Biorhythms - Life Cycles

Long before speed cameras were installed on the A583, my personal best driving time from my little house in Layton to my place of work in Preston was seventeen minutes. This was early morning, summertime and green traffic lights. I promise I kept to the speed limits until I was on open road, in that quiet window between the factory workers heading to British Aerospace or GEC setting off for Strand Road, and regular morning traffic building up. I liked to arrive at work for seven-forty-five. I liked to be one of the first in.

One morning I was thwarted by incidents beyond my control. A minor collision between a car and a van had occurred on the bend at Lea, blocking the road and putting traffic in both directions at a standstill for ages. This was in the old days, before reaching for a mobile phone was second nature. As time marched on and despite the soothing tone of Terry Wogan keeping me company on the radio, I began to feel stressed. Out of three key holders, I was the only one expected in work that day. The other two both lived in Blackpool and would have had the same problem as me, had they tried to get there. All I could do was wait. Eventually, things were moving and I managed to fly up Riversway, lucky green lights, all the way to work and a car park full of patiently waiting staff. I gave apologies and explained the situation, which they were aware of as someone had heard a traffic report on local radio.

“Bad biorhythms day, love?” A colleague offered sympathy when we were inside the building, unlocking doors and switching off the alarm. She made me laugh, if nothing else. Biorhythms had become popular at that time, mid-eighties. I remember someone having a book about it and learning how to work out biorhythm cycles. I just thought it was a fad, I still do. I believe that my thoughts and feelings are all to do with how I might deal with something, be it stressful or otherwise, and not where I might be up to on a biorhythm cycle. Of course, I might have it all wrong.

From Wikipedia – “The biorhythm theory is the pseudoscientific idea that our daily lives are significantly affected by rhythmic cycles with periods of exactly 23, 28 and 33 days, typically a 23 day physical cycle, a 28 day emotional cycle and a 33 day intellectual cycle. The idea was developed by Wilhelm Fliess in the late 19^th century and was popularised in the United States in late 1970s. The proposal has been independently tested and consistently no validity for it has been found.”

There it is. The cynical side of me is amused that a man decided to refer to the 28 day cycle as ‘emotional’.  

Biorhythm readings, predictions, whatever is the best description, are available online. On the strength of nothing more than my date of birth, this reading came back in a nanosecond: ‘Physical’ – Efficiency is high. Use it. ‘Emotional’ – There will be light at the end of the tunnel. Sitting in your shell is not much fun. ‘Intellectual’ – Getting better with intellectual skills, if work needs concentration, it’s good to do it within the next ten days.

Actually, I’m having lots of fun sitting in my shell, being efficient and doing my own thing, be it intellectual or not. Everyone who shares my date of birth will have the same reading, just like a horoscope.

A bad biorhythms day as suggested by my colleague all those years ago means nothing. Sat in a traffic jam, concerned about staff, unable to let them know and feeling tense because of it is all there was to it.

My haiku:

Tell me if it’s true,

All this biorhythm stuff,

I don’t believe it.

 

Don’t bother checking,

Nothing more than horoscope.

Take life as it comes.

 

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, take care, Pam x

 

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Ice Cream - Oh For Some Tutti Frutti!

This time last week we were enjoying warm sunshine in Kirkcudbright. We sat by the harbour car park enjoying every miniature mouthful of our Cream O’ Galloway vanilla and raspberry ripple on our tiny, wooden spatula-like spoons. It is a fine, delicious ice cream, made locally in Gatehouse of Fleet. I was sure the tubs were smaller, but it might just be me. Things seem to shrink as I get older, everything except my body. The tubs were a perfect size for planting seeds in, I thought, popping the empties into the bin. It wasn’t practical to keep them, but I did say we could visit the factory and maybe they’d give me some. We didn’t put it to the test.

Ice cream was a Sunday afternoon treat when I was little. Mum and Dad would take me to Platt Fields to play and I clearly remember having a cornet in one hand and my doll, Sheila, named after my mum, in the other. Sometimes it would be a family outing, us three with both sets of grandparents, and whoever else tagging along. The ladies had cornets, the men had wafers and it was always Wall’s. We left Manchester for Lancaster when I was four, or nearly four, where Williamson Park offered even more fun with a hill to roll down and a ‘Wall’s’ sign at the café. Those blissful summer Sundays, I’m blessed with happy memories.

My grandchildren know I have ice lollies and ice cream in good supply in the freezer – something we didn’t have when I was little – and they only need to ask. Some of the ice cream boxes have other things in, like home-made chilli or Bolognese, barbecue chicken wings, that’s me recycling again.  Strawberries are abundant right now and a favourite desert with the children and adults. I only buy them in the summer but we’ll have them day after day. I ask the grandchildren if they would like cream or ice cream and usually get a reply for both, please. Of course, they can have both.  Sunday afternoons or Mondays after school, all four together for tea, with ice cream and sometimes cake, I hope memories are being made that they will remember with fondness in years to come.

