Build Up - We Wish You a Merry...NOT YET!

 

Christmas is coming. Commercially, the big build up began around September, as always, and started to wind me up immediately. I can’t stand it. As a Christian, I look forward to Christmas and celebrating the birth of Christ. Non-believers please respect as I do you. This year, the build-up seems to have annoyed me more than ever. I felt brain washed into thinking I was behind with my own preparations. I’ve grumbled at every TV advert and moaned about decorations being displayed early. Bah humbug. December 1^st is soon enough. My whole year has been a roller-coaster ride consisting of more downs than ups with no end in sight to balance things out. Everyone, well, nearly everyone wanted me to address my 70^th birthday with bells and whistles. I didn’t, but anyone who wanted to celebrate on my behalf was welcome to go fill their boots – at their own expense. There were some special moments. Thank you for the fine dining, you know who you are. I was so glad to go and hide and hibernate for a couple of welcome weeks at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway, out of the rat-race and with a fabulous view.

Of course, the Christmas build up was also under way in Castle Douglas and Kirkcudbright, but in a nice way and I could cope quite happily. I’m better suited to the pace of life there.  We’d missed the arrival of Santa who made his annual sail into Kirkcudbright harbour the week before we got there. It is a spectacular event and great for the children. We’ve seen it before and filmed most of it, still on a camera somewhere. As I fretted over Christmas and not being ready, I did some gift shopping as calmly as I could, keeping panic mode at bay. I enjoyed a quiet afternoon using my new, birthday present pen to write the cards that required posting. Anyone receiving my card through the mail can be forgiven for thinking we’ve moved, at last. I wish.

The build up to Christmas continues at home, now that we’ve returned. With four excited grandchildren still of an age to be enchanted, I can’t be too ‘humbuggy’. Our tree, old faithful that I intend to replace and say so every 12^th night, was hurriedly put together so the kids could hang their chosen decorations. It’s since had a small tidy – sorry, but I had to – and looks okay, if a bit askew.

This week, I’ll return to the school library and enjoy the company of more excited children in Christmas jumpers, and some naughty elves, I’m informed. My eyes will be moist as I hear their carols and Christmas songs coming from the hall, and I’ll put maudlin to one side for a while.

This is a poem from a Christmas card I have in a frame and bring out every year,

Christmas Memories

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought –

And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…

Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.

Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.

Patience Strong  1907-1990

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Laughter - The Best Medicine

 

“Laughter is the best medicine” is a well-known saying and it is true. We feel better after a good laugh and depending on the reason for the laughter, that good feeling can last. There’s a long list of benefits. This is just a few. Laughter protects the heart, boosts the immune system, triggers the release of endorphins and relaxes the whole body. It even burns calories, apparently.

We need something to laugh at and that is down to personal preference. What might be hilarious to some might be totally unfunny to others. Something happened when I was fourteen. I was on my own watching Steptoe and Son on television. I don’t remember the episode or anything about it, except really enjoying it and loudly laughing my head off when my father’s new wife came into the room. I think she said, “That’s so funny,” or something along those lines, but I’d shut up. I don’t know if I was embarrassed, self-conscious, or just a typical fourteen year old girl bereft of her mother and trying to adjust to changes. It was a turning point, an experience that’s stayed with me.

The first time I saw Billy Connolly in concert – Preston Guild Hall c.1974/5 – I laughed so much and for so long that I had to stop listening to him until I could breathe again. I missed the even funnier end to some stories because of the state I was in. I’ve seen him on stage a few times and he’s always had the same effect. Luckily, I have DVDs to fill in those important gaps. It’s my love for Scotland that goes beyond The Broons and Oor Wullie of my childhood, Billy Connolly for the last fifty years and Still Game more recently. There must be something Scottish in my DNA. Peter Kay gets to me, too. I haven’t seen him on stage, just television and DVDs of concerts. I’m also a survivor of a very long, very late and very funny midnight matinee with Ken Dodd. What a master of mirth.

Put me in a room with my niece and we will both be helpless with laughter in minutes. Add her mother, my sister into the mix and that laughter will only take seconds. If we’re at my house, I’ll be running squealing into the handy downstairs loo. If we happen to be out, they’ll sit me close to the ‘Ladies’. How thoughtful they both are. It’s just how we interact and what starts it often comes from nowhere, unless we’re reliving a previous event that had us in stitches on the ‘Do you remember when…’ memory lane.

Laughter has been in short supply lately. Life is a rollercoaster ride and there are too many dips at the moment. Things will improve. For now I think I need Billy Connolly at his best, some episodes of Steptoe and Son to remind me how far I’ve come and my niece and sister who share my craziness.

