
One and two chime,
I turn and lie straight
With folded hands;
Convent-child, Pope,
They chose this state,
And their minds are wiped calm
As sea-levelled sands.

So my thoughts are:
But sleep stays as far,
Till I crouch on one side
Like a foetus again –
For sleeping, like death,
Must be won without pride,
With a nod from nature,
With a lack of strain,
And a loss of stature.

           Philip Larkin, 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Claims - What Did You Do, Radio 2?

I got a bit mad recently. Not red and raging, just a niggle that exploded and set me off looking for answers Victor Meldrew style.

It started off with Radio 2’s Pick of the Pops on Saturday afternoons. It fits just nicely between having lunch and watching the football – Blackpool FC on iFollow, home and away – and it is fun to guess what might be in the chosen Top Ten. I don’t claim to be a pop music buff but I grew up with a jukebox filtering through from the pub downstairs and a mum who liked her records so I was drip-fed the hits of the time. Over a few Saturdays, I grew disappointed that the ‘early hit-lists’ were from the ‘80s. I became more dismayed upon looking up pre-arranged schedules to discover only music charts from the ‘80s onwards were included. Anything after about 1985 is lost on me, unless it is something specific which attracted me. Horrified, I emailed BBC Radio 2, which claims to be the most listened to music radio station in the UK, politely asking if the chosen years were random or hand-picked and also making them aware that I am familiar with Sounds of the Seventies, Johnnie Walker and Sounds of the Sixties, Tony Blackburn, before they point me in that direction.

My email failed to warrant a reply, but, around that time someone had aired a complaint to Points of View along the same lines, and the reply from the Beeb explained that the BBC Radio 2 playlist covered forty years, from 1980. A similar announcement was made in the papers and said pre 1980 recordings would still be occasionally included, but would not be part of the main play-list. This was for everything, not just Pick of the Pops. Well, cheers, thanks for that. I switched from Radio 1 to Radio 2 for a reason, and now it seems they are one and the same. I’m not ready for Radio 3 all the time and Radio 4, though excellent, isn’t good for a morning sing in the shower.  I’m sure Zoe Ball is lovely, but I haven’t latched on to her taste in music.

I think I will have to explore Greatest Hits Radio, Absolute Radio or something similar for the bathroom radio. Wait a minute, Pick of the Pops on Saturday, 7th May, features 1969, yippee, lucky me. If anything can calm me down, the hits from '69 can.

My Haiku poem

Where is the music?
Where have all the good songs gone?
Eliminated.

Taken, just like that.
BBC Radio 2
Made the decision,

All pre ‘80s out,
Off the regular play-list.
Claims lack of int’rest.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading and if you're venturing into the outdoors, please take care, Pam x

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Who You Gonna Call? - Not a Local M.P.

Who you gonna call?  Best friend? Tradesman?  I suppose it depends on the nature of the crisis, what anger needs venting or what message needs to be passed on, but it won’t be my local MP, that’s for sure.

I miss seeing my close friend. Isolating through this pandemic has prevented us from our usual stuff of meeting up, having train-trip days out and being ladies who lunch. Our lengthy phone calls have saved my sanity as we’ve discussed our families,  put the world to rights and talked about what we might do and where we might go when we can taste freedom.

We need our friends and we need our help network of doctor, dentist, RAC or similar and tradesmen. It’s good to have the numbers of known, reliable or well-recommended people to count on in times of need.

One morning we woke up to discover the bathroom floor awash. At some time since four a.m. – the time could be pin-pointed because it was fine when one of us nipped to the loo – the bracket holding the concealed toilet cistern had broken. The cistern dropped below the ballcock, so water continued to run. The wet bathroom was nothing compared to the room below, where water streamed down the wall, dripped along the ceiling and gushed from the light-fitting. The new carpet was sodden and the wallpaper had taken on a bubble effect.  Hearing the voice of our regular plumber on the other end of the phone was bliss. Within the hour he had diagnosed the problem, fetched parts and fixed it, our hero. The Vax worked wonders on the carpet and the wall, ceiling and light were left to dry out.

