Sailing

How wonderful it would have been to go on the Moody Blues Cruise, or On the Blue Cruise as it was more recently known. A flight to USA then a few days sailing to wherever in the company of the Moody Blues and various rock bands. The entertainment, non-stop and first class. The expense, well, one lottery jackpot win could have got me there, and home again. There’s another problem. Me and sailing don’t go together well. Not at all, really, but, if money was no concern, I might have risked it. Too late to find out. I’m saddened by the passing of my favourite, John Lodge, but very happy to have met him on a couple of occasions and enjoyed many concerts. Only one MB member left.

In his retirement, my father took up boating and spend endless hours, days, seemingly forever, on the Lancaster Canal in his cabin cruiser, sailing up and down. His first boat was to see if he liked it. He soon upgraded to something bigger and nicer, even though it needed constant care. He was involved with the boat club, became Commodore then later, President. The boat was moored at Forton, when it wasn’t in dry dock for repair, and occasionally I would visit. Sitting aboard was lovely, until another boat sailed past. Immediately, I would feel queasy. It wasn’t too bad if we were moving, but apart from attending a couple of dinner dances with the boat club, I didn’t grow to love his hobby. It was good for him, even when he became the subject of some gentle ribbing for being very sea-sick sailing from Fleetwood to the Isle of Man, and back.

My desire to visit the Outer Hebrides out-weighed any sailing worries and I booked ferry routes with short crossings. It worked very well. We had CalMac ‘island hopper’ tickets with the intention of seeing as much as possible. The longest crossing was Stornoway to Ullapool coming home. It was so good, it filled me with confidence to return the following year to see Barra and Vatersay, which we had to miss out. The ferry from Oban to Barra was over five hours. Four of those hours was enough to put me off all planned sailing trips round the small islands and I dreaded the journey back. We reached Vatersay driving on a causeway and keeping mindful of the times of the tide. It was worth it.

This summer, we sailed to Guernsey. A brave decision on my part, which I regretted shortly into the ferry journey. Those wrist bands did nothing for me. We needed our own car, not just to explore the island, but to continue our holiday along the south coast when we came back to the mainland.

I loved sailing the River Thames on a sight-seeing pleasure boat in London. I enjoyed the same thing in Shrewsbury, too, so not all is negative.

On our trips to the Ayrshire coast, we go to look at Ailsa Craig, an island that has fascinated me for years. It’s where the microgranite for curling stones is quarried from. I wonder if I could cope with a boat trip, just to sail round and back? I’ll see what next summer brings.

Meanwhile, next Tuesday, New Brighton beckons. Justin Hayward in concert. A first for me. The last member of the Moody Blues. It will be moving.

My Haiku style poem,

Calm swell of the sea,
It’s such a gentle motion,
Roll from side to side.

Soothing? Not for me,
It’s torturous endurance
With nowhere to hide.

Too late to lie down.
These wristbands are not working
Are we nearly there?

It feels so awful,
I’m not doing this again.
(Until the next time.)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Double Dactyl - Higgledy Piggledy Acceptability

Double Dactyl poetry. I hope whoever dreamt this discipline up had lots of fun. According to Wikipedia, the inventors were Anthony Hecht and Paul Pascal in 1951. I’ve written lots of poems in various forms and in freestyle, but never encountered Double Dactyl until now. I’ve made an effort and enjoyed playing with words, as I always do. I haven’t completely adhered to the strict rules, but some rules lend themselves to be broken. After some non-starters and others not for sharing, I give you my best three.

Floppetty moppetty
Boris de Vaudeville
Thought he could win
With his clown grin

Scary, like The Joker
Hedonistically
Singing and dancing
Off with his head. Next!

Make of this what you will. If you know me, you’ll understand. I don’t intend to offend, by the way.


Dibdabdoo scribbdabdoo
Emily Bronte
When did you get him,
That special one?

Perhaps your brother’s traits
Identifiable
I gave him my heart
Many years ago.

Of course it’s about Heathcliff. My first introduction was the black and white ‘Wuthering Heights’ film with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon when I was eleven, or twelve and long before I read the book. Future English Literature classes took me into studying the book, which is a firm favourite of mine and goes way beyond the end of that 1939 film.

Pippitty flippitty
James Callaghan
Thought it was funny
Not easy to count

In pounds, shillings and pence
Decimalisation,
That was the answer,
Totting up money.

I will always be thankful for decimalisation. In 1963, I cried my eyes out while a horrid teacher yelled at me for getting all my ‘money sums’ wrong. Shillings and pence, pounds, shillings and pence, was just a mass of confusion to my seven and a half year old brain. Someone raging at me wasn’t going to magically make me get my sums right. Family friends came to visit one weekend, probably to see the new baby, my sister. Their daughter was a little older than me and we went off to play. I asked her if she could do money sums and felt delighted when she happily showed me. She taught me very well. Everything clicked into place. I was grateful to her and didn’t fear my teacher anymore. I volunteer in the same school. I often go into the very classroom where I spent miserable times. I’m glad things are different for today’s children. All the teachers are lovely, none of them are scary. Perhaps I should ask the children about that. In later years, I worked in an office where everything revolved around money and payments, including wages. By now we were using ‘new money’, decimalisation had taken place a couple of years earlier in 1971. Thank goodness. I couldn’t have done that job in £sd.

Have fun writing Double Dactyls.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Waking Up - Looking Out

It was the mid-1960s and we, that is, my parents, toddler sister and I had arrived. From pubs in Manchester, Lancaster, brief stay in Marton then Padfield, at last we were in Blackpool with a pub on the prom.

