Babies - Polly Garter & Jelly Babies

“Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where’s their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You’re looking up at me now. I know what you’re thinking, you poor little milky creature. You’re thinking, you’re no better than you should be, Polly, and that’s good enough for me. Oh, isn’t life a terrible thing, thank God?”

From Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.

If my memory serves me right, we were in the 4th year of secondary school, modern day Year 10, reading Under Milk Wood in English, sort of acting out the play in class, which was really just reading out loud from our desks. I was delighted to be Polly Garter, though I can’t sing and I can’t do a Welsh accent. She’s feisty, flaunty, flighty and a bit naughty, the talk of the wash-house and I love her. It was hard to read aloud, willing myself not to blush at the mention of ‘breast’ while the boys made stifled sniggers and whispered comments. We were that silly age. Well, the boys were. I liked the image of Polly and her babies, though not the absent fathers. I liked the idea of a family full of children.

We get what we’re given and a big family was not on the cards for me. Now, with four grandchildren, the family might be as big as it is going to get until the next generation. I don’t intend to tempt providence here. It’s lovely, and great to have fun times when they are all here together. It can be hard work if they’re squabbling, or if someone needs to be sent out of the room, but that’s kids. They are all wonderful with their own personalities and I love having them around me. Echoes of Polly. Babies arrived close together, which put our travel plans on hold for about four years, then Covid lockdown meant cancelling the booked trip to the Channel Islands. We’ll try again, before we forget what we were doing and old age takes over.

Ah, just to mention Jelly Babies. Nasty things that made one of my children so sick, they can’t look at them even decades later. It’s not an allergy or anything serious, just eaten too many. I don’t know how many packets and they didn’t come from me. I don’t give sweets, only chocolate, and never fizzy drinks. My grandchildren take delight in telling me if they’ve had something on my banned list. Little darlings.

My poem,

The time came to dismantle the cot.
There’s no more babies, I’ve had my lot.
Infant things vanished without a trace,
A three foot single now fills the space.
A house of laughter, a home of joy
For a lovely girl and a cherished boy.
The children took over with their stuff,
Of books and toys, more than enough.
Years come and go as time flies too fast,
A quiet house, empty nest, at last.
Soon, grandchildren filled the vacant spot,
Took turns to sleep in the rebuilt cot.
Gorgeous babies, one, two, three and four,
I think that’s it now, there won’t be more.
The single divan is back in place,
But it is moveable, just in case.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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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

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Cracked - Ice

Feeling warm and comfortable in our favourite Dumfries & Galloway lodge, we looked out on to the wintry landscape that surrounded us. It was mid-morning and the temperature was slowly rising as weak sunshine was breaking through grey cloud. Earlier, at -7 degrees, we decided to stay put and have a restful day. Tomorrow’s weather sounded less severe. I had to venture outside. My birdfeeders needed filling and a breath of fresh air would be welcome, even icy air. Wrapped up, wellington boots on and bird seed to hand, I stepped outside, calling back to say that the veranda was slippy. Not that my husband was coming outside with me, too risky. Ice on the steps cracked beneath my feet. It was clear and shiny where water had dripped from the edge of the roof. I was extra careful. The car was iced over, sheltered under trees and away from any sunlight. A couple of steps and I was on the grass, feeling safe with a crisp crunch of frost beneath my feet. The bird feeders were dotted about, some on a tree, others half hidden in a well-established rhododendron. For reasons I couldn’t work out, the birds were ignoring the fat balls in preference for the seed mixture. On previous visits it had often been the other way round. I went to the tree last, minding my gloved fingers over the cracked bit of branch as I reached a little higher to the seed holder. Job done, I wandered along to the gate to see if any horses were in the meadow on the other side. They were further up, towards the hill and just a solitary pheasant nodded along. How beautiful they are, so colourful. Turning back towards the lodge, I walked round to where a narrow stream trickled towards a reed bed and warned the neighbourhood cat to leave ‘my’ birds alone. Nearby, a few robins were squabbling and hopping about, much to my amusement. Disturbed by my presence, they took flight into the pine trees. They made me smile and raised my heavy heart. Following an emergency incident at frozen water in Solihull, some children had fallen through the ice. They were rescued, but three of them later died. So sad. They were probably just playing and didn’t realise what danger they were in. Children. Christmas time. Heartbreaking.

My Haiku,

Children playing out,
Fun in the winter landscape
Until the ice cracked.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Photo is the view from the lodge.

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The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Crowds

If you’d asked me, when I was a child, who is the person least likely to want to visit a circus, my response would have been instant and unequivocal: my dad. He liked his own company, was the most intelligent, most intellectual man I ever met - and my opinion never wavered until the day he died at the age of 92. Dad was into philosophy, chess, maths, anything that required deep thought and logical thinking, certainly beyond anything I was ever capable of. 

He liked to sit at his chess computer (one of the very first), sucking on his pipe and pondering his moves. Or he could be found, pencil and notebook in hand, working out indecipherable mathematic equations. His hero was Bertrand Russell, and he would try and explain various aspects of philosophy to me, all of which went totally over my head, certainly until more recent years when I began to take an interest. 

