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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Poetry Magazines, Past and Present

Poetry magazines. I've subscribed to a few over the years and I've always been a sucker for any I found in charity shops. Then, one day, somebody passed a pile on to me when they were having a clear out. Result: I seem to have acquired a small collection. It was never a deliberate intention. It just happened.

Some are recent. A lot, though, date from the heyday of kitchen-table poetry magazine publishing. Some have a professional, almost mainstream look about them. Others have a more home-brewed appearance. Some, looking at them now, aren't exactly magazines, but pamphlets devoted to one poet. A few stand out. New Directions 36 features work by Allen Ginsberg and Octavio Paz. Then there's Ambit 75, from 1978. The cover (below) is a reproduction of a letter from J.G. Ballard to Ambit editor Martin Bax, regarding a Ballard short story that appears in the magazine and the possibility of illustrating it. The same magazine includes a review by Fleur Adcock of Basil Bunting's Collected Poems. Another, typewriter 6, features concrete poetry that explores the limits of the typewriter. In these internet days, it's easy to forget quite how 'out there' these games people played with typography seemed at the time.

Not so long ago, I found myself in an unexpectedly warm discussion with someone about the fate of printed poetry magazines. It was partly my fault and he was quite right to point out that their waning fortunes were, largely, down to rising postage costs. I don't think that tells the whole story, though. I said to him that it was also, perhaps, down to the rise of online poetry magazines, which he disputed, claiming no-one actually read them. This got me thinking. It's an uncomfortable question, but how many people who've bought printed poetry magazines over the years – even in their heyday – actually read them from cover to cover? I suspect a lot of buyers are poets wanting to to check out a magazine prior to submission or who feel they should support a particular magazine. It would be naive to think subscribers and readers are the same thing. And even if all the subscribers to a particular magazine were avid readers, if you get a poem published in it, then like all poetry in printed books and magazines, it's going to sit there in the dark for all but a couple of minutes of a reader's life (less, if it doesn't engage them), pressed up against a similarly unread poem on the opposite page.

About six months ago, I bought a box of tall glasses. I take a new glass from it from time to time if I break one or need an extra one. They're all individually wrapped with bubble-wrap and sellotape. I unwrapped one the other day to discover it had two dead spiders in it. They must've been there since the glasses were wrapped and packed. While still alive, they'd filled the glass with a fog of spider-web. Imagine my surprise when, as I tried to clean it out, one of the 'dead' spiders came to life, scuttled across the work-top and disappeared behind a row of storage jars. Rather like a poem in a magazine, it had sat in the dark for heaven knows how long, before suddenly bursting into my world for a few moments – only to disappear back into the darkness. If it were a poem, it would be a good poem, as I'm unlikely to forget it and here I am writing about it and talking about it to anyone who'll listen. As is often the case, I think we often make too much of the difference between work found on the internet and its analogue counterpart. In both cases, what we write has one chance to grab the attention of the reader. If it fails, it suffers the fate of the unfortunate second spider. What matters is not whether it's published in an online or in a print magazine: what matters is whether it's a good poem or not.

With a print magazine, the fact that you can hold it in your hand means it speaks to you before you actually read it. The medium is the message almost as much as the poetry it contains. That it had to be designed, typed, photocopied, folded, stapled and distributed, all from the much-vaunted kitchen table, adds to its aura. And you might want to make your poetry into a beautiful, physical thing – as, say, Blake did – and I'd have no argument with you: it's great that people still do this. It's great, too, that some online magazines issue occasional hard-copy anthologies. Nevertheless, it's impossible not to notice that poetry lends itself to the internet: there's no getting away from the fact that most poetry fits very nicely on a screen. And there's no escaping the fact that internet pages – though less permanent than print – can have an aura of their own. It springs not only from the craft involved in making them (which any writer of HTML in the early days of the internet can attest to), but the fact that you never really know where it is: you can't take hold of it and, like Frankenstein's reconstructed man, it takes electricity to bring it alive.

When you get a print magazine in your hand and turn to the first poem, if it doesn't appeal to you, you'll turn the page. You bought it, after all: you want to get what you can out of it. I don't think anyone likes everything they find in any one print magazine of any kind: if you enjoy forty to sixty percent of the content, you think it was worth buying. I have a hunch, though, that people are less forgiving with online magazines. If the first couple of posts are not to their liking, a lot of people will stop scrolling down and look elsewhere. Just as with the printed equivalent, to do so, I think, is a mistake.

Of course, not everything's as good as it could be, any more than it is in the world of printed mags, but there are a lot of good online lit mags out there. It's right to mourn the passing of the golden age of the print-only version, but wrong to overlook what is perhaps a new, online golden age. There are too many to name: one has to go out there and search for oneself. I could make a list but, if you're not into online lit mags, I'd hate to deprive you of the fun of searching for them (while avoiding, if you're thinking of getting published, those that charge 'submission fees': vanity publishing is alive and well). If, like, I suspect, most people reading this, you're already into them, you'll have a mental list of your own.