Another time, we had an electrical problem. It is going back a bit to when both kids were at home. Everyone could smell something horrid in the hallway. Everyone except me – I have no sense of smell. The meter cupboard is there and was thought to be the culprit, except that everything was fine, nothing felt hot, no sign of a problem, no dead rat. The smell was described as fishy and strong. I remembered that sort of smell coming from a plug socket in one of the places I’d lived, which turned out to be a problem with the wiring and nearly caused a fire. We sent for the electrician. The problem, for indeed there was one, turned out to be wrong wiring for the electric shower. We hadn’t made the connection of the smell being apparent when the shower was in use. It needed a higher current cable. Having it replaced led to us having a modern fuse box installed. The expense was worth the peace of mind.

Sometimes, it isn’t a professional we need, it’s the comforting voice of a family member or friend, especially if there’s a bit of news worth sharing, or wanting someone else’s opinion on something. I’ve been feeling angry the last few days. I’m not alone. I have a strong dislike, even hatred for my local MP, well, perhaps that’s unfair because I don’t know the man, but I hate everything he stands for and the party he belongs to. He’s wound me up previously on a work-related matter that I can’t share – I wish I could – but this time he’s gone for broke. He should be aware of his constituency and therefore the extent of needy families in this town. I’m furious because he voted against free meals for children during school holidays.

I definitely need to call my friend. She’ll understand.

My poem, A Question to a Local Conservative MP

Perhaps I should phone you

But what would I say

Without extreme fury

Getting in the way?

 

I don’t want to be a troll

Swiping out at you.

I want to know the reasons

Behind what you do.

 

Some fam’lies in this town

Need a helping hand.

They are your constituents,

Don’t you understand?

 

Don’t you want to help the kids?

Tell me, are you blind?

I’m aware of the hardship

Made worse by your kind.

 

Take a good look at yourself.

Liking what you see?

Misguided by the Tories

Is how you look to me.

 

PMW 2020

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

  

 

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Immobilised - Rooted to the Spot

My husband was only a five minute drive away from home when something went ‘bang’, alerts flashed on the dashboard and the car slowly rolled to a halt.

I listened to the symptoms as described by my husband when he phoned, not that I could be of any help. Green Flag, aware of the disabled driver status, would be as quick as they could. This was great news to the person who was concerned about getting their usual parking space back. The car was completely immobilised and the electronic wizardry that governed the engine was beyond my junior level of basic car maintenance and my husband’s greater skills. I could imagine the ghost of my father voicing disappointment at modern cars. ‘A bonnet full of sealed units, impossible to try to mend anything, whatever happened to engineering?’

Green Flag arrived with a clever computer that suggested an automatic gear-box failure, or something else, or something else again. The computer reset the ‘alerts’, but something still flagged up. It couldn’t be by-passed or over-ridden, so the car remained immobilised and was towed off to the garage.

It turned out to be nothing major, after assessments at more than one establishment. A belt had snapped and hit one of the electronic sensors which gave a false reading of gear-box failure to the dashboard. Repairs and or replacements were carried out. It took days. My father’s ghost was probably tutting and shaking his head. It was something he could have fixed without all this electronic ‘improvements’ getting in the way of mechanics.

This unfortunate episode marked the beginning of the end of our Citroen Berlingo, after only a couple of years. It had been the perfect vehicle to travel to the Outer Hebrides twice, with our dog and all our self-catering stuff.  I found it awkward to drive and considered it to be a beast of a vehicle with a mind of its own. I was happy to see it go and be replaced with a lovely car that I feel confident with.

 

 

The other night, as I returned to the bedroom after an early hours bathroom visit, I was aware of a flash of light through the blinds. I waited for a clap of thunder, which didn’t happen, but I slowly realised that the flash had been torchlight. Someone was out on the street, probably up to no good. I was frozen to the spot, too scared to check. Monsters exist in the small hours and tiny worries become massive. I managed to climb back into bed and close my eyes to all the shadows I hadn’t noticed before. I must have fallen asleep while listening hard and training my hearing to nocturnal activities outside. Nothing came of it, except my fear.

