Adolescence - That Difficult Age

 A definition –

‘Adolescence is the phase of life between childhood and adulthood, from ages 10 to 19. It is a unique stage of human development and an important time for laying the foundations of good health. Adolescents experience rapid physical, cognitive and psychosocial growth.’

We all go through it, some better than others, but I think it’s a fair assumption that none of us would like to go through it again. The itchy personal areas sprouting body hair, blushing, sweating, feeling awkward and embarrassed, suffering acne, the onset of menstruation and, if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridicule of peers. We change and grow at the right time for our body clocks, so a twelve year old male or female might already have a mature body and be a fascination to their less developed friends, those later developers came under similar scrutiny. I suppose I was one of the many Miss Averages, but that didn’t mean it was an easy time. I had added problems. My mother always made sure I had a supply of sanitary towels. When she became terminally ill and no longer able to see to me herself, our helper, Auntie Kathy, was tasked with such things and I could bounce all manner of questions off her. My mother passed away when I was thirteen and a half. Auntie Kathy, who wasn’t a real auntie but a member of staff, was my rock. I had my grandmother, too, who was more special than words can say, but she lived away. When my father remarried within months, Auntie Kathy was no longer needed as our housekeeper and left us, but continued to be my saviour for many years. I was a frequent visitor to her home. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on, sometimes a good laugh. She was good at both. All this going on and adolescence, too. Oh, and at school there was a small team of horrid girls who stole sanitary protection by bullying others to hand things over, or steal from their school bags, teasing anyone who didn’t have anything because they hadn’t ‘started’ yet. Children can be cruel.

There was a boy in my high school class who looked the same in the fifth year as he had in the first year, though maybe a bit taller. About ten years after our school days we met by chance at the Derby Baths, of all places. He was in the forces, Army or RAF, doing very well and looking like a blond Adonis, what my dad would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’. He had grown up. I wouldn’t have known him, but he recognised me.

When it came to growing up, adolescence and puberty, I wanted to be the best parent I could possibly be to my children. I’ve always been open and approachable about anything. I attended meetings at school about Personal & Social Education so I would know exactly what was going to be discussed in their lessons and how various questions might be answered. Armed with information and confident to be on the right level I was ready. Our son, having reached a silent or grunty, living in his room stage, coming out to get fed, was fine. Our daughter, starting periods refused to have a conversation with me about it. I respected her wishes and privacy. I made sure she had what she needed and wrote her a letter explaining what I wanted to say. It was ripped up and put in her bin. I felt so hurt at the time. I wasn’t wanted, not allowed to even do this for her. Hormones, from both of us, firing in different directions.

My chosen poem, from Philip Larkin, it just had to be...

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Magic of Miniature

I’m not quite sure where or when my fascination with all things miniature began. 

I wonder whether it was the love of my grandma’s button tin, lining up the buttons in various combinations as pupils in a classroom, bossing the poor buttons about - a much easier job than actual teaching, as I discovered some forty years later. 

Or was it the visit to the model village, one Sunday when I was about eight? My dad worked twelve hour days, six days a week, so family trips out were a rarity, as they were for many children growing up in the fifties.  One Sunday we were all bundled into the car and driven, for what seemed like hours (I’ve just checked - it’s still there - and it was only 30 miles away), to a model village in Beaconsfield. There was great excitement as we marched around the paths like giants, gazed at the cricketers, forever destined to remain mid bowl, mid bat or halfway to a catch; and cocked our ears to listen to the church bells with a wedding in full swing, tiny bride and groom clinging to each other with fixed smiles for the photographer, bridesmaids clutching their chipped and faded bouquets. 

My brothers became bored and soon started to mess about, but I was absolutely mesmerised. Not only did I love seeing all these tiny scenes, but I actually wanted to shrink down and be in them. I wanted to tiptoe across that little bridge, pick up the miniature fishing rod and dangle it in the river to catch a tiny pot fish. I wanted to be in that school playground with the skipping rope that didn’t turn, holding hands with the children in a circle that never moved. I wanted to climb into the fire engine and switch on the flashing red light, have a nosy in the police station, run across the tiny fields and stroke the sheep.  With hindsight, I realise this was an idealised view of England and its green and pleasant land, especially when people were still living on bomb sites, rebuilding houses after the war, and residing in prefabs. Maybe this was its appeal?

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It didn’t finish with the Model Village but continued with a visit to a silk farm in the afternoon. What a feast of a trip that was, all the more memorable for being so rare. I’m sure the last thing my dad wanted to do on his one day off was view a model village, sit in the car with a picnic and go on to a silk farm, but I did tell him, several times over the years, how much that trip had meant to me. 

I have always been an avid reader and at about this time I was reading ‘The Borrowers,’ a series of books about a family of tiny people who lived behind the skirting boards of a big house. They ‘borrowed’ things they found around the house to make clothes and furniture. Again, I was mesmerised by this magical idea and longed to find such a family in my own house. I remember dreaming that I’d shrunk and could get through the tiny door and into their miniature rooms, sit at their tables with tops fashioned out of buttons, on chairs made of matchsticks.  I don’t know what it was but I was truly hooked. 

Not long afterwards, my granddad made me a doll’s house, complete with carpets, wallpaper and even lights that switched on and off.  I spent hours redesigning the rooms, moving the furniture about and positioning the family at the piano, on an armchair or in bed. And during that time I was completely and utterly lost in that tiny world.  I kept the dolls house for years, and, when my children were old enough to appreciate it, out it came.  I had high hopes of a repeat of my fascination but it wasn’t to be. Both sons and a daughter were madly into football. Small houses were of no interest, and even I had to admit it did look rather battered and dated.  

I often took the children to the Model Village in Blackpool but I soon realised that it was more for my benefit than theirs. They were much more interested in getting an ice cream than looking at the tiny scenes, and, eventually, I had to admit defeat. 

In one final attempt to convince somebody else to appreciate the magic of miniature I bought a second-hand dolls house a few years ago for the grandchildren. At great expense I fitted it out with furniture and a little family. I intended to redecorate and lay new carpets, but like many of my projects (and even our own house) it never happened. The family could live in squalor, I hadn’t got the time nor the energy for DIY. I positioned the house in the middle of the room, everything arranged beautifully. The grandchildren came in, asked what it was, and gave the family a perfunctory shuffle around before asking if they could watch Peppa Pig on granddad's computer.

 

Now, I revel alone in my magical miniature world. I couldn't get rid of the dolls' house, it still sits in the corner of the room, and every so often I peer in, wondering what the little wooden family is up to.  I'm sure I heard the sound of a tiny piano the other night...

At Home with the Woods by Jill Reidy

In the middle of the night

As everybody sleeps 

Mrs Wood climbs out of bed 

And down the stairs she creeps

It’s time for more adventures 

Outside the wooden house

She pokes her head around the door 

As quiet as a mouse

Slippers on, she tiptoes out 

Her eyes and ears alert

A wrapper here, a hankie there 

Enough to make a skirt

She fills her little bag with bits 

Scattered on the floor 

Some raisins, grated cheese and crumbs 

A meal for five for sure

She hears a snore, a bed spring creaks

It’s nearly end of night

Time to take her haul back home 

Before the room gets light 

The humans rise, descend the stairs

Those mice are back, says he

I didn’t sweep the crumbs up

Now there’s nothing here to see.

Thanks for reading......Jill

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