I could imagine, back in the days of Gutenberg, mourning the disappearance of works like the Lindisfarne Gospels (if, that is, I'd been lucky enough to actually see and been able to read them). Similarly, today, when I hold Ambit 75 in my hand, it's impossible not to think that something great has passed from the world (Ambit, sadly, came to an end in 2023). There again, when I check out my favourite online zines, it's obvious something equally worthwhile in its own way has come into it, too.

I'll finish off with the first poem – I think – I ever got published in a printed poetry magazine, Mark Robinson's excellent (though now, sadly, defunct) Scratch back in 1995:

Ranter

Would they let him in?

He'd have to sound convincing. For a start,
he'd need a name - you know,
the sort that sounds
uncrackable, as if
he'd lived with it for years.

He'd need a reason, too.
This proved more difficult. It was not enough
to be the life and soul of the poem. They'd
see through that, they'd know
he'd almost certainly get pissed, then try
to set the universe to rights, grasping the sleeves
of exasperated punters. That's when
things always start to go wrong, he thought. In the end,
they'd have to throw him out.

"You bastards, I made you." He could hear himself slur, skidding
in a pool of his own vomit. "Where would you be
without me?" And then:

"I think we've had enough, sir."

"Bastards..." "Goodnight, sir."

Back to the street.
He'd have to think of something else.
He could make promises:
he'd keep his clothes on, only relieve himself
in the appropriate place, not puke
on the floor, keep his ideas to himself, even, though
what's the point? he thought. I'd
most likely break them, along with the glasses, and
perhaps it's not my sort of place after all.
Perhaps I just want to get out of the rain.

He might just take a bus instead.
Invent the route. Watch himself
stretched out across an empty seat
reflected in the darkness of the glass.

He might end up anywhere, might even rediscover
dragons


Dominic Rivron

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Showtime: A Filmgoer's Diary

I have no idea how The Filmgoer's Diary (D. Harper & Co. Ltd, London) for 1956 came into my collection. It is one of a copious number of objects and ephemera filed away in the studio waiting for resurrection and possible repurposing. I rediscovered this little gem sandwiched between numerous vintage Blackpool Winter Gardens and Tower Circus programmes squirreled away in one of my cupboards.

The Filmgoer's Diary - title page

It is a curious little publication no bigger than the palm of my hand that led me on a journey exploring three actresses from Lancashire, the post WWII film industry and has given insight into an ordinary nameless someone (probable immigrant) who began their life in the south of England in 1956 and by the end of that year lived and worked at a hotel in St Annes-on-the-Sea.

The exterior of the diary is nothing special. The black textured faux leather cover has the title written in faded almost non-existent gold text on the front and a tiny No 94 embossed on the back. The spine cover has gone missing in action leaving the text block exposed and vulnerable. In flipping back the cover as if opening a curtain, the endpapers highlight scenes from The Glass Slipper. The title page follows, then the 1956 and 1957 calendars, postal information and a photo of Donald Sinden and Glynis Johns.

Next is a map of London’s West-End Cinemas followed by Films I Have Seen. No film titles are written however there are a couple of interesting entries under this heading. The first is the address of United States Lines, an organisation operating cargo and passenger ships. The second is a clothing list in English with the header in another language. Considering the items listed, I am leaning towards the idea that my diary writer is a man, as I believe shirts would be blouses and socks would be stockings if it were women’s clothing. The question of gender will never be answered as the Personal Mems. page remains forever empty.

The Filmgoer's Diary - clothing list

When January begins, black and white images of film stars start jumping off the bottom righthand corner of each page. All head shots are accompanied by a short biography. Celebrities include Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis and Janet Leigh (later famous for her role in Hitchcock’s Psycho, 1960). Lancashire lasses Thora Hird, Janette Scott and Dora Bryan are also in the spotlight. As Lancashire is my home, curiosity got the better of me and I searched to find out more about these three women.

Thora Hird (1911 – 2003) was from Morecambe growing up in a performance environment. Her father was the manager of the town’s Royalty Theatre and when she became of age, joined the theatre’s company. At the time The Filmgoer’s Diary was published, she was working for the Rank Organisation as an established character actress. During her career she appeared in hundreds of plays, films, radio and television programmes working almost daily well into her 90s. She was made a dame in 1993 for services in acting, particularly for her roles in Last of the Summer Wine and Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads Monologues.

Dame Thora Hird (back row, far right) Red Rose Collection
Image credit: Lancashire Archives

Janette Scott (born 1938) is found peering out of the 5th-7th January page. She is the daughter of Thora Hird and was also born in Morecambe. Scott made her film debut in 1943 in Went the Day Well?. Later, in 1975 she was referenced in the opening song of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. She is now retired.

Dora Bryan (1923-2014) was born Dora May Broadbent in Southport and brought up in Oldham. She was 12 years old when she made her first professional appearance in Manchester. By the time her face shone underneath 16th June, she had over 30 films under her belt.