 So yes, dad would be my last choice as companion to the travelling circus. However, I was about to learn that there’s nowt so strange as folk. I only recall one visit to the circus as a child - accompanied by my mum and two brothers - where my abiding memory was the awful smell wafting up through the floorboards, the fear in my heart as the trapeze artists swung their precarious way across the big top, and sadness at the sight of the elephants looking resigned and dejected as they plodded their way around the ring. 

Consequently, when I had children of my own I was never very keen to repeat the experience. This is where my dad came, unexpectedly, into his own. ‘I LOVE circuses!’ he declared as I discussed the subject with my mum, who was usually game for anything involving her grandchildren. Mum and I swung round in shock. ‘You?! Circuses?!’ I asked in amazement. ‘Love them,’ replied dad with a big grin. And so it was that dad became unofficial Grandchildren’s Entertainment Monitor for special events. Parks and beaches didn’t interest him but show him a circus, a corny comedian or a fairground and he was in. He was packed off with most of the eight grandchildren, who came back with hilarious tales of granddad being singled out by clowns, animal tamers and even the ringmaster on one notorious occasion. Granddad, himself, returned glowing (once with badly applied clown makeup, which had gone down a treat on the tube), and excitedly discussing his next planned event. 

 I found it strange that my clever, often very serious, dad loved the madness of a fairground ride or the colourful world of the circus. Maybe it was due to the fact that, as far as I know, these things didn’t form part of his childhood. They were certainly a huge contrast to his working life as an optical engineer and self employed optician. Whatever the cause, it was good to see his transformation on these occasions. 

 A couple of years ago the circus came to Blackpool and I took the grandchildren. I thought they would be mesmerised. I probably built it up too much. I soon realised that the main attractions were the hugely overpriced bags of candy floss, the flashing lights on sticks and the toilets which were outside and across a field. Thankfully, the days of the sad elephants were long gone, as were the giant cats that I remembered seeing cowering on plinths, under threat of a long whip. In their place, strangely incongruous, roaring motorbikes criss-crossing the ring, narrowly missing the dancing girls - and each other. All accompanied by flashing lights. 

Amalie, looking quite stunned by the motorbikes at the circus

Maybe the grandchildren are used to more sophisticated entertainment these days, or maybe the circus wasn’t a patch on Blackpool Illuminations and the Pleasure Beach, but despite that, I think we all had a good time. We made a lasting memory, even if it was only the excitement of the outside toilets....

When I was a child I used to love Children’s Favourites on the wireless on a Saturday morning. I once sent in a request but it didn’t get played. However, the Nellie the Elephant song, below, could be heard most weeks. It had a sadness about it that I recognised, even at that young age.   Years later, partly because it was so easy to remember, it became part of my repertoire of songs to inflict on the grandchildren. *

 Nellie the Elephant 

 

Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk 

And said goodbye to the circus 

Off she went with a trumpety trump 

Trump, trump, trump 

Nellie the elephant packed her trunk 

And trundled off to the jungle 

Off she went with a trumpety trump 

Trump, trump, trump 

The head of the herd was calling far, far away 

They met one night in silver light on the road to Mandalay. 

*thinks maybe this is why they weren’t that impressed by the circus…. 

 Thanks for reading….. Jill

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Don't Let The Balloon Burst

Believe me, you don’t know the meaning of the word 'stress' unless you have taken a buggy, a large suitcase, a backpack, a handbag, a carrier bag full of snacks and games, a comfort blanket and three children under four on a two hundred and fifty mile train journey (with, not one, but two changes). If you haven’t wiped noses, hands and bums at least thirty times on that journey (and this before the advent of convenient baby wipes), picked up off the floor, crayons, half eaten sandwiches, squashed grapes and the sausage roll that nobody wanted; taken those desperate children several times to the fascinating (smelly) toilet, so that they can tell you they ‘don’t need to go now,’ as you sit wearily upon the lav, and watch in slow motion as they fight over pressing the button that quietly opens the door to reveal you in all your glory to the suited and booted businessman waiting in the corridor.  No, unless you have done that journey, under those conditions, please don’t tell me you know what stress is. 

Alternatively, if you have no children and are feeling pretty smug about it, then ponder for a moment on technology.  Just last week, as I was attempting to upload a couple of hundred images to my Mac, it first flooded  the screen with yellow triangles, warning about misdemeanours I’d committed and mishaps that would befall me (none of which I fully understood and some of which were downright baffling), and then, very dramatically, froze before displaying a language consisting entirely of question marks. After a few moments of puzzled frowning, and muttered expletives, I tried to restart the machine. The screen went black and despite several attempts to coax it back into life, it refused to do anything but remain defiantly dark. I knew this day was coming. I’d been chancing my luck for the last few months, overcoming problems on a wing and a prayer. Things weren’t looking good. The next few days were filled with the kind of stress that comes with panic.  I was desperate not to lose images and documents and programs and apps.  When I got a (very short) window of opportunity before it all crashed again, I frantically moved everything possible onto the External Hard Drive.  I won’t go into the details, mainly because I can't remember them, but suffice to say, I had three full days of stress and anxiety over that Mac.  By some miracle, I managed to pull it all back, but by that time I was not only stressed to the point of feeling ill, but also exhausted through hours of trial and error. 

