We Are Not Amused - Let's Have A Laugh

The comment “We are not amused” is widely believed to have been said by Queen Victoria in response to an inappropriate joke or remark made by an equerry. I can’t help but wonder what the equerry actually said in front of the queen. If he was trying to make her laugh, perhaps he was shocked to discover it wasn’t acceptable. According to Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Alice, her grandmother told her that she hadn’t said “We are not amused” at all. Alice and other young members of the royal family of the time loved Queen Victoria’s sense of fun, finding her jolly with a great sense of humour. She laughed a lot and was amused by many things, apparently. In her later years, she gave the impression of an austere woman with strict moral values. I expect that she held the moral high ground, but I think her facial expression after the death of Prince Albert showed her grief and huge sense of loss rather than austerity.

Laughing is good for us. Seeking amusement, we look for the comedy, the cheerful light-hearted recreations that will make us feel uplifted and happy. It is personal choice, we all have our favourites whether we are going out to be entertained or choosing what to have on TV. Sometimes, the really hilarious moments are self-made. This is definitely the case with my crazy family. Put me in the company of my wonderful niece and within seconds we will have sparked each other into squeals of laughter, usually about nothing, and I will be crying and rushing to the loo with comments about double strength Tena pads making me laugh even more. If her mother, my sister is with us, the hilarity is increased and the three of us are best left to it. We can’t help it. We still laugh at things that happened years ago. At my nephew’s wedding ceremony I broke the silence of a solemn moment with a very loud, giant snort. I will never live it down. I was trying not to cry and holding my breath then the snort just happened. The mirth has lasted far longer than his marriage did, sadly for him. My father had a ‘thing’ about curtains being closed correctly. Two curtains would have to meet exactly in the middle, the drapes had to be equal and the overlap had to be uniform all the way down. It didn’t matter who closed the curtains, he would have to give his finishing touch. Perfectionist. At his funeral service, my sister and I couldn’t look at each other as the curtains closed in front of his coffin. We were both thinking the same thing and finding amusement in the saddest of circumstances. It proved our resilience.

That is us. Amused and amusing at the same time, like lots of families. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had a large family. I hope they laughed heartily at daft things and had silly moments like we do. I hope they broke the silence with a massive snort, or worse, and I hope, like us, they were amused more often than they were not.

I found this poem,

I’m not sure it it’s fact or rumour,
Queen Victoria lost her humour,
Deciding one day she refused
All attempts to be amused.

Some say it was indigestion,
Others claim that’s speculation.
I believe what’s widely known,
That she hurt her funny bone.

Phil Ward, 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blackout!

 Blackout Poetry  it is then! I'd not tried this technique before, though my fellow Dead Good blogger Kate has made a strong case for it. I believe it's also called Redacted Poetry and Found Poetry, the idea being to take  a page of printed matter - magazine, menu, newspaper, book even (though obviously one you don't care for much) - and craft a poem by blacking out or redacting much of the text, leaving unredacted sufficient carefully pre-selected words so as to make a found poem. It's straightforward in theory but more tricky in practice, as I have found out this week - see Russ, my first attempt at a blackout poem below. 

Musing on blackout and redaction made we think of wartime, secrets and subterfuge, the second world war in particular, and Hitler's blitzes, when the people of Britain went to great lengths to black the country out every night so as not to give the Luftwaffe's bombers any helpful clues as to where to drop their bombs. The injunction to black out even extended to motor vehicles (see below).

'blackout' headlamps on WWII vehicles

I didn't know, until researching for this blog, that special slitted headlight guards were manufactured and fitted to civilian and military vehicles alike from 1940 onwards, designed to diffuse beams and make night-time traffic harder to spot from the air. I'm assuming it also made driving round at 30mph in almost total darkness  (save for nights of silvery moonlight) quite a challenging business and a bit of an acquired skill. 

I was more familiar with the concept of blacking out windows and doors, from films and literature referencing World War II. In fact, the concept had been championed by Churchill as early as the First World War when he was First Lord of the Admiralty and he wanted a blackout of coastal towns so as to make it more difficult for German battleships to identify targets for attack from the sea. It was left to local councils to implement the campaign. By the time of the Second World War and the new threat of bombardment from the air, blackout precautions became mandatory on a national scale for homes, shops, and factories from September 1939 onwards.

'blackout' curtains in WWII homes

The regulations stipulated that all windows and doors should be covered from the inside at night to prevent the escape of any light that might aid enemy aircraft to identify areas of population. Thick fabrics (as shown above), light-tight wooden shutters, pieces of carpet or stiff cardboard blinds were advocated. Factories and workshops with large areas of glass windows or glass roof panels were ordered to paint them black. In addition, all external lights, from streetlamps to porch lights, were to be turned off during the hours of darkness. Air Raid Precaution wardens would patrol at night to ensure compliance and anyone failing to black out their premises was liable for a hefty fine. It was a well-observed but largely unpopular imposition which did little for morale.