The actors and actresses highlighted in this diary were part of the Golden Age of Hollywood (mid 1930s to the early 1960s). However by 1956, the film industry was beginning to see a decline at the box office for several reasons. At the time, themes were censored by the government (although beginning to be challenged) and many creative people were blacklisted including Charlie Chaplin(actor), Orson Welles (director, actor, writer), Leonard Bernstein (composer, conductor) and poet Langston Hughes. According to Allison Perlman the blacklisting

                was implemented by the Hollywood studios to promote their patriotic
                credentials in the face of public attacks and served to shield the film
                industry from the economic harm that would result from an association
                of its product with subversives.

Television was also growing in popularity contributing to fewer cinema ticket sales. More and more people began to be intrigued and mesmerised by the smaller screen settling for a more intimate experience.

Whatever one’s entertainment of choice, back in the mid-twentieth century Joe Public during and post WWII would have been hungry for escapism. The glitz and glamour (fabricated constructs) would have given ordinary folk something to dream about, to buy into and perhaps this is why the unknown writer of my diary chose to keep this particular publication close, whilst also keeping one organised.

Going back to examining the diary itself and trying to make sense of someone’s seemingly ordinary life I notice the first entry on 1st January is written in a language I can’t work out. Other entries in the diary are also written in this language mixed in with entries in English. It is likely English is not the writer’s first language.

The Filmgoer's Diary - 1st and 2nd January, 1956

On 2nd and 9th January Days Off is clearly written in English. This person was employed until 12th January when Look for another work is clearly written. The diary owner then travelled between 16th and 20th January to Southam Hotel, 12 Leam Terrace (Leamington Spa), then to Birmingham and finally on to Stratford-Upon-Avon. Was this travel a quest to look for work? 30th January has evidence of success in securing employment as he/she writes Staff Party Old Red Lion.

On Thursday 2nd February all that is entered is Big Frost. The weather clearly had made a big impression. I Googled this date discovering February was particularly cold that year in England and Wales with the average temperature for the month just below freezing.

Not much to note until April when the address of the Finance Officer of the Home Office in London appears, followed by entries in the unidentifiable language and an address for a hotel in Stratford-Upon-Avon. 6th and 7th May is a mystery, the Canadian Emigration – for £10 and Details: Ellis Travel Agency, 44 Cannon Street, Birmingham. No activity for the next two months. Then in July, 1st to the 5th is blocked off as Holiday. 6th July finds three words Come to Blackpool with Cleo Moore’s pensive visage sporting this page.

The Filmgoer's Diary - 6th to 8th May, 1956

The next few pages list two addresses, 76 Warley Road Blackpool, N. and one for the Blackpool Ministry of Labour placed above Kim Novak, then several entries in the language that I do hope someone can eventually identify. On Thursday 19th July employment is finally secured as evidenced in the statement I had start work at night in Glendower Hotel, St. Annes-on-Sea. In August, across from Jacques Francois is an address for the St Annes-on-Sea of Labour. Then on 30th August Day Off. Intermittently Day Off is entered throughout the remainder of the year.

This has been a fascinating investigation. Even without a name, one can conclude that the diary writer was from somewhere other than the United Kingdom. This person was probably a man deduced by looking at the clothing list and how much travel was involved with no indication of a companion, but one can never be absolutely sure. The diary writer was firstly employed in the south of England in 1956 then looked for work to stay in the country however there are still so many questions; Where did this person come from? What happened after 1956? Did he/she stay on Fylde, move somewhere else, find love and raise a family? Oh, how I wonder.

The 1956 Filmgoer's Diary

has bound within its pages
sixty six photos of those
classified in their time
as the most beautiful
most talented creatures
with perfect white teeth
and unblemished skin
manufactured to promote
a business entertaining
the dreamers writing
and performing their own
extraordinary scripts. 

Thank you for reading. J

Sources
Anon. (1956) The Filmgoer’s Diary 1956 (Leap Year). London, D. Harper & Co. Ltd. London.
Barker, D. (2014) Dora Bryan obituary. https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2014/jul/23/dora-bryan+accessed+19+October+2023 accessed 19 October 2023.
Heckmann. C. (2021) When was the Golden Age of Hollywood-and why did it end?. https://www.studiobinder.com/blog/when-was-the-golden-age-of-hollywood/ accessed 20 October 2023
IMDB (2023). Thora Hird Biography. https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0386331/bio/ accessed 9 October.
Pak, E (2020) Charlie Chaplin and 6 Other Artists Who Were Blacklisted in Hollywood During the Red Scare.https://www.biography.com/artists/artists-blacklisted-hollywood-red-scare accessed 21 October 2023.
Whether Idle (2018). 1956 February. https://www.theweatheroutlook.com/twocommunity/default.aspx?g=posts&t=18507 accessed 20 October 2023.