A Novel Screen?

There was only one thing more stressful than dealing with my own technological problems, and that was sorting out my 92 year old dad’s.  He did so well to even get on the computer at his age, not to mention sorting bank transfers, writing essays and emailing friends, but if anything went wrong he was flummoxed.  As he lived over two hundred miles away and didn’t know his archive from his El Capitan it was an afternoon’s job, requiring supreme patience.  There were times when my stress levels were through the roof, as I saw time ticking away and heard my dad saying for the third time, ‘but which one is the address bar?’ or ‘how do I move onto the next line?’ And once, woefully, ‘but now the screen’s gone sideways!’  I always kept my patience and didn’t let him know I was stressed but it was an effort - and my poor husband got the brunt of it once I came off the phone after a couple of hours.

I’ve always been a pretty stressy person. I’d love not to, but I worry about almost everything.  I’m convinced there’s some sort of cavity in my head that is there exclusively for problems. No sooner do I get rid of one worry than another takes its place. That Problem Cavity must always have to be filled, and believe me, that’s one problem I don’t have - filling it. I’d love to be one of those laid back people like my husband, who floats along, batting away worries like annoying bluebottles. I’ve decided that I now take on his worries as well as my own. I’ve also realised, as time’s gone on and the family has grown to include children, grandchildren, great nephews and nieces, that the bigger the family, the more stressed I become.  I love my family dearly, and we’re all extremely close but there are more and more people to worry about.  I put it down to a vivid imagination.  Somebody only has to be five minutes late and I’ve got them kidnapped by a knife wielding maniac, under a bus or down a ravine, and I’m ordering wreaths for their funeral. 

That’s extreme, and I’m happy to say that these days I do try my best to keep my stress levels under control.  When I was really ill with depression and anxiety several years ago, I visited an amazing psychiatrist, who, I would say, saved my life.  One thing that  sticks in my mind, is the balloon analogy, and although it didn’t work instantly, it’s something I always think about if things start getting too much. 

There comes a point in all our lives when we need to let some air out of our balloons.

Here's my poem:

Don't Let the Balloon Burst

He looks at me over half moon specs

Fleetingly, I think 

he looks like a caricature of what he is

A psychiatrist 

Kind eyes, no real humour

but then none here either

‘Your head is like a balloon,’ he says 

in that calm, quiet voice 

I would laugh in other circumstances 

‘The air going in,’ he continues

‘is the stress’ 

I don’t have the energy to nod 

‘If you don’t let some out…’

I stare at a mole on his face

waiting to hear what could happen

‘The balloon will burst.’ 

I nod

I don’t want my balloon to burst

‘No more air in - let some out,’ he whispers

I drive home, my balloon still full

Imagining the bang.

Thanks for reading, Jill

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Northern Man - The Best

photo of my maternal grandparents

My first thoughts on Northern Man were of my grandfathers and my father. Northern, Manchester born and bred, all passed on now. My paternal grandfather was in the army during WW1. He was just old enough to get called up and went to France or Belgium in the summer of 1918. He married in 1922 and raised his family in Rusholme, which I used to joke to my dad, made him an original Rusholme Ruffian. The family moved to Wythenshawe when the new estate was built c.1930, then to Northenden, which is the first house I remember. Giant daisies lined the garden path. I’d like some in my garden and one day, I’ll sort it out. His wife, my Nanna Hetty, was the gardener, though Grandad looked after the cutting of the grass. I didn’t know him very well, which might sound sad, but he wasn’t the sort of grandfather, or father for that matter, who endeared himself to children and grandchildren. Anything to do with children was his wife’s department. After he was widowed, he moved in with us. He helped out in the pub and kept himself to himself. It turned out to be a short term arrangement. He moved into a flat, with a lady. He is laid to rest with Hetty and their daughter, Peggy in Manchester’s Southern Cemetery, amongst the great and the good.

Laurence Stephen Lowry, a northern man, described himself as a ‘simple man’, not uneducated but meaning that he was ordinary, unremarkable. Well, that’s a matter of opinion. I’ve studied him and his work and find him extraordinary and a unique artist.

“I am not an artist. I am a man who paints.” He said.

The first time I saw his work I wept, full of emotion for this special man and his art. It was such an overwhelming experience. His paintings were on display in Salford University and I sobbed my way through the galleries a couple of years after his death. I’m probably the only person to cry at Brian & Michael’s song, ‘Matchstalk Men & Matchstalk Cats & Dogs’. It gets me right in the heart. The Lowry Theatre and Gallery complex in Salford is a fabulous monument to him.

Alan Bennett, oh my word, no, his words, all of them. He renders me speechless. I can read his work over and over, finding something new each time, then I want to snap all my pencils because he is genius and I have no place writing anything except a shopping list. The truth of The Lady in the Van is emotional and very much a stand-alone work, a masterpiece.  A quote from Untold Stories regarding his mother’s concern about Miss Shepherd taking up residence in her van on his driveway,

“I was a reluctant (and, of course, unpaid) landlord but what worried my mother on one of her rare visits to London was what the neighbours would think.

