Rocking Chair

Call me a softy if you like, ‘The Woman in Black’ is the scariest film I’ve ever tried to watch. I’ve had a few attempts. One was at the cinema with my daughter. I think she begged me to take her, only to discover how fearful it is.

 “Tell me when it’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking.” I had no idea what ‘it’ was.

There’s a particularly creepy scene concerning a room full of clockwork monkeys playing musical instruments and an empty rocking chair, rocking. Too spooky and reminds me of something chilling my son said when he was little.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair, I’ve probably mentioned it before because it is special item and means a lot to me. I remember him with fondness, gently rocking as he read the paper or his book, often sharing an orange with me when I was a child. After he died, the chair was untouched in the house he’d shared with my aunt since he was widowed. My sister had children before me and I think our aunt gave her the rocking chair to nurse her first baby. When I bought my house, the chair came to me and for a while, it was the only furniture I had to sit on. It moved with me when I got married and had a special place in the back room. I don’t know if our son, a young child at the time, was teasing when he told me that he’d seen the rocking chair rocking on its own. The thought of it gave me shivers. I felt sure I would be aware if there was anything odd. Over the years, the chair began to look tatty. Covering it with a throw and a cushion wasn’t enough. I had it repaired and recovered, and moved it into my bedroom.

As for ‘The Woman in Black’, I’m told by a friend that the stage play is more scary than the film. I can’t imagine that, but I’ll accept the opinion without the need to see for myself.

Robert Service had the right idea,

My Rocking-chair

When I am old and worse for wear
I want to buy a rocking-chair,
And set it on a porch where shine
The stars of morning-glory vine;
With just beyond, a gleam of grass,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking-chair.
Then I will light my corn-cob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.
My morning paper on my knee
I won't allow to worry me.
For if I know the latest news
Is bad,-to read it I'll refuse,
Since I have always tried to see
The side of life that clicks with glee.

And looking back with days nigh done,
I feel I've had a heap of fun.
Of course I guess that more or less
It's you yourself make happiness
And if your needs are small and few,
Like me you may be happy too:
And end up with a hope, a prayer,
A chuckle in a rocking-chair.

Robert Service

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tanka - Just A Few



I'm away at the moment, yes, again. I know I've only just returned home long enough to do the laundry and re-pack the case, but here I am, in the wonderful Dumfries & Galloway countryside, comfortable in a hidden-away lodge that I've already written so much about.

This week's theme being Tanka - five line poem based on a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable, I've had a try.

Not only have I managed to write a few Tankas, I've found a wifi connection. One of the attractions about being here was the seclusion, no signal, etc., but hey ho, things move with the times and we don't have to use what we don't want. Anyway, to my own advantage today, so here goes. They are written randomly.

Lonely roads so dark,
Driving back from Kilwinning.
Two hour journey
On the A seven-one-three
And it's creepy and scary.

List'ning to John Lodge
On his live 'B Yond' cd
Some old tunes remixed
And some new ones blended in,
Salute the Moody Blues man.

Watching the robins
Bossing round the bird feeders.
Claiming ownership,
Puffing out a proud red breast
Homing in on the fat balls.

A drive to the hills
Then all stops for 'Popmaster'
Wherever we are.
Some questions are too modern
And correct answers are few.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

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Endless

didn't shatter but bounced twice across the tiles before rolling beneath the chair.  When she stooped to retrieve it she observed a hairline crack which passed through the cat's face and beneath the handle.  

"Pass it here, I'll throw it out."  He reached for the teacup with dirty fingers.

"Shut up, she'll hear you."  

She snatched the cup away from him, tucking it into her bag between the virgin novel and yesterday's knickers.  The rain drummed on the window behind them and the wind sang in the fireplace.  The smell of burnt apples billowed from the kitchen as the women reappeared, escorted by the aging spaniel, its ears brushing the parquet floor as its head drooped; a heavy bloom on a broken stem. 

"I'm all out of raspberry but there's plenty of pedals seem to be shrinking or my shoes are growing.  I'm fidgeting my feet up and down, trying to find the brake but each time I hit the accelerator instead and jolt forwards.  The steering wheel isn't responding, or it's over sensitive, and the slightest touch sends me veering into a wall.  There are cars ahead and I'm desperately stamping on the pedals, stamping and stamping.  One of these must be the brake, one of them must be familiar but you won't quite place him.  

"The Oneiroi."  He'll  say again.

"No, I can't."  You'll reply, not knowing why, but this will be the correct answer and the group will disperse.  

Taking advantage of the chance to explore, you'll head from the courtyard towards the oldest part of the castle.  The corridor will be stately and the carpets deep.  Light will filter down through blown glass windows, through dust which smells of old books and wax polish.  The door will be precisely large enough for a fully grown spaniel and set at head height in the wall.  A woman with ill-fitting shoes will instruct you in the art of wall-diving.  Pay particular attention to her directions.  She will only assist you if you first remember to give her a heavy bloom on a broken stem.

"I'm all out of raspberry but there's plenty of apricot."  

Placing an empty plate on the table, the woman straightened up and rubbed her back.  

"Good weather for ducks."

The dog sighed.

"Good weather for ducks."

The dog sighed.

"Good weather for ducks."

The dog smiled.

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