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A Favourite Painting - Matilda's Trees

 

Trying to choose a favourite painting, like a favourite book or piece of music is so hard it is almost impossible. I like the work of lots of artists. Yesterday, travelling home from an adventure, the journey, thanks to the sat nav, took us over the Pennines and through Mottram in Longendale where the artist,  L.S.Lowry used to live. I love all of his work. I remember feeling quite emotional when I saw his paintings for the first time. This was in Salford, long before the gallery bearing his name was built.  His painting ‘Going to the Match’ was in the news last year when it was purchased and saved for the Lowry collection. Going to the match is what I plan to be doing later, so the painting might have been a good choice, but instead,  I’ve picked ‘The Cripples’.

Lowry painted ‘The Cripples’ in 1949. It’s one of my favourites of his work. I have a print and a fridge magnet and it always makes me smile. I’m slightly worried that my admission to being amused by it makes me a bad person. I am amused by Lowry’s humour in the painting. I’m not mocking the subjects.  Apparently, there’s controversy about the content and the title and I’m a bit shocked about that. I’ve got disability issues, so does my husband. The painting isn’t about us or anyone else. Cripple is not a term in use these days when we refer to people with disabilities but I’m not sure if it should be considered offensive.  I feel sure that Lowry didn’t paint anything with the purpose of upsetting anyone. As a Christian should I be upset by paintings of Christ’s crucifixion reminding me of His suffering? I will admire the work of the artist.

Steven Robert Bruce is a local artist who has produced excellent paintings. He has a website showing a collection of his work. One of my favourites is his painting of Ian Holloway celebrating Blackpool FC’s victory at Wembley, going into the Premier League. I don’t know where the actual painting is. I wish it was at the stadium.

My favourite painting of this week – it might be replaced before weekend if we’re looking after her – is the latest work of art by our youngest grandchild, four year old Matilda.  She was painting, freestyle, and created a fabulous tree scene from her own imagination. I’m amazed and enchanted as I often am by my grandchildren.

My poem, from the archives,

Salford

Industrial landscapes
Where nobody escapes
From human desolation.
Salford, grey and worn-out
Drab people hang about
Seeking some consolation,
Painted as matchstick men
Back in the decades when
Lowry found inspiration.

Shelagh’s taste of honey,
Tony Wilson’s money
Invested in the city.
High-rise in Broughton Park
Poems of Cooper-Clarke
So sharp and smart and witty.
A gentle, summer breeze
Wafts around Salford Quays
Modern style simplicity.

Pamela Winning 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Miniature - Small and Perfectly Formed

I’ve been fascinated by my friend’s collection of dolls houses since I first saw them a few years ago. They take up the longest wall in one of her upstairs rooms. I think there are six of them, various sizes, set out on a deep shelf with drawers beneath. The drawers hold all the tiny bits and pieces not in use and items to make things or decorate with. Some of the houses have beautifully made gardens. There is a kitchen garden with vegetables growing perfectly. The inside of the houses are set out and decorated according to the time of year. It was summer one year when I was calling in to water plants and keep an eye on things while my friend was on holiday. The miniature street looked warm and sunny with open windows and a picnic on one of the lawns. I’ve seen it all decked out for Christmas, complete with tiny coloured lights and the whole thing looking splendid. It is a fabulous hobby and I used to fancy getting an Edwardian townhouse and setting it up in ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ style, or making an old-fashioned pub with a nod to my background.

The area I was keeping free for such a project became the ideal place to house the gerbils. We had two in an open fish tank filled with wood chippings, fluffy animal stuff like cotton wool and usually an empty loo roll or kitchen roll to play with. They liked running through them as if they were tunnels. When fed up with them, they ripped them into strips and added them to their nest. My children were still at primary school. The cats had gone to cat heaven, as had a couple of hamsters and we hadn’t yet introduced a family dog.

By the time the gerbils expired, so had some of my eyesight and twiddling with miniature furniture and tiny household items was beyond me. I was and still am interested in my friend’s hobby and I find pieces to gift her. One of the many Christmas trees is a present from me and we found some cakes and bakery things in a specialist shop while on one of our jaunts.

A special gift from my friend to me is something I will always treasure. She turned an ordinary shoebox into a miniature living room for me, putting in my favourite things, even a photo of my husband and I hanging on the wall. I was speechless at the time and I still love it as much as I did then. It is me. I think the knitting has fallen off the chair a few times over the years, but it’s fine, and the DVDs, CDs and books, she knows me so well.

Jane Eyre. Good choice. It would be that or Wuthering Heights, or Rebecca, but I’m glad she chose a Bronte for me. I’ve loved all of their books and I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many visits to Haworth Parsonage. One visit was in the summer of 2005. It was 150 years since Charlotte’s death and a special exhibition displayed some of her clothing and personal belongings. At only 4’6” tall and slim, she was very petite. Her outfits were almost miniature versions of her sisters’ attire. Her boots and bonnets, like those of a child’s. Luckily for me, the hand-written miniature books, at least some of them, were on show.