‘This isn’t Leeds,’ I told her. ‘They won’t think anything at all.’”

In Talking Heads he has been unafraid to tackle uncomfortable and taboo subjects. Food for thought, or if it’s too difficult, don’t read it and don’t watch the TV version. Sarah Lancashire played 'Gwen', a mother feeling attracted to her fifteen year old son, beyond motherhood. Alan Bennett takes us on a journey through her thoughts and emotions, edging towards sexual in feelings, but not stepping out of line. Exceptional from a very much alive Northern man.

My maternal grandfather was the direct opposite of my paternal one. When I was a child we played, we laughed, we got told off for being rowdy and too loud, and I don’t think we cared. He taught me Tiddlywinks and Snakes & Ladders. We played hide and seek in his pub, we moved furniture, anything. Times with him and my maternal grandmother were fun. Sometimes, he liked to be quiet and read a book for a little while. He’d been affected by WW1, though this didn’t become apparent until much later in his life. My aunt told me a story about him having a child, the result of a dalliance during his marriage. True or not, I’ll never know and it wouldn’t change anything. I loved my grandad. He cried his heart out at my mother’s funeral and now they share a grave.

Northern man, northern men, gritty like the women. The best.

My poem,

A Northern man, my grandad,
Reliable and always there.
I’m told he had his ‘moments’
But I loved him and didn’t care.
Nowt for me to fret about,
A serious ‘moment’ he had
Though he stayed put with my nan
And never set eyes on the lad.

I’d wear his precious Trilby
And put clips in his Brylcreemed hair.
My childhood, fun and laughter,
And a Jaffa orange to share.
Then the loss of his daughter,
Grandad’s heart broke when my mum died.
I sat with my Northern man,
To comfort him as we both cried.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe. Pam x

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My Fantasy Dinner Party Guests - A Good Time To Be Had By All

It would be wonderful to have friends and family round. A gathering in the garden on a warm afternoon, children running riot, adults laughing, sharing jokes, happy and relaxed with drinks flowing, buffet table groaning under the weight and ice-lollies in the freezer. I wonder if we’ll ever have times like that again. When my spirits dip and I’m feeling low I’m inclined to think that’s it, we’ve had it, life will never be the same. Scotland is a border we’ll never cross again. When my spirits lift and thoughts are positive, I imagine a garden party close to my husband’s birthday in June. Covid will be contained enough for us to enjoy freedom. I feel privileged to have had my first vaccination, a joy of being a frontline keyworker. I’m thankful for each day seeing us healthy.

In the absence of any social gatherings, tea dances or drinks on the lawn, let’s have some fun and pretend.

The setting for my dinner party is important. It would not be here at my house, I think we’d need more space, and I am not cooking. Forty years ago I was a lunch guest at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. The dining room was breathtakingly splendid. Shell pink table linen with a fresh, single rose the exact same colour on every perfectly set table and attentive staff seeing to every need, well nearly. I lost my way looking for the Ladies room and ended up in the hotel hair salon, where they allowed me to use theirs then someone kindly took me back to the dining room. Background music, if it is fine to call it that, came from Michel Legrand playing the piano more softly than he normally would. I think he was running through his score in preparation for the evening, not there for us, but it was very welcome. I was very impressed with the Waldorf Astoria. Being there was the highlight of my stay in New York and I nearly chose to host my fantasy dinner party in the same dining room, but it missed out to The Selkirk Arms in Kirkcudbright.

Well, you know me and Scotland, so how could I not choose such a place? The dining room is the right size for my gathering, I love it and I believe it was frequented by my guest, Robert Burns. Perhaps he’ll tell me if he wrote The Selkirk Grace here, and, if he’s in good humour, he might entertain us after dinner with songs and poems.

I couldn’t have a dinner party without inviting Robert Peston. If you know me, no explanation is necessary. Anyway, he’ll be sitting next to me, where I can pick his brains. My husband will be on my other side and next to him will be Becky Barr. He’ll be delighted.

Girl power from strong minded, northern women, Barbara Castle, Emmeline Pankhurst and my great-grandmother Mary who died when I was four, but I really want to talk to her and find out how she coped.

I have to invite Alan Bennett, how I love his work, what a wordsmith. I have a hardback copy of Untold Stories, a birthday gift years ago. When it comes to wordsmiths, John Cooper Clarke is up there with the best. I’ve just finished reading I Wanna Be Yours. The genius Victoria Wood, a hardworking perfectionist who gave us so much and had more to give, I’m sure, but her life was cut short.

Someone else who’s life was cut short, my mum. Please come to my dinner party, we need to catch up, but do not tell me off in front of my friends.

We’ll need some music, besides Rabbie giving us a song, so I invite John Lodge, his wife and the other Moody Blues band members. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Have dinner first, of course. And everybody, mingle.

