Goal!

Final Score: Blackpool 1 Barnsley 0

What a goal! It was worth freezing in the rain for that winning thriller that brought a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. Thank you, Jordan Brown - sorry, Barnsley.

A football match can work me up into a passionate frenzy, as those who were with me when Manchester United won the Treble can testify. I was born in Sale into a Manchester family of MUFC fans. My grandfather had known one of the Busby Babes and often spoke of the Munich air crash. Like many girls my age, I had a teenage crush on George Best. I cried when he died. I cried when England's David Beckham got sent off in the World Cup - petulant boy. I was so cross with him! I wept with joy when Ryan Giggs scored 'that' goal. Tears streamed when Sir Alex Ferguson stepped down from management. Love him or hate him, it marked the end of an era. The Fergie Years, probably an unmatchable achievement, would go down in history.

Attending Bloomfield Road, supporting my home team, I manage to keep my lady-like composure most of the time, even when I don't agree with a referee's judgement.

Away from football, personal resilience and strength has taken a hit recently and as we work our way back, plans have had to be rearranged, new goals have been set. A newly decorated lounge has given us enough confidence to continue those skills into other rooms with the aim of our house being ready to go on the market early next year. I will complete the grandchildren's Christmas jumpers by mid-November. My birthday will pass quietly. Christmas will look after itself. We will bounce back, eventually. 

Sadly, I will miss Tuesday evening's home fixture against Luton. I'll be supporting from afar and hoping for Blackpool goals. If Jerry is playing, I hope he is kind.

A poem that gives me inspiration,

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil Wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I beat in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bring the gifts that my ancestors gave

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

                             Maya Angelou

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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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

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