When the Brontes were children, their father, Rev. Patrick Bronte, gave them a box of wooden toy soldiers. Each child chose their own soldier, gave them names and made them into characters for what became the stories of Glasstown. The children branched out, Charlotte and Branwell wrote about Angria, and Emily and Anne wrote about Gondal. They wrote their stories in tiny script using fine nibs and magnifying glasses then made them into little books for the toy soldiers to hold. Not all have survived, but I’m glad for what has been saved.

I need another visit, when we can.

My poem,

Perched on the chilly window seat
She looked down, watching the mourners
Moving slowly with the coffin,
Listening to the solemn drum beat
For the second time that morning.
Squinting through the grey, wint'ry mist
Beyond the gravestones to the church
Her whispered prayer clouded the glass
And she drew a 'C' in her breath,
Just as Branwell beckoned her down
To write Angria's next chapter
For their soldier's miniature book.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Sideboards - Thanks for the Memory

 

I wonder what happened to all the sideboards, those massive pieces of highly polished furniture that half-filled most dining rooms. Someone is going to tell me that they exist, in everyone’s home except mine. I won’t be surprised.  I’ve got what is loosely called a ‘unit’, sort of cross between a sideboard and a display cabinet, with a pull-down drinks bit – used by me as a sewing cupboard – in the middle. It is a much-loved wedding present. Actually, I've got two now, there's posh.

Thinking of the blog theme being sideboards has put me in mind of the ones I grew up with. My childhood homes were pubs and the private accommodation was usually spacious, offering plenty of room for a sideboard, and a piano, even. My mother was in charge of our sideboard. I had many warnings to keep out, nothing in there for me. It must have been jam-packed with family secrets and skeletons in the cupboard to need such fierce protection. I was allowed one thing, with permission, which was an old chocolate box full of black and white photos from when my mother was a girl. I would spend hours looking through them. I still have the collection, mounted in an album now and I really wish I’d kept them in the old, tatty box. It was part of the magic. Someone gave my mother a small packet of Thornton’s chocolates and she kept them in the top drawer.  Over time, one by one they disappeared. I learnt the hard way that there are only so many times you can get away with ‘they won’t miss just one’. Oh, how I’ve missed my mum for most of my life. I'd replace every chocolate ten-fold if it were possible for her to nip back for five minutes.

Sometime in the ‘60s we had the novelty of a house. The new furniture included a teak dining table, chairs and matching sideboard. The sideboard filled the length of our dining room and had thin, spindly legs. Cupboard and drawer handles were made of wood, chunky and round, unlike the dangly brass loops on the other one. We kept the new table mats and the best cutlery in the drawers.

My grandmother’s sideboard was huge. I don’t know how old I was before I could see the top of it. I remember that it filled the end of her lounge. It had three cupboards in a row, three drawers, one above each cupboard and legs that I referred to as curly in shape. The most important thing to me was that I was allowed to rummage in it to my heart’s content, as long as I didn’t make too much mess and I put everything back. And I mustn’t touch Nanna’s knitting.  There wasn’t much to play with, but I enjoyed tidying everything up. Some items came to be mine over time. I still have a set of electro-plated nickel silver fish eaters with matching servers and a set of cake forks. On top of the sideboard used to stand a couple of bookends with a matching vase. I don’t know what happened to the vase, but I treasure the Bosson’s bookends, despite their theme of Hunting Scene.

Here are a few memories as Haikus,

Like a lifelong friend

Silently storing secrets

Behind locked cupboards.

 

Dark and imposing

Child-size fingers folded round

Your barley-twist legs.

 

A framed photogragh,

The once-happy bride and groom.

A short-lived marriage.

 

A sideboard cupboard,

Whiskey, brandy, Bacardi,

Cinzano and gin.

 

Flowers, past their best

Not quite ready to throw out,

Last week’s thoughtful gift.

 

I hate the subject,

Bosson’s ‘Hunting Scene’ bookends

Are cherished by me.

 

Fleeting memories

Of a lifetime of sideboards,

Bygone furniture.

Thanks for reading, keep safe and well, Pam x

                                                                                                

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Class - Upstairs or Downstairs?

I’ve spent the last month or so re-reading my collection of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ books. These slim paper-backs tell the story of the popular TV series about the ‘upstairs’ Bellamy family of 165, Eaton Place, Belgravia, and their ‘downstairs’ servants. The drama series began in 1971 and taught me more about social class and modern history than any amount of school lessons. The books followed the TV programmes series by series and each chapter is an episode, written by the same screen-writer.  They work quite well as novels. Fading, falling apart and with tiny print that made me wonder how I was managing without my hands-free magnifying glass, these are part of my ‘most treasured possessions’. For back up, I have the complete set of DVDs.