A poem from Muhammad Ali,

He took a few cups of love.
He took one tablespoon of patience,
One teaspoon of generosity,
One pint of kindness.
He took one quart of laughter,
One pinch of concern.
And then, he mixed willingness with happiness.
He added lots of faith,
And he stirred it up well.
Then he spread it over a span of a lifetime,
And he served it to each and every deserving person he met.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Plague - Bubonic, Covid?

I haven’t been to Eyam, but I believe it to be beautiful and interesting. It is on my bucket list of places to visit. Eyam is a small village in the Derbyshire Peak District which worked hard to be self-contained during an outbreak of a highly infectious disease.

Taken from ‘The Plague in Eyam ’ by George May,

“The plague which was a highly infectious and very unpleasant disease widely known in Britain and Europe, came to Eyam in the summer of 1665, possibly in a bale of cloth brought up from London. The people in the house where it came to, caught the disease and died in a short space of time. Before long, others had caught the disease and also died, after a short and very painful illness. It spread rapidly. The local rector, The Rev. William Mompesson and his predecessor, led a campaign to prevent the disease spreading outside the village to the surrounding area. This involved the people of the village remaining in the village and being supplied with necessary provisions by people outside.

the boundary stone

                                                            
"There is still on the outskirts of the village a location called the Boundary stone, where traditionally money was placed in small holes for the provisions which those from the local area brought for the villagers. As a result of this action, the disease did not spread, but almost a third of the villagers died. Interestingly some of the villagers who were in contact with those who caught the plague, did not catch it. This was because they had a chromosome which gave them protection. This same chromosome has been shown to still exist in those who are direct descendants of those who survived the plague, and who are still living in the village at the present time. The action of the villagers in staying in the village is almost unique and makes the village the place of significance that it is.”

The nursery rhyme Ring-a-ring-of-roses is thought to have come from this event.

We had to apply a similar process during the Covid lockdown, by relying on grocery deliveries and isolating ourselves as much as possible. I will forever, keep to social distancing when possible and be mindful of handwashing and disinfecting.

Here's poet laureate, Simon Armitage,

Lockdown

And I couldn’t escape the waking dream
of infected fleas

in the warp and weft of soggy cloth
by the tailor’s hearth

in ye old Eyam.
Then couldn’t un-see

the Boundary Stone,
that cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes,

thimbles brimming with vinegar wine
purging the plagued coins.

Which brought to mind the sorry story
of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre,

star-crossed lovers on either side
of the quarantine line

whose wordless courtship spanned the river
till she came no longer.

But slept again,
and dreamt this time

of the exiled yaksha sending word
to his lost wife on a passing cloud,

a cloud that followed an earthly map
of camel trails and cattle tracks,

streams like necklaces,
fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants,

embroidered bedspreads
of meadows and hedges,

bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks,
waterfalls, creeks,

the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes
and the glistening lotus flower after rain,

the air
hypnotically see-through, rare,

the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow
but necessarily so.

                            Simon Armitage, 2020

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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False Memory - The Way It Should Have Been

One of my nephews had a birthday last weekend. He is my sister’s eldest and was the first baby to be welcomed into the immediate family since she herself was born and the anticipated event had filled us with excitement for months. I found myself remembering his birth, which was thirty-six years ago and with pangs of sadness, discovered my false memory.

A Wednesday afternoon and I was at work. All was quiet, just three of us on the premises. The shop was shut, retail staff still observing half day closing. It didn’t affect office staff so we were busily working – actually, the work would have been completed already and we were probably taking it easy and having a laugh until we could lock up and leave. When my sister phoned to say things were happening, baby on the move, help wanted, my colleagues sent me on my way.

I drove to her house, a short distance from where I was on Dickson Road to where she was near Stanley Park. My false memory tells me that I packed her into my dark blue Austin Maxi, but I didn’t have that car anymore. I had a light blue metallic and rust Datsun Violet. I was sent on a quick errand on foot to a nearby shop for camera film – those were the days – and returning to my car, thought my sister was about to give birth there and then as for some reason, the passenger seat was flat. Luckily, I delivered her to the hospital before any other delivery happened and waited with her until her husband arrived from his place of work out of town. I went home.

This is where my recollection of events all goes funny, such a strong memory yet so false. By now it is early evening. I’m sat on the settee in the lounge, knitting a chunky-knit cardigan with thick needles. I’m doing a sleeve which is growing quickly and I’m thinking if I finish this piece before the baby comes, it’s a girl, if not, it’s a boy. I don’t think we had gender reveals at that time. My dad is sitting in his usual armchair, reading every word in the Gazette, sharing a few adverts in the classified section, items for sale, usually cars, and drawing a ring round them with his Parker biro. He’s wearing a denim-blue sweater that I made for him. He checks his yellow tea-cup, disappointed to find it empty. The phone rings in the hall and he goes to answer it. Of course, it was the happy news of the safe arrival of a perfect baby boy.

