Work

 

Work, that necessary thing most of us have to do at some point in our lives to earn money for our upkeep.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a teacher or an author, or both. I played school with my dolls and teddies. One particular teddy was always the naughty one and in trouble. His sums were wrong and his spellings were atrocious. I was an early reader which triggered a passion for writing my own stories. A love of ‘The Broons’ and ‘Oor Wullie’ educated me in Scottish dialect which I sometimes used in my written dialogue – not always appreciated by my teacher.

My mum was my mentor, my homework checker, my partner in fun and my planner for my future. Everything went awry with her passing and I was more or less left to go it alone. Floundering.

Dental nursing had never been on my list of possible occupations or training, but somehow, and luckily, it happened. There I was, schooldays over, thrust into the long days of a busy dental practice, 8.30 until 6 p.m. Monday to Friday, with college lectures on Monday evenings. Those were very long Mondays. A co-worker, who became a close friend, and I would take the bus from Blackpool town centre to St Anne’s College of Further Education for two hours of fascinating dentistry delivered by a local dentist, not the one we worked for. I didn’t mean for that to come across as sarcasm. It really was fascinating, and I was deeply interested and keen to do well. All this for £5.50 a week. Two years later, and a bit more money, I qualified, then shocked everyone by leaving to work in an office. Many years later, I returned to dentistry as a receptionist.

When my children were small, I helped in their school. It’s something I enjoy again as a volunteer since I retired. Too late to teach, but I’ve still got skills to share and help to offer, especially in the library and story-telling to infants.

I’m proud of my published work as a writer. I’m not a famous author, not yet, but never say never, and I haven’t earned a penny from stories or poems, but I have made some achievements. If anyone remembers the ghost stories from the Haunted Hotel in Blackpool Illuminations, mine was included and I’m still very proud of that.

My Haiku poem,

Working With the Public

Most people are fine,
Others can be difficult,
Arrogant or rude.

My pleasant calmness
And my eagerness to help
Didn’t always work.

Even my best smile
With a positive approach
Failed on occasion.

I met nice people
It wasn’t all negative,
I made some true friends.

Life-long friends as well.
We all matured together
And share a close bond.

Now in retirement,
Life should be quiet and still,
But no, it isn’t.

There’s still work to do,
So many places to go
And new friends to meet.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Harlequin - A Knitted Memory

From Wikipedia – ‘The oldest versions of the word harlequin – the Middle Dutch hellekijn and the Old French hellequin, reference hell and a mean kind of demon. In the translation from French to English, the harlequin lost his demonic quality and became a clown.’

My maternal grandmother was college educated, bright and well-informed. I would doubt that she was aware of the above, but I would love it if she had been when she knitted my grandfather a slip-over in the harlequin pattern. The subtle sentiment would have suited her. She was an exemplary knitter. The colour changes of grey, bottle green, navy and maroon were perfectly matched and blended, the end result better than any shop-bought machine-made knitwear. My grandfather wore it nearly every day.

By the time I was on the scene and taking notice, Nanna had worked as a secretary, left to marry Grandad and raised a family. By now they were running a pub and later helping my aunt to run hers. They bickered constantly, only being polite to each other when they were downstairs in the bar. There was never an obvious cause for a fall-out, not to me anyway. They had an active social life as a couple, they went away on holiday or on trips and the usual things that people do. They took me to Butlin’s a few times when I was a child, often with my aunt’s extended family from Ireland. We were a close family. I remember Nanna having the upper hand and Grandad conceding in their everyday spats.

When I was older, I learnt from my aunt that Grandad had given Nanna the run around on more than one occasion during their marriage and she held him on all sorts of ultimatums. They were married for fifty-three years. Up to now, I have been unable to prove any of the misdemeanours. Everyone has passed away, so no one to ask and only me who is interested enough to have another search occasionally. Truth or fiction, it hardly matters really.

What does matter is that I adored them and I knew they loved me, and of course, my sister, too. Nanna taught me to knit, something I do all the time. I mastered crochet after she’d died, though could never do it when she tried to teach me, with more patience than she ever had for anyone else. I’ve tried harlequin pattern and I can do it, but it’s fiddly, time consuming and better off left with the lady who turned it into a work of art.

Nanna was a strong minded woman, northern grit.  She’d survived two world wars, an errant husband, the death of a three year old daughter and the death of a thirty-five year old daughter (my mum) and somehow kept going. I’ve said many times that I wish I had a fraction of her strength, and that of my great grandmother.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair. It’s a shame that I don’t have his slip-over.

My Haiku poem,

Grandad’s rocking chair
Now lives upstairs in our house
Recovered to match,

But not re-varnished,
So my hands rest on the arms
Same as his once did,

While he read his book
Or scanned the morning paper,
Keeping to himself.