History was, and still is, a big interest to me. Unfortunately, the history master at school failed to ignite any passion in the subject, standing at the front of the class non-stop talking about one of the wars like he was presenting All Our Yesterdays. The boys drew Spitfires, us girls yawned. Instead, I learned social, economic and political history from the events going on in Upstairs, Downstairs. At the time, 1971 onwards, class distinction was mostly lost on me. I loved the servants, Mr Hudson the butler, all his staff and everything they got up to and I equally loved the members of the well-to-do Bellamy family. There was just one thing that grated on me and opened my eyes to class differences of the time. In an episode where Lord Bellamy’s brother is briefly staying at Eaton Place, Hudson’s brother and family are also visiting from abroad, staying in London, and unintentionally, they are all lunching in the same restaurant. This is a regular place for Richard Bellamy to be eating out, but Hudson has had to borrow money from cook, Mrs Bridges, to fund the outing. Bellamy and Hudson seeing each other in the restaurant causes embarrassment for Hudson, who, in an attempt to big himself up a bit for the benefit of his brother  now feels that he is aping his betters. Later, he offers his immediate resignation. Bellamy won’t hear of it and tells Hudson he was pleased to meet his family and that sadly, he, Bellamy, will not be seeing his own brother again. I was glad of the happy outcome, but it made me wonder why being in the same place should be a problem. Surely the butler could go wherever he likes on his time off, and how he funds it is his own business?

I have followed Downton Abbey, Belgravia and others, but nothing captured the essence of the time period quite like Upstairs, Downstairs. I couldn’t decide where I belong, up or down, or somewhere else entirely.

Re-reading it reminded me of a time at work, not where I am now. We had coffee mugs for ourselves, but there were cups and saucers for visiting senior staff and directors. When I brewed up, I gave everyone mugs and no one said anything. Sometimes, we used cups and saucers in our office. No reason not to.

Growing up in pubs, we had domestic staff. I called them ‘Auntie’ or ‘Mr’ and they were very much part of the family from my point of view, particularly our housekeeper ‘Auntie Kathy’ who I adored and was close to, and ‘Mr Joe’ who came with the pub and was like another grandad. I was brought up to treat everyone with respect and kindness. We are all the same.

Is that the time? I’d better ring for tea – or go and make it.

Here's John Betjeman:

How to Get On in Society

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman

As cook is a little unnerved;

You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes

And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requistites all in the toilet?

The frills round the cutlets can wait

'Till the girl has replenished the cruets

And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,

But the vestibule's comfy for tea

And Howard is out riding on horseback

So do come and take some with me.

Now here is a fork for your pastries

And do use the couch for your feet;

I know what I wanted to ask you -

Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes dear?

I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;

Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doilies

With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

John Betjeman  (1906 - 1984)
 

             
Frost Report Social Class sketch: click here to play

Thanks for reading, keep well, Pam x

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Collections

In 1969 I went to work in a cafe in Devon for the summer season, with my best friend. Opposite the cafe was a sweet shop, which wasn’t a good thing for two teens who liked chocolate. Most days we bought Mars Bars in packs of three, and ate them in one sickly, sticky chocfest. This went on, day after day, until we returned home at the end of the season, at least half a stone heavier, but unfortunately not cured of the  chocolate cravings.
 

For some unknown reason, I had kept every one of the wrappers, and discovered them at the bottom of my case as I unpacked.  I clearly remember staring at them for a few minutes before admitting to myself that I was probably a hoarder.  

A few weeks later I went off to Art College and the Mars Bar wrappers ended up plastered on my bedroom wall. Over the next four years the collection grew until most of that wall was covered.  Fortunately, my boyfriend (now husband) was also an art student, and didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about decorating walls with sweet wrappers.  Every move we made after that - and there were several - the wrappers came with us, until eventually they were shoved in a box in the attic and forgotten about. 

Fast forward 30 odd years and I was looking at ways of making some extra money.  Rooting through the attic I found three boxes that would turn out to be very lucrative. Opening the first two I discovered huge piles of Petticoat magazine, which had given me so much pleasure in my teens. Each week a copy would plop onto the doorstep, along with my younger brother’s Beano. I can hear that sound now, and feel the excitement of scooping up the magazine and racing upstairs to my bedroom, where I would lie on the bed, devouring articles about heavy petting, girls who let boys go too far, and how to look like Twiggy. 

After some deliberation I decided to put the magazines on eBay. I phoned my friend whose husband deals in antiques, and asked what I should put them up at. She suggested £100. I was flabbergasted, and told her they would never fetch that. A week later I was nearly £2000 better off and five years of Petticoat magazine were winging their way to Japan.
 

On a high after an unexpectedly successful sale, I peered into the third box and spotted the Mars bar wrappers. I doubted they’d sell but took a chance and posted them to eBay. I can’t remember how much they sold for now, but I know it wasn’t to be sniffed at. A while later, I found a stray wrapper and was about to throw it away when I thought I might try my luck on eBay again.  That brought in near enough £8 if I remember rightly. 