This poem by Mark Toney sums it up perfectly,

 

Night Sweats

Startled at night, I awake,

Frozen, motionless, immobilised,
Eyes straining into the black void,
Phantoms darting about me,
Springing from every direction,
Heart racing, rapidly breathing,
Fantasy and fear running amok.


Happy New Year! Thanks for reading, Pam xx

 

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Wallpaper - Let's Keep It Dry

My impaired vision cannot cope with brightly coloured carpets or patterned wallpaper, so our house is very plain in neutral colours. The busy, lived-in look or clutter, if you like, keeps it interesting and homely. A small wall between the kitchen and the back room needed something.

 I’ve avoided putting any pictures on that particular wall since one of my cross-stitch artworks was almost ruined when the bathroom wash basin overflowed directly above. Water streamed down the wall and trickled from the light-fitting. Our daughter was the culprit, a young child at the time. We removed the plugs from every sink and basin and implemented an ‘ask if you need it’ policy which remained in place until the children had grown up. All our replaced sinks have built in plugs now. I will keep a close watch on our grandchildren.

We decided to have wallpaper, just on that small area. I liked the idea of something bright, jazzy and loud, to make a feature of it. My eyes would be fine, after all, it’s only one, very small wall. Huge, red poppies interlaced with pale green leaves on a white background looked stunning and I loved it. All visitors remarked on how nice it was and I felt very house-proud, just for that wall. No one seemed to notice that it wasn’t sticking properly just above the skirting board where I think we had been running out of paste. The enjoyment turned out to be short lived.

At the front of the house, a damp patch seemed to be getting bigger. It was between the stairs and the front door and dried out when the central heating was on but always came back. We had checked for leaks and unblocked the airbrick, but the damp area persisted. We called the guys in. It was bad news. We needed a new damp core all along the outside wall from the front door to the beginning of the kitchen extension, which was unaffected. It had to be done, so it was a sad goodbye to the lovely wallpaper but that was nothing compared to the dismantling of fitted cupboards and the walls taken back to the brickwork. It was easier for our builders to replace the downstairs loo and basin with new ones, rather than trying to salvage anything. Crumbled plaster and smashed tiles. What a mess, but soon sorted.

This is where one job leads to another. The rest of the hall and the stairs and landing had to be prepared for redecorating.  Year in and year out, we had painted the walls over the same wallpaper. It was as thick as cardboard and hard work to get off, even with a couple of steamers, but to see the various pale shades we thought were nice at the time was amusing. I don’t remember ever choosing a wishy-washy pink, but there it was and Regency Cream had quickly turned yellow. The mushroomy off-white was a mistake, magnolia would have been better.   

Eventually, everywhere was painted white on to the newly skimmed plaster and that is how it has stayed.

We papered the feature wall with another large, floral pattern, which isn’t as good as the original, but it would do. Unfortunately, we had another flood in the bathroom, nothing to do with children and nothing that could have been prevented. Once again, the only wallpapered wall is the casualty. I’m glad we have a reliable plumber. It has dried out leaving wrinkles, bubbles and a few streaky marks. For now it can stay like that. I can’t see the damage as well as everyone else can.

 

I found this poem. It reminded me of the memories we shared when we tackled the hall.

 

 

Wallpaper Torn

 

paint revealed by wallpaper torn,
layers of peeling; the
faded adorn—a story of life.

joy, of accomplishment and
new beginnings.
children born, playing,
growing up—growing old.
past scars distant
memories; misplaced, obliterated—
by time reduced to dust.

a home
buried beneath the earth,
its walls no more.
the vessel shattered, decaying
stories lost, forgotten,
the curse of mankind’s
living.

 

Shaun Meehan, Ontario 2015

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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