I was really looking forward to this dinner party. What a shame it’s pure fantasy, but imagine the mix of characters and what a memorable night it would be. When I was looking for a poem, I wanted something light-hearted and amusing and found it with Pam Ayres, and she's using a couple of words not normally associated with her. Go girl!  This is exactly what would happen if I tried to organise a dinner party at home.

The Dinner Party

It seemed like such a good idea, a flash of inspiration,
To hold a dinner party! Yes, out went the invitations,
A proper dinner party too, traditional and smart,
With all my oldest, dearest friends, the darlings of my heart.

We’d clear the dining table of each dog-eared magazine,
We’d dust around the skirting board, the place would be pristine,
We’d pick up all the clutter, drive the hoover round the floor,
And see again our carpet after eighteen months or more.

I’d plan a lovely menu, seven courses at the least,
An absolute abundance, an ambrosia, a feast!
With table linen matching and the candles burning bright,
What a celebration! What a banquet! What a night!

Yeah. Well.

That was then and this now, and one thing’s very clear,
I can’t imagine why I thought this was a good idea,
Today’s the day, tonight’s the night, they’ll be here in an hour,
I’m absolutely shattered and I haven’t had a shower.

I haven’t chilled the wine or put the nibbles in a bowl,
I found my silver cutlery, it’s all as black as coal,
I haven’t found the candles, we are making do with these,
One’s a stump and one is bent at forty-five degrees.

I haven’t folded napkins in sophisticated shapes,
Or beautified a plate of cheese with celery and grapes,
I haven’t spent the morning on a floral centrepiece,
And I’m skidding round the kitchen floor on half an inch of grease.

My husband’s disappeared, I don’t know where he’s hiding now,
He hasn’t helped at all, we’ve had a monumental row,
I don’t know where the day is gone, and I am filled with dread,
Forget the conversation, I just want to go to bed.

The guests I thought were witty, their attractiveness has palled,
The men, once so enticing, now they’re boring and they’re bald,
The women are all shadows of their former vibrant selves,
They’re all in sizes twenty-four, they used to be in twelves.

I stupidly asked George, I used to think him quite a card,
Not meaning to be spiteful, now he’s just a tub of lard,
He’ll bring his lovely wife, she’ll tell you all about her back,
One’s morbidly obese and one’s a hypochondriac.

I haven’t found the coffee cups, we’ll have to have the mugs,
The crumble’s looking soggy and the kale was full of slugs,
The meat is a disaster, undercooked and full of blood,
The dog’s pooed on the carpet and I haven’t done the spuds.

I thought I’d like to do this, but I don’t know where to start,
I thought I’d like to see them, but I’ve had a change of heart,
Their old recycled stories and voracious appetites,
Forget the darlings of my heart, they’re all a bunch of shites.

I meant to be the glam hostess but kiss goodbye to that,
I haven’t changed my frock, I smell attractively of fat,
I’ve done my best, it’s all gone west, I’ve ruined all the grub,
Too late. Here come the bastards now. Let’s all go down the pub.

                                                                                 Pam Ayres

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, 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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The Family

I was born in 1952, 21 months after my brother, and not long after the end of WW2, although I don’t think that registered till I was at least in my teens, probably later, knowing my poor grasp of historical facts. I’ve learnt since that rationing remained for certain items but I don’t remember it  - why would I? There was always food on the table, and if we didn’t have bananas or oranges one week I certainly didn’t notice. I do remember sugar bring sprinkled liberally on cereal - and even on fresh fruit and in sandwiches so that was obviously one item that had returned to the shelves. Sadly for my brothers and me, as it turned out: we had years of return visits to the school dentist, and numerous fillings and extractions. 

In my parents’ defence they had gone without luxuries, and even basics, for so long that I’m guessing they thought sugar was a treat. After all, this was the generation that was daily subjected to advertisements and billboards encouraging smoking to cure all manner of ills.

For the first ten or eleven months of my life we lived in a couple of rooms in my grandparents house, which was a common arrangement in those days. Money was scarce, as it was for many people after the war, my dad was a student, working part time, and, of course, my mum had to leave her job as soon as she married.

By the time I started school, aged four, our family had surpassed the average number of 2.4 children.  The birth of my brother a few weeks previously had put paid to anything average. Whereas my elder brother and I had been planned and welcomed I believe my younger brother came as a bit of a shock, albeit, as it turned out, a happy one. I still remember being called to see him in his cot the morning after the home birth, standing on tiptoe and leaning in to kiss him.  This was possibly the best present a nearly four year old could have - a real life, living, breathing doll.  I’m not saying our childhoods were all smooth sailing, we had the usual arguments and fights, and John still reminds me that I used to tell him he was adopted, which was certainly a bit strange, considering I’d been to at least one ante natal visit with my mum, the abiding memory being not the sight of her rounded belly but my shock at the flesh coloured suspenders hanging from a huge corset.  We children might have bickered and argued but if any other child dared to cross one of us we were in there defending each other like wild tigers.  I once embarrassed my younger brother by coming across him, mid argument with a group of kids and wading in feet first to back him up, despite the fact I had no idea what the row was about. 