Collectors are, on the whole, quite an obsessive bunch. I realised, through the sale of the magazines and the chocolate wrappers, that most collectors would stop at nothing to get that thing for their collection. I used to visit a lot of jumble sales, charity shops, car boots and antique sales. I’ve only slowed down because I can’t get much more in my house. I’m down to two collections now: teapots and Sylvac pottery. 

The teapot collection started by accident, 44 years ago. We were living in Leeds and I nipped into a junk shop. There, on a shelf, half hidden by various dusty artefacts, was a green and silver teapot in the shape of a car. I fell in love. It looked like it was Art Deco and I had to have it. The price tag said £6 which was about the amount of money I had in my purse for the next week’s meals, but, hardly daring to think about that, I handed over the money and emerged from the shop with the first of at least a hundred teapots I collected over the years. It was the history of the old pots that I loved to think about and I only stopped collecting them when I realised there were repros being produced in large quantities. That wasn’t what I was after. 

The Sylvac collection came about through my Gran, although she never knew it. She had a few vases and pots in her house that always fascinated me. One bowl had a kingfisher in the middle, something I’d never seen before, and two of the vases were circled by tiny dancing rabbits. When my gran died I was allowed to choose one thing to keep. I chose the kingfisher bowl, and although the bird’s beak had been broken and fixed with yellowing glue that bowl meant the world to me. 

As I got older and more interested in filling our house with bits and pieces (or ‘crap’ as it was labelled by the husband, who had lost his romantic vision of how such quaint objects could enhance our decor) I collected the dancing bunnies and the droopy faced dogs that were so typical of the distinctive green pottery. They reminded me of my gran, and that made me happy.  There was one particular piece that I was desperate to get hold of, and that was  a slipper with a dog inside.  One day, walking through Lancaster, in the window of a junk shop, was the dog in the slipper.  The shop was closed for lunch. I was devastated.  Never mind, said the husband, we’ll call on the way back. To my dismay, as we  returned to the shop, door now invitingly ajar, I glanced in the window.  The slipper, with its dog, was gone. 

I still have the collector in me.  I'm sure one day I'll find that dog, and when I do my collection will be complete.  Or almost...

The Collection by Jill Reidy 

It starts with just the one

But that's really not much fun 

So a second one is found and pretty quick

Then, it seems, to have a pair

Is neither here nor there

Let’s find some more and get a proper kick

However much you’ve got

You still need that extra pot

Or card or bowl or book or fancy stamp  

The collection’s not complete

Til you cannot see your feet 

As your hoard of random items sets up camp

When you struggle to get through

From room to room to loo

Then you know you've just created quite a beast

You're in up to your neck

But really what the heck

You've spotted just that one last vital piece

Thanks for reading - Jill 

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Magnetism - Hold Tight

 I love the way the little trains and carriages of the Brio hold on to each other, like magic. Setting it up, I’ve explained to my grandchildren that opposites attract and pull to stick together. Do it the other way round and they push away. Fascinating to me, but not to those who know how it works and just want to get on with playing. Magnetism.

“We know, Nanna.”

And of course, they do. Or at least, they did before lockdown separated us for what feels like eternity. I hope they can come back soon.
 

We’ve done the bit about magnets having north and south and it only works on metal. We’ve checked different things in my house as we’ve wandered around with Brio trains. The fridge is good, and the freezer. We already know that because my collection of picture magnets are holding the children’s art-work in place. Central heating radiators are good, but not the metal legs on the small table.

“Why?”

 “They are made of a different metal that is not magnetic. You’ll learn all about it when you’re older and have science lessons at school.”

One started school in September and is bursting to get back.  He loves it and misses it. One will start this year, if life gets back to normal and two of them will return to nursery. Luckily for them, I’m fine with science up to Key Stage One.

When I was a child, I had one of those magnet-based toys which consisted of a face and bald head beneath a thin, clear screen. At the bottom were lots of iron filings which could be carried clump by clump on a magnetic pen up to the screen, and placed to make hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard. I played with it for hours.

Science was not a core subject when I was at school. I chose the option of History in preference.  These days I would choose both.  I’ve found some interesting stuff on BBC Bitesize, electromagnetism and magnetism on KS3 Physics. We’re never too old to learn.

I found this children’s song on a primary education website. Author not credited.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Everywhere, all around, you’ll find magnets.
In computers and t.v sets
and microphones,
They even hold doors closed around your home.

Every magnet has a north pole,
A south pole too.
Each pole has its own molecules.
They create a force,
A magnetic field,
That attracts metals like iron and steel.

Magnets, many sizes and shapes
Horseshoes, bars and cylinders
Magnetic discs large and small
Magnets working for us all.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Put two magnets together, what can you tell?
North and south poles will attract
And like poles together will repel.

Every magnetic field if it’s strong enough
Can pass through paper, wood or plastic.

You can make a magnet with electricity
And it’s very strong, you will see.

Magnets, many sizes and shapes
Horseshoes, bars and cylinders
Magnetic discs large and small
Magnets working for us all.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Everywhere, all around, you’ll find magnets.