This is how I remember it. Or is it how I wish to remember it?

 My father had been ecstatic to learn he was going to be a grandfather and shared his news with anyone who would listen. A boy would be lovely after raising daughters, but of course a granddaughter would be loved and cherished just the same. Arthritis plagued my father. He blamed it on rolling barrels and lifting cases of bottles in the pubs. He relied on pain relief and some days he was better than others. Out of the blue, he suffered a heart attack. It was serious, but he rallied and after a couple of weeks in hospital, he was well enough to be discharged. The experience had scared him and he would need time to recover. He felt mentally shot and physically weak and told me how he hoped he would be strong enough to hold the baby when it arrived.

He didn’t get the chance. Another heart attack took his life nearly two months before my nephew was born. He was 62.

False Memory

Blue knitted jumper, nice
Subtly fragrant Old Spice.
Another pot of tea?
Empty cup.
I was sure he was there
In his usual chair
With an open Gazette
Close to hand.
On the table, his pen,
Should he need it again,
Circling classified ads,
Things for sale.
I thought he got the phone
But he’d already gone.
My mind playing cruel tricks.
Death’s torment.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Oh, What A Night - The Best Times

Oh, what a night, what a theme! I've many to choose from, here's a few.

The first thing to spring to mind is all the Moody Blues concerts I’ve been to. I tried to count it up but it’s impossible.  On every UK tour for nearly twenty years, I have attended two or three concerts at least, out of a probable eight, depending on location. We’ve wrapped holidays and mini-breaks around concert dates. I longed to see them at the Royal Albert Hall, where I knew the acoustics would be perfect for their music. I was ecstatic to eventually make it in 2006 and went to two of their three concerts. The experience was everything I’d hoped for. On the second night, my daughter and I managed to place ourselves in front of the stage, with many others dancing and singing through the encore. It was worth having to stay in the grottiest of shabby back street hotels. We live and learn. A couple of years later we stayed in a lovely hotel in Blackheath when we went to see the Moodies at the 02. Not my favourite venue, but the hotel was great.

I like football. I grew up in a family devoted to Manchester United, so it was bound to rub off. My maternal grandfather, a licensee in Sale when I was small, had mates connected to the club. I remember the sadness in the family when the Munich air crash happened, though I was too young to fully understand. Years later we took our children on a tour of MUFC and I spent ages in the museum learning about the Busby Babes. In 2006 there was an opportunity to go to a match. Burton Albion were coming to Old Trafford for a mid-week, evening FA cup replay. Tickets went on open sale. I can’t remember how much it cost for our family of four to have the best seats possible, on the centre-line above the dugout, and pre-booked pre-paid disabled parking, but I know it was a very expensive family night out. It was worth every penny. Our son, who was about fifteen, had the time of his life. Our daughter amused everyone around us by asking me if it was ‘live’. It was a 5-0 win to United. It took hours to get out of the car park and start our journey home. A very late school night, but a great time was had by us all. Sometimes you need a treat.

Going to see John Cooper Clarke was a treat indeed. I’ve loved his poetry since he first came on the scene as a ‘punk poet’, so clever, so observant, telling it like it is with no words wasted. I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale at the Kendal Brewery Arts Centre. We had pizza in the Vats Bar then took our front row seats in the theatre. The first half of the event was my introduction to Manchester poet, Mike Garry, who held me spellbound and spoke my language, quite literally as he comes from the same part of Manchester as I do. Afterwards, I bought a copy of his book, which he signed for me as we chatted. John Cooper Clarke was amazing and kept going and going, despite not being fully recovered from a recent illness. It was just brilliant to hear the poems I knew and loved so well being performed live by the poet. Oh, what a night!

 

 

Oh, what a night at the Royal Albert Hall

On a wonderful Moody Blues tour,

When we danced and sang, right up close to the stage,

Joining in with their final encore.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Cricket Ground,

Simply Red in July, ’92.

‘Holding Back the Years’ always has me in tears.

Dreams of the future were coming true.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Football Ground,

Our fam’ly supporting United.

Fortunes for tickets, but the thrill of the match

And victory made us delighted.

 

Oh, what a night in Kendal, John Cooper Clarke,

The Bard of Salford, great to be heard,

And Manchester’s Mike Garry blew me away

As I hung on to his every word.

 

PMW 2019

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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