With hindsight, night-time blackouts probably did very little either to thwart the assaults of the German bombers because navigators relied more on reflections from bodies of water, railway track and major roads as they cross-referenced what they could see on the ground with their route maps and by 1944 the stringency of the regulations had been slackened somewhat from 'blackout' to 'dim-out', much to everyone's relief.

make poetry not war

And so to this exercise in being creatively destructive (or destructively creative). For text material I used the novel 'South Wind ' by Norman Douglas (published during the First World War). I'd bought it recently for £1 in a second-hand bookshop in the Lake District as holiday reading but gave up part way through, something I rarely do. I realised I didn't care for it much. Therefore I sacrificed one of its rather tanned pages to the cause and started redacting away. The result (scanned into my laptop for converting into an image) is presented here below:

Russ - my first attempt at a 'blackout' poem

What's that all about then? Does it even make for an interesting poem? What I think is that the creator of blackout poetry is constrained not by form or structure (as is usually the case) but by the vocabulary on offer, I found the process limiting in that respect, even more so than when creating collage poetry. For that reason I decided to write an additional poem, a commentary on the whole  experience. Fresh from the imaginarium, I offer you my...

Deep Fake Tan Page Poem #1

In one obscure corner of  a sooty dream

self-esteem lay dying for want of breath.

Its sinister devil's hand took up the Book 

of Douglas, used it for a fan but the spine

cracked and a single tan leaf floated free.

Russ had never read past page 39, as style

and content were not to Meadows' liking

in those dark hours tunnelled deep below

a city where bombs reigned. With fountain

pen by flickering candlelight he sent words

and phrases into black obscurity for no end

than to obfuscate the tedium of addiction to

his drug of choice. Yet what remained when

he awoke from lethargy made meaning clear

as smoky morning light in rubbled squares.

He loved Nepenthe hopelessly, the bastard 

didn't care, was no longer there, so the pity

everybody spoke must drive him onwards.

To finish on a sustained black note, here's a musical bonus (and why not?), Talking Heads performing Life During Wartime

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Curtains and Other Problems

When my eldest son was about fourteen there was a fashion for boys’ hair that was commonly known as ‘curtains.'  I admit it was a fashion I wasn’t particularly fond of, but remembering my own teenage hair (styles and colours) I wasn’t too bothered when Joe’s hair was grown into the fashionable style.  If I remember rightly (and actually, I was the family hairdresser at the time, so must have had a hand in this) it meant a fringe, parted into two fairly thick curtains, framing the face.  The back of the head was shaved short and there was a weird pudding basin effect when viewed from the side. 

Something I’m sure I got from my mum was a pretty laissez faire attitude to teenage attire and style.  I’ve always loved people who dressed a little way out (my husband’s all year round shorts obsession bears this out), and I used to go out of my way to dress my children in clothes that nobody else had, mostly designed and sewn or knitted by myself.  This lasted until they were about eleven when they began to show signs of gentle rebellion.  I was wise enough to know that what they desired most was to fit in with their friends and peers, so Joe’s jacket with the hand appliqued Dennis the Menace on the back, or Laurey’s coat made out of a remnant of padded flowery curtain material just didn’t cut it any more when their mates were in Adidas and Nike. 

I look back to my own teenage years where my best friend and I were desperate to be different.  Living in London this was pretty difficult: everyone was different in London.  We bought tiny kilts and wore them with skinny rib jumpers, tap shoes and stripey tights.  We strutted up and down Wood Green High Road and basked in the comments and compliments.  Even at the time, I was sure they were directed more at her as a tall, slim, long legged burgeoning beauty, rather than the short, stocky friend, but I comforted myself with the thought that I was generally the instigator of any particular fashion experiment.  When we ventured into town on the tube we didn’t get a second glance, there were far more interesting sights.

Anyway, back to Joe and his curtains.  At about this time a note came home from school, informing us in no uncertain terms that this particular hairstyle would no longer be tolerated.  It didn’t explain why.  Between us, his dad and I agreed that it was a ridiculous rule, but, as an act of solidarity with authority, we told Joe to brush his hair to one side whilst he was at school, and threw the letter in the bin.  Shortly after this we heard that a few boys had been put to work in isolation for continuing to sport the curtains hairstyle.  Despite being an ex teacher, married to an ex teacher (albeit one who defied the rules of tie wearing for thirty odd years) I have never understood the rules applying to kids’ hairstyles.  I agree it’s preferable for pupils to look presentable, but surely that’s subjective anyway?  And to be isolated for the curtains style struck me as quite pointless.   This view was backed up a year or so later when short, shaved hair became the rage.  Lo and behold, this was also deemed inappropriate and those sporting the style were once again doomed to work in isolation.  This went on throughout my son’s high school years – basically, whatever was in fashion was against the rules.  