I’ve seen this, too, in my own children.  My daughter once practically leapt over the bar of the pub she was working in when someone threatened her younger brother.  She soon saw the aggressor out of the door.  I do love this loyalty within families.  I can moan all I want about the husband or kids but woe betide anyone else who criticises them.  This is the strength of family: not just the love that binds us, but the shared experiences and the loyalty we have for each other.

I learnt to read with Janet and John, who had the perfect family: Mummy, daddy and not quite two point four children.  Daddy had an important job (I can’t remember now what it was) and mummy, of course, was ‘just a housewife.’ Janet stayed with mummy and baked cakes, and John went out with Daddy and did exciting things like flying toy aeroplanes and riding his bike.  I didn’t think there was anything odd about this when I was four.  It was pretty similar to our own family lifestyle, although it didn’t take long for my quiet, shy mother to start coming out of her shell and insisting boys and girls were treated equally, at least in our house.  I realised, years later, that this was pretty revolutionary in the fifties.  But then my mum was - and still is - quite a force to be reckoned with. When my brother was in sixth form at a pretty prestigious school in the early seventies he was warned that if he didn’t have his shoulder length hair cut he would be expelled.  My mum took herself straight up to the school and put her son’s case to the headmaster.  I think her main argument was that the length of his hair had no impact on his ability to learn. The head stuck to his guns, there was probably a bit of a stand off, and my brother got expelled. I’ve always admired my mum for taking a stand and backing my brother.  Personally, I still think it’s a ridiculous rule and the argument continues within schools to this day.  Incidentally, John went on to do great things, kept his long hair for a while and then chopped it off.  I don’t think anybody in our family likes being told what to do when there’s a good argument against it. And we do all love a good argument.

My dad had been brought up in a patriarchal household.  His dad, my granddad, like most men of his generation - born in the late 1800s, was at the head, and his wife and three children did as he said. Except my dad didn’t. He was extremely naughty by all accounts, not only constantly teasing his sister and making her cry but also getting into fights and scrapes with other boys. As a child I loved to hear these tales but, as an adult, I had huge sympathy for his parents, who despaired at his behaviour.  My Gran spent more time up at the school than she did in the kitchen, and that was saying something.  From what I’ve heard, my granddad sat with a cane, if not in his hand, at least by his side, most of the time, which seems totally alien these days. With the benefit of hindsight I’m guessing that my dad managed to alienate both teachers and children by being extremely clever but also extremely annoying. He once got a report from school stating, ‘must try harder.’  He had achieved 100% in the subject, so it wasn’t surprising that the comment left him rather puzzled.  

My mum’s family was quite different. My grandma was a fierce matriarch and my granddad, although smarter, would do anything for a quiet life, which generally meant agreeing with his wife. He was the calming influence. My mum had two brothers, one two years older and one nine years younger - another surprise, apparently. My grandma, was, unintentionally, quite ahead of the times. She would take herself off to visit her spinster sisters in Yarmouth - sometimes with her youngest son - for weeks at a time, leaving the rest of the family to fend for themselves. This was certainly unusual in those days and I think my mum made the decision that when she married, she and her husband would be equals and her children, whatever their gender, would also be treated equally.  It might have taken her a few weeks to convince my dad, but knowing my mum, she didn’t give up, and we siblings grew up in the knowledge that Geoff and John were just as likely to be seen wielding an iron or a saucepan as I would be changing a wheel on a bike or some amateur DIY.  I’m glad that we got those opportunities, especially as schools at that time were strictly segregated by gender.  No woodwork or metalwork for me, and no domestic science for my brothers. 

Not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am to have been born into this family.  The morning after my dad died we gathered from all across the country, not just family but partners and spouses.  We spent the day hugging, crying, chatting and laughing, and I’m sure the love and strength that we shared between us got us all through that day - and the next when we did it all again.  This joint, unplanned act was somehow primal.  Like animals we converged at the family home to surround the person who overnight had become the oldest, weakest, most vulnerable member, my mum, suddenly a widow.  

THIS. 

THIS is the strength of the family.

How to Make a Family* by Jill Reidy

Take two people, 

Any colour, any gender

Stir together gently

Till they blend 

Check for sense of humour 

Add more if necessary

(This part is very important)

Whisk in as much love as you can find

Fold in kindness

Sensitivity

And respect

Check again

Remove any meanness 

And replace with generosity

Add babies and pets if required

(But not essential)

The mixture will expand 

Watch quietly 

As it grows

Do not stir or whisk

It will now begin to gain its own momentum

Your result should look like nobody else’s

Don’t compare

It’s unique

You have made a family 

* Level of difficulty - beginner (if instructions are followed)

Thanks for reading, 

Jill

  

  

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Dusk - Wales at Sun-down

We enjoyed fabulous family holidays in Pembrokeshire when the children were small. I’ve mentioned before that we were fortunate to have the use of a static caravan on a private site near Saundersfoot, thanks to the generosity of family members. Every August we loaded up the car, secured luggage on the roof rack, and set off on the lengthy journey. It took most of the day. We aimed for a picnic lunch at Bala, a break at Aberaeron, then onward in time to catch the Co-op at Narberth for some groceries. If we missed it, there was the Spar shop in Saundersfoot where we could buy essentials, but first it would be a chippy tea either in the café or on the harbour. It was a bit quicker on the motorway, but it took us miles away and where’s the fun in that? There’s a ‘harem scarem’ road through the southern parts of Snowdonia with a sheer drop down one side and warnings of falling rock that we wouldn’t want to miss for the world. It would be dusk by the time we arrived, more often than not.  It was lovely to unpack and settle in, listen to the sounds of the sea and look forward to the days ahead. The children, excited as they were, couldn’t wait to sleep in the narrow beds in their tiny caravan bedroom.