If anyone knows where I can buy Tutti Frutti ice cream, please tell me. Carte D’or don’t seem to make it anymore. Thanks in advance.

I found this,

Bleezer’s Ice Cream

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:

COCOA MOCHA MACARONI
TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY
CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW
CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW
TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO
TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO
LOBSTER LITCHI LIMA BEAN
MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN
ALMOND HAM MERINGUE SALAMI
YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI
SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH
SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH
BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE
POMEGRANATE PUMPERNICKEL
PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM
PEANUT PUMPKIN BUBBLEGUM
BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER
CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER
AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT
PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT
COTTON CANDY CARROT CUSTARD
CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD
ONION DUMPLING DOUBLE DIP
TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP
GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY GUAVA
LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA
ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET
WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask for more.

                                                      Jack Prelutsky


Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Sugar - A Little Stick of Blackpool Rock

 Somewhere, hidden in the maze of back alleys and side streets of South Shore, there once stood the rock factory. It was only a two minute jog away from our pub, very handy for my first summer holidays job and I was excited to start. Well, I was more excited at the prospect of earning a wage to fund the spends for my school trip to Yugoslavia at the end of August. Dad gave me pocket money for sorting empty bottles at weekends and re-stocking shelves when the pub was shut, but he’d paid for my adventure and anything more was down to me.

On my first morning, I presented my fourteen and a half year old self at a side door to the factory. It was only eight o’clock but already a hive of activity. I was ushered into an office where a fearsome looking man dressed in chef’s whites glanced my way and barked orders. I would work eight until six with an hour off at dinner time. I would brew up when told to for morning and afternoon breaks. I was given a pale blue, long sleeved overall, the same as all the ladies. Some wore headscarves tied like a turban. They were the ones who touched the soft, pliable rock when it was tipped from the sugar boiler. They rolled it, gently stretching it until it was the required thickness, or thinness. This was a skill. They had to work in unison and very quickly before the rock began to harden, otherwise it would crack when cut into lengths. The things we learn in life.

My place was in packing, no headscarf needed. I put labels on jars of ‘pebbles’, wrapped sticky tape round the lids and boxed them up ready to go. I put rock into walking-stick tubes and taped caps on them. I tied ribbons on to blue and pink plastic handles ready to be put into the ‘sugary dummy’ mould. Later, I was shown how to operate a machine that sealed cellophane wrapping round giant humbugs. I knew I’d reached a peak when, at last, I donned a pretty headscarf and went into the finishing room to learn how to wrap sticks of rock. There is a skill to it and I’m not sure if I mastered it. Holding one end still, it sort of twisted itself while my other hand rolled it quickly then twisted the other end, and remember to pop a ‘Blackpool Rock’ slip in as it rolled. It is likely that there's a machine to do it these days. Mainly, I was packing items up ready for despatch.

It was a learning curve about some aspects of the real world. Although I was brought up in pubs, some with ‘salt of the earth’ men’s vault bars, I must have had a sheltered life. I’d never heard so much swearing all at once and really rough talk from women and men alike. A couple of girls who had come to work in Blackpool for the summer talked openly about meeting lads and what they got up to on the beach at night. They weren’t much older than me and were friendly enough but laughed at my naivety.

The highlight of my time there was being pushed around the huge sugar store in a wheel-barrow by a boy I knew from school, also on a summer job, and jumping out quickly without being seen.

The low moments were nearly every day for the first week, probably longer, the sickly, sweet smell of molten sugar with a hint of mint or worse, aniseed, turned my stomach so much I’d be running down the yard hoping to make it to the loo before vomiting. At the very least, I’d have a headache.

I managed the full five weeks as arranged and had new clothes and holiday money for Yugoslavia. It was all worth it.

 

 

A light-hearted blog, a serious poem. I love this.

 

 

The God of Sugar (Sugar Shed, Greenock)

Cavernous – and empty now –
no shouts of dockers,
no barefoot women shovelling
molasses – it has the chill
and hush of a cathedral.

Like a pilgrim arrived at a shrine,
wanting something to touch
for a vision or sign
that a saint or god is there,
I rub the tip of my finger

against the rough bricks
of the wall and lick, tasting
sweet dirt, seeing, shining
in the gloom, an obese boy¬
like Elvis in a sequin suit.

What prayers should I offer
to this god of sugar?
Most fitting and proper,
prayers for the slaves
drowned in leaking holds;

or for those who survived
the voyage to the Caribbean
to cut the cane, lashed
until their backs were striped
with festering wounds.

Or prayers for the child
who spooned golden syrup
from the green lion tin, dribbling it
in spirals to form amber pools
in her porridge; who stole

from her mother’s purse
to buy red-tipped sugar cigarettes;
who ruined her teeth
on lollipops and seaside rock?
Prayers for the woman

who still craves sweetness:
savouring strawberries dipped
in the sugar dish, gobbets
of crystallised ginger, figs
almost rotten with ripeness.

by Vicki Feaver

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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