Curtains and a Flat Top

Amongst other things I once spent an increasingly frustrated and annoyed thirty minutes going over the yellow stitching on my son’s shoes with a black felt tip pen, to avoid him being excluded.  I’m all for rules, so long as they are sensible and meaningful.  In my mind coloured stitching was something that really didn’t merit worrying about.  But then I am the teacher who has been reprimanded twice  for wearing inappropriate clothing.  Personally, I thought the yellow flying suit with cartoon characters was fine for infants PE, and the red ski pants matched perfectly the vermillion in the multicoloured mohair jumper. To be warned by a member of the School Fashion Police, herself wearing a beige blouse, green pleated crimplene skirt, a pair of flat pumps and an expression of disdain simply added insult to injury.

There was another story about curtains that I debated telling here.  It involved the husband, a square bay window, a curtain rail, a screwdriver, some screws, two large curtains and a hammer.  But that’s another story.  Suffice to say, the husband, the curtains and the rail ended up through the smashed window, the table he was standing on lost a leg and a divorce was only avoided by his firm promise to get a man in…..  I’ll save the full version for another day.

Apologies...it was 'curtains' for this week's poem due to illness.

Thanks for reading      Jill

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Curtains - Hang Them Straight

 The Christmas tree is up. This year I’ve chosen our ‘pre-lit’ one, out of the three we have. I quickly realised how dimly lit it is and ended up patiently winding a set of lights through the branches to achieve an acceptable effect.  The exercise served to remind me that we were going to buy a new tree and brighter lights this year and that we’d kept the three trees in case either of our offspring, now living in their own homes, might want one.  Of course, they don’t. They have beautifully decorated well-lit trees. I can’t get this one quite right and I know I’ll spend the duration of its presence rearranging baubles, messing with the branches and twiddling the bead garlands. My family will humour me and share knowing looks, like my sister and I used to do with our dad. I take after my dad when it comes to perfectionism.

Dad might have had OCD, had it been invented in his day. Everything was ‘just so’ everywhere from the pub cellar, his office, his side of the bedroom. On his desk, pens were lined up in size order and the accounts ledgers that stayed on top were neatly piled with the largest underneath and the smallest on top. Each night, he emptied his pockets on to his chest of drawers, loose coins stacked in order, wallet next to his keys and wristwatch placed in the box bearing the jeweller’s name. His obsession with our curtains was far beyond his usual neatness and attention to detail and has been the subject of many a family tale, resulting in much laughter.

They had to hang straight and be gathered evenly. They had to over-lap at an exact point when closed and be symmetrical when open. Normal stuff that everyone does? Not Dad. He was way over the top. My sister and I have families who think we exaggerate things about our upbringing for their amusement. We don’t need to. We introduce them to a grandfather they were born too late to know, a witty, down-to-earth, hard-working man who loved us beyond measure. He would have loved his grandchildren with all of his generous heart.

Dad was old before his time. Years of running pubs took its toll and he suffered with arthritis and a bad back from heaving barrels and lugging crates of bottles up from the cellar. His pain or discomfort did not distract him from seeing to the curtains. Refusing offers of help, he would struggle to stand up from his armchair then shuffle across the sitting room just to straighten an edge of fabric or check the over-lap that didn’t look quite right in his eye-line. We’ve even stood there, in the window, putting the curtains how they should be, according to his instruction. That wasn’t usually good enough and he’d moan in a light-hearted way, insisting that he’d better do it himself.

  My sister and I didn’t dare to make eye contact at his funeral when the curtains closed across his coffin. We both expected to see his hands slip through to straighten the dark red velvet.

I don’t have curtains, but I’m fussy about which way my vertical blinds are turned.  I’ll have another tweak with the bead garlands on the Christmas Tree in a minute. What a pain they are. I can’t understand is how everything that was wrapped and packed properly last January could have become such a jumble? Maybe it wasn’t me who put it away?

My photo shows the bedroom window of an hotel where I stayed with my husband this autumn. It’s one of Dad’s pubs from my childhood and we happened to be staying in what was my parent’s bedroom. Not the same curtains, but I’m sure my dad would have stood at that window, surveying night-time on the street before pulling them across and straightening the drape.

A short poem for the father I love and miss so much.

 

Remember the curtains of gold

Draping over the window sill?

I really miss those days of old

And wish you could touch them, still.

 

A Merry Christmas to everyone and thanks for reading, Pam xx

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