Safe beaches, clear water to paddle in and lots of time to play. Folly Farm, the Dinosaur Park and all the castles we could find.  Every day was an adventure and it was good to re-visit favourite places, especially some literary interest.  Laugharne, on the River Taf estuary in Carmarthenshire is the home and resting place of Dylan Thomas. I could imagine him looking out from the windows of the Boat House, watching the night tide slowly fill the river and seeing beyond the castle to the flicker of faint lights in the houses of the town as the darkness came. Under Milk Wood. I can hear his voice. Well, Richard Burton then, but it’s Dylan’s rich vocabulary.

 After a busy, fun-filled day it was perfect to relax with an ‘after tea’ ice-cream on Saundersfoot harbour as the sun disappeared into the hills behind us. With the heat of the day gone and the air feeling fresh it was comfortable to wander around the seafront, or go on the beach and dip our toes at the water’s edge. We might walk along to the far end of the harbour where the local fishermen were casting their lines over the height of the sea wall hoping for a plentiful evening catch.

Quiet evenings, relaxing on the patio, watching the birds fly home, looking for the bats that live in the woods and planning the day ahead, then contented sleeping children.

 

Photos from my own collection.

 

I love the humour in Under Milk Wood.

 

Rev. Eli Jenkins  -  Sun-down

 

Every morning when I wake,

Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,

O please to keep Thy lovely eye

On all poor creatures born to die.

 

And every evening at sun-down

I ask a blessing on the town,

For whether we last the night or no

I’m sure is always touch and go.

 

We are not wholly bad or good

Who live our lives under Milk Wood,

And Thou, I know, wilt be the first

To see our best side, not our worst.

 

O let us see another day!

Bless us this holy night, I pray,

And to the sun we all will bow

And say goodbye – but just for now!

 

Dylan Thomas, from Under Milk Wood

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Trees - Bats and a Red Dragon

When the children were young we spent summer holidays in Pembrokeshire. We were fortunate to have the use of a static caravan owned by family. It was situated on a spacious site by the coast, surrounded by woodland. My husband warned our children to keep away from ‘the forest’ because a bright red dragon lived there. It was very fierce and snorted flames through huge nostrils. It was also very good at sniffing out children who were still awake after a certain time, apparently. The children weren’t quite sure about a dragon hiding in our trees, though they had seen plenty of Red Dragon themed items in the shops and didn’t doubt their existence. One day we were driving through the woods along the winding lane that took us to the main road when we saw a goat tethered to a tree.

“Oh look, there’s the dragon’s dinner!”  Said Dad to two horrified children.

Well, that was a step too far, especially when we returned later to find the goat no longer there.

When our children were a little older, they liked to be ‘scared’ by my husband stopping the car at night on the darkest stretch of the lane and turning the headlights off. No one wanted to be first to say ‘let’s go’ and get ridiculed by the others. It was usually me suggesting an end to silly games as it was nearly bed time. Nothing to do with fear, certainly not.

We never saw a real dragon but we did see the bats that lived in the trees. They flew around at dusk and we would watch them from the caravan veranda as we relaxed when the children were asleep after a fun-filled day.

Our children are now parents themselves. They still refer to the woodland near the caravan as the forest. If they ever visit with their little ones, I’m sure our legend of the Red Dragon will live on.
 

I was searching for a suitable poem about trees to add to my blog when vanity got the better of me and I looked no further than ‘The Tree in Pamela’s Garden’. Well, it had to be, didn’t it?

What I wasn’t expecting was eight pages of ‘A Literary Analysis’ about the fairly short poem.  The scrutiny kept me engrossed for a while, fascinated and amused with a bit of disbelief and lots of ‘What are they on about?’ or ‘What are they on?’ Either I’ve been away from education for too long, or I haven’t studied American poetry and poets enough.

 

 

The Tree in Pamela’s Garden

Pamela was too gentle to deceive
Her roses. “Let the men stay where they are,”
She said, “and if Apollo’s avatar
Be one of them, I shall not have to grieve.”
And so she made all Tilbury Town believe
She sighed a little more for the North Star
Than over men, and only in so far
As she was in a garden was like Eve.

Her neighbors—doing all that neighbors can
To make romance of reticence meanwhile—
Seeing that she had never loved a man,
Wished Pamela had a cat, or a small bird,
And only would have wondered at her smile
Could they have seen that she had overheard.