Thanks for reading. Stay home and stay safe. Pam x

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Blues - Don't Stop the Music

 

 

 

 

In my life, music soothes everything.  There’s a song for every occasion. Putting all the Christmas stuff away includes taking The Moody Blues ‘December’ album off the CD player. I will miss singing along to their version of In the Bleak Mid-Winter.  I got strange looks in church some years ago when it sounded like I’d made up my own descant.

Back to work, reasonably accepting that this is ‘my lot’ for a while longer, and hopefully just a little while.  I will do the best I can as we all do. We smile, we’re helpful, we care and not everyone appreciates us, but that’s life.  The other day was enough for me to remark that the season of goodwill was well and truly over and the chill of the waiting room was a result of the frostiness of the occupants. I’m speaking my mind, after all, being quiet hasn’t got me anywhere.

For those still carrying the winter blues, take a chill pill, put some music on and turn the volume up.

I’ve been listening to Tom Walker’s ‘What A Time To Be Alive’, a welcome Christmas gift. He’s more ‘indie pop/folk’ than ‘blues’, and younger than most musicians I listen to. My introduction to him was when he supported my favourite Moody Blues member, John Lodge on a solo tour a few years ago. You can be forgiven for thinking that I don’t move far from my favourite band, though my record and CD collection is eclectic.

It would seem that The Moody Blues have stopped touring as a band. No official announcement and so far, no farewell concerts, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fortunate to travel all over the country to many concerts on umpteen UK tours and have lots of good memories, some which have been shared on here from time to time. It is decades since I watched and listened in awe to a schoolboy rock band practising ‘Nights In White Satin’ at youth club, or sang along to ‘Question’ on the juke box in our empty pub. It has been an eventful journey of wonderful music. Long may it continue with the soloists.

Aside from the Moody Blues, I like the Rolling Stones ‘Let It Bleed’ album for its great bluesy tracks. And just for the record, Tommy Steele’s ‘Singing the Blues’ is the best cover.

With a blog theme of ‘Blues’, how could I resist the Moodies? And if you know me, you’ll understand and possibly yawn. Sorry.

I wrote this poem after a night at the London O2. We were moved from ground floor seating to higher up, which I didn’t want but it turned out to be a good experience in watching the arena fill up and observing other fans having a great night.

 

 

The Concert.

 

The lights are lowered, silence fills the arena

As the minstrels move through darkness on to the stage.

This is the moment, breathless anticipation,

Travelling eternity road has been an age.

 

Then a flute’s haunting melody rises above

Twin guitar riffs to take lead of the symphony.

Slow, bass drum, and applause reaches a crescendo,

Orchestral rock and voices singing harmony.

 

On the threshold of ecstasy, keeping the faith,

We’ve made this pilgrimage so many times before,

To be rewarded with autographs and handshakes

After waiting patiently outside the stage door.

 

PMW

 

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The Romantics - So Glad I Found You

It had been a decade of uncertainty, feeling lost and out of my depth. I’d been riding an emotional roller-coaster that got faster and faster and would not stop. I jumped off, brushed myself down and wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

I lived alone, quietly. I had my job, my home, my car and I think I had my sanity, though others might have doubted it, I didn’t question it much. I enjoyed the silence of my own company. There had been too much noise before. I read book after book, Irwin Shaw, Colleen McCullough and Edna O'Brien amongst others. I unpacked the collection of Marshall Cavendish Mind Alive magazines that my father had subscribed to for me, which had remained untouched throughout my teens. I learned a lot from the articles that interested me and took pride in fixing the magazines into the binders that made it into an encyclopaedia.  If I wasn’t reading, I was writing. No television at this time, but I had a radio if I fancied ‘Saturday Night Theatre’ or ‘Play for Today’ and I had my record player.

My English Literature studies were far behind me, but I found myself revisiting the Bronte’s, some Dickens and my favourite stories from Joyce’s Dubliners. From somewhere into this mix came poetry and those poems familiar to me were taking on new meaning, or perhaps I’d missed something  before. It was the poets, the ones we call The Romantics and I latched on to something that I felt I belonged to.  I had (still have, my photo) The Penguin Book of Love Poetry and I read bits of it every day. It probably wasn’t the best poetry to throw myself headlong into. Death, separation and desolation were subjects perhaps best avoided, but difficult to do so when words were reaching out to me, especially those of Byron and Shelley.

I wish I could have been in the party or at least a fly on the wall in the summer of 1816 when Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (later Shelley), and others were having fun at Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. It must have been a tremendous storm to keep them indoors for three days, if what I read is true. They wrote horror stories to scare each other, which might have been the beginnings of Mary’s novel, Frankenstein.  I imagine that writing was not their only past-time. Their lives were forever intertwined.  I love to read about their bohemian lifestyle and their freedom, but I wonder, were they really happy?

Somewhere buried in the archives of our house, I will still have the framed poems that once adorned the walls of my house. I liked to do calligraphy, back in the day when my eyes still worked, and one of the first I made for myself was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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