My nanna was cross,
I’d heard her berating him.
It was just their way.

I’m sure she still cared.
She knitted his slip-over
And kept tabs on him.

She kept her tongue sharp
Behind Golden Wedding smiles.
Hiding the heartbreak.

PMW 2022

(As I typed the year, I realised it is 100 years since they got married, bless them.)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Playing in the Band - Let's Rock

I wish I had a talent for music. A proper talent, not just the piano grades that my father’s expense and my reluctance to learn got me. That piano teacher was a horrid man. I spent years trying to wriggle out of going to his gloomy, unwelcoming house. I feigned illness on Saturday mornings, or stayed quiet and hoped my twelve o’clock lesson would be forgotten about but my ploys never worked and I would have to endure a miserable hour with the creep. And for all that, I still can’t play Fur Elise at the correct speed or Chopin’s lovely waltzes without constantly checking my finger positions. No confidence and certainly no natural talent, unlike some others in the family.

My son plays by ear. I was trying to get to grips with a Mozart piece on the piano in my usual slow, clumpy way. He just comes along and plays it, as easily as you like, because he knows the tune. I used to love hearing his electric guitar or bass coming down from his attic room. One day, he was belting out the intro to the Moody Blues ‘Story in Your Eyes’ and I nearly burst into tears at how perfect it was. His college was doing an entertainments evening and we, his parents, were invited to attend. We knew he was taking part, but didn’t know what he would be doing. I was unwell, full of a cold and full of appropriate medication to get me through the evening. I was not going to miss this event. He took to the stage. He was on bass, playing with a band. I recognised something he’d been practising at home.  They were excellent, well-rehearsed and ‘gelled’ together. I was relaxed into ‘Proud Mum’ mode when the scene changed and the spotlight was now on my son. The voice, I realised, was his, rocking 'Johnny B Goode' like a professional and making the stage his own. He was amazing. I don’t think I’d heard him sing since he was about seven. Here was a twenty-ish year old rock star making me tear-up like his first nativity. The things you miss when they grow up leave home and have kids. I think he’s still musical.

Our daughter is or was blessed with a wonderful, powerful singing voice. She reduced me to tears with a soulful rendition of Katie Melua’s ‘Closest Thing to Crazy’ in the car one day, just out of the blue. She had the same effect on her music teacher. She sang at home, so I heard her all the time and helped her to choose songs suited to the strength of her voice. Seeing and hearing her on stage held no surprises for me. I was ‘Proud Mum’ always, with lots of support. I’m sure I glowed with pride when others told me how her performance had blown them away. My response was always to say thank you and that everyone taking part was brilliant. She went on to do performing arts at college. These days, that fabulous voice is used for calling her children in from the garden or shouting for them to wait when they run ahead of her. I must ask her if she does much singing these days. What I’d give for her voice and a band to accompany me!

My wish came true, except it was my voice and I wouldn’t describe myself as a singer. I had a posh party for my sixtieth birthday a few years ago. As it was the ‘party to end all parties’ it was held at one of Blackpool’s finest hotels, I had live music from a local band and a nephew who is a professional musician. I wasn’t expecting to join the band on stage, but with some gentle persuasion (dragged up, no choice) and a compulsory funny hat, I found myself making a guest appearance. I think I was trying to sing ‘Rock the Casbah’ with the help of The Rattlers. I hope they were playing the same song. Someone somewhere has a video that I’ve never seen. Destroy it, please.

My own poem,

The Ballad of a Lady Jazz Singer

Jazz tempo piano and a bluesy guitar

It’s two a.m. in the Ritzy Bar.

Lorna sips gin through a long, curly straw

As she sits and waits, one eye on the door.

He said he’d be along to see her set

But he’d promised before – never made it yet.

Perched on a bar stool, cigarette in hand,

Minutes away from her spot with the band,

She leans a bit further back in her seat

And her red stiletto taps out the beat.

She’s laughing and swaying, about to begin,

Adrenaline rush, or too much pink gin.

She’s out of her mind, but not really crazy.

Her vision is soft-focus, smoky and hazy.

Tight black dress, short, strapless and low,

Only put on for this kind of show.

She clutches the mic stand, there’s a hint of a smile

Then she bangs out a song in her Joplin-esque style.

Heat and smoke hit hard on her throat

But she stays on key and keeps the right note.

Much clapping and cheering, the Ritzy’s alive

Lorna kept singing ‘til quarter to five

Then staggered out happy in the dawning new day

With her new bass playing lover leading the way.

 Pamela Winning  2014

Thanks for reading, keep safe and well, Pam x

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