 

Edwin Arlington Robinson    1869 – 1935 Maine USA

If I had a proper tree in my garden, there would be also be a bench, like the picture. Not my photo, just looks appealing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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A Pair of Idiots Abroad

When our children were small and we had very little spare money we used to pack the rusty old Sierra to the roof, squash the children in the back like sardines, between coolboxes, sleeping bags and frying pans, and set off for the long drive to the French Vendee. 

Sadly, this was never the pleasant, exciting journey I'd envisaged (the husband was always the realist, not to say pessimist).   As we set off in the middle of the night from Onslow Road and onto St Walburgas the arguments would begin.  These could be between any combination of passengers and driver, although mainly between three tired, over excited children or two exhausted, stressed adults. 

There were the usual, 'Are we nearly there yet?', 'What's to eat?' and, 'He/she is annoying/touching/speaking to me.'  These from the back, where Laurey always got to sit with her legs crushed by the coolbox and Dan was squashed in the middle with his knees up to his chin due to the hump in the floor.  Joe, meanwhile would be flicking Dan's ear or something equally annoying. In the front there would be the hissed disagreements about directions (the handy Satnav was yet to be invented, although, when it was, the husband, of course, knew better); or one of us, usually the husband, would explode about the kids' behaviour and the other (usually me) would surreptitiously slide a hand around behind the seat to find a leg to quietly grab or slap (difficult with the coolbox and the hump and the frying pan, despite plenty of practice), whilst calmly muttering, 'They're only kids, they're excited...'

Most years we were the idiots abroad and sadly have plenty of evidence to back that up.  One year we were the idiots before we'd even got out of Blackpool, although we didn't know it until we returned two weeks later.  A neighbour told us, with great pleasure, that we'd driven off and left the front door wide open.  Of course, the husband blamed me and I blamed him, but the truth was our brains had been frazzled by the planning, the packing and the children. 

As idiots abroad, we were the best.  Although I'd done A level French and my mastery of the language wasn't bad I resented being the only one out of at least nine of us (we went with another family, sometimes two) to do all the talking - all the asking about directions, the ordering of food, the bartering in markets, the buying of goods) and eventually persuaded the husband to at least have a go. 

I soon realised this was a big mistake. 

His first job was to get the bread. With dismay I heard him asking confidently in French (with a broad Accrington accent) for a dozen large baguettes. I leapt across the shop and quickly amended the order to the two that we needed. 

Then there was the petrol station where he greeted the attendant with a 'merci' and drove off with a 'bonjour' as I slid down in my seat and stared fixedly in the opposite direction. 

But by far the most idiotic and dangerous thing we were both responsible for was the day that we adults were so exhausted we allowed five children, aged from five to ten, to go off fishing. On their own. Unbelievable in this day and age. Anyway, off they went on their bikes, with a couple of fishing rods between them, while we settled down outside the tent, with a few luke warm bottles of beer (camping fridges were in their infancy and more likely to heat things up than keep them cool).  In due course, miraculously, all five children returned, albeit wet and rather subdued. There was not a fishing rod in sight and Joe, the eldest, was pushing his bike, rather than riding it. Laurey disappeared into the tent and lay on the bed, telling us in passing that she didn't feel too well.  

The Motley Crew

The adults, after rather half heartedly asking the children if they'd had a good time (there were subdued nods) carried on laughing, chatting and drinking the warm beer. 

Reading this now, it seems the whole arrangement was the height of irresponsibility. In our defence, thirty years ago, kids were given a lot more freedom than they would be today, but even by those standards we had acted like idiots. 

The full story didn't emerge till years later.  Apparently, all had started well. The little convoy had wound its way to the beach, Joe as the eldest, leading the way, Ben, the youngest bringing up the rear, pedalling as fast as his little legs would take him.  Then, at a bend in the dirt track, Joe's fishing rod which had been balanced precariously on his handlebars, somehow became entangled in the spokes of his front wheel and he was catapulted head first onto the ground, simultaneously grazing his face and knees and giving his wheel a nasty twist. 

Despite being somewhat shell shocked the little group gathered round the injured party, made sure he was still alive and carried on to the beach.  

And this was where things got seriously scary.  After a short while fishing with one shared rod between them and not a fish caught, Joe decided (probably in a show of bravado) that he would swim across the bay.  Against advice from some of the others, mainly his sister, he set off from the rocks and headed for the other side.  Halfway across he realised, with mounting panic, that it was further than he thought. Laurey, by this time, was crying hysterically, quite sure that she would be going home without one of her brothers.  Spotting a boat bobbing about a little way out, she managed to get the fisherman's attention and waved wildly towards Joe, who was still ploughing through the water in growing desperation.  

Of course there was happy ending. Joe was rescued, he managed to ride his bike in a somewhat wobbly fashion most of the way back to the campsite, followed by the motley crew, and if I remember rightly a rather drunken barbecue ensued. Laurey eventually emerged from the tent, still looking pale, and assured us she would feel better in the morning. 

I'd like to tell you that the holiday ran smoothly from then on, but two of the bikes were stolen the following day - by another idiot abroad.  But that's another story....

No time for a poem this week unless I add one tomorrow.

Thanks for reading     Jill

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