Waking up early in the summer mornings with the noisy seagulls and a pleasant breeze blowing on my face through the small opening at the top of the sash window is a lovely memory I will have forever. Net curtains wafted inwards, close to my sister’s cot. We shared that big, front bedroom until she was old enough for a bed and a room of her own. The view fascinated me and even more so when Nanna came and planted herself in her favourite place, the bay window of our front sitting room. We watched the world go by, Nanna, with her knitting, Park Drive cigarettes and cups of tea and me, looking out to sea, happy to be with Nanna and share her enjoyment. I was staying with Nanna when my sister was born. We were living in Lancaster then. Dad had already moved into our next pub, but Mum was close to giving birth so we were sharing a spare room in their pub, waiting for nature to take its course. And it did, in the middle of the night. Waking up alone, I remember fleeing the bedroom in tears, Nanna cuddling me and explaining that the baby was coming so my mummy had gone to hospital. My tears soon turned to joy later that day when I was told I had a baby sister. Not quite what I wanted, to be honest. I really wanted a big sister and I’d been misled into thinking I was getting a playmate and she wasn’t that, either. I got over it.

Another of my favourite relatives was Auntie Alice, my grandfather’s sister, so my great-aunt, but Auntie Al would do. When she came to stay, she shared my sea-view room. She wasn’t one for silly nonsense, but we had some fun times together. I learnt her boundaries the hard way and had great respect for this plain-speaking, strong-minded woman. One night, there was a terrific thunderstorm. It woke me up and I was very scared. The building felt like it was shaking – it probably was. She reassured me, in her no nonsense, practical way. Together, we watched the lightning coming over the sea, counting seconds to the thunderclap.

I treasure all those memories, living in that pub, my front bedroom and my sister, my auntie and others who stayed in it with me. Life changed. It changed forever. My room was taken from me.

On a happier note, nearly seven years ago I was waking up to my phone ringing at some unearthly hour, just about morning time. I remember day was breaking. It was our son, to tell us that our beautiful granddaughter, Lola-Skye was born, a little early and having special care, but all would be well and her mummy was fine. Our second grandchild, as our daughter gave birth to our grandson the year before. Two more grandchildren since then.

My Haiku poem,

Window nets wafting
Round the open sash, flapping
In the morning breeze.

Screaming seagulls, loud
And urgent, meet on the sands
Following the tide,

I breathe the mixed smells
Of the seaside and the prom,
This is our new home.

Candyfloss, donkeys
Mingled with ice-cream, burgers,
Sweet, fried onions.

Blackpool promenade,
South Pier stretches out to sea,
Central just in sight.

From the front window
The ‘Beachcomber’ amusements
Will soon come to life.

The whole world passed by
And I was fascinated,
Scenes from my window.

PMW 2023
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sestina - The Secret

After dealing with the bindweed on the buddleia and nursing the contents of my over-full planters towards flowering, it has been lovely to sit out in the sunshine enjoying what passes for a garden. This sitting out time has been spent wisely, refreshing my memory on the discipline of the Sestina poetic form. Years have passed since my last (forced) encounter and you’d be correct to think that this is not my favourite. Anyway, rising to the challenge, I managed to get the rusty workings of my brain pointing in the right direction for long enough to compose something. I don’t know where the subject came from apart from the dark side of my imagination, iambic pentameter a bit hit and miss, but I hope it meets the criteria.

“A sestina is a poem written using a very specific, complex form. The form is French, and the poem includes six stanzas of six lines each, followed by a three line stanza at the end. Each stanza repeats the end words of the first stanza, not in the same order but in a strict formation.” See illustration.

Here is my sestina.

The Secret

After the passing of so many years
She still thought she would know him anywhere.
Decades ago, she wrote him a letter
But did not send it, instead tore it up
And decided it was best for their child
To remain unknown to him, a secret.

What started as a burdening secret
Became less important over the years.
Happy and healthy, this beautiful child
Was delightful company anywhere,
Cheerful and bright and always on the up,
Sometimes, she wished she had sent the letter.

All the details contained in that letter,
The reasons for having such a secret
And how important it was to keep up
For all the childhood and growing up years,
To guarantee acceptance anywhere,
And offer the best of all to this child.

A talented and inquisitive child,
Doing everything right to the letter.
A child going places, not anywhere.
Adult, needing answers to the secret
Of where a father might hide all these years,
Deserves to know the truth, so bring it up.

Then hours of searching and looking up.
So many questions you’re asking, dear child,
Travelling back over so many years,
This grown-up child composes a letter.
Confronted, she shares the truth, her secret,
Oh child, your father could be anywhere.

She always thought she’d know him, anywhere.
The mem’ry of him made her smile light up.
He would hate her for keeping this secret,
Denying him the chance to share their child.
Long ago, he had sent her a letter:
‘Return to Sender’, not lived here for years.

A secret lover, anywhere, now found.
After all the years, a chance to make up
Now he’s received a letter from his child.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Whether you embrace freedom or not, stay safe. Pam x

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Dreams - Nothing More Than Wishes?

A view from Elm Lodge

“Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true.”  Harry Nilsson, The Puppy Song.

If my recent dreams are anything to go by, I must have some very strange hidden wishes. Perhaps it is the effect of the lockdown and the pandemic or it might be that I’m eating too much chocolate during the evening – we’re still allowed a little pleasure – but I’m having some very vivid, weird dreams that can stay with me all day. Up to now I haven’t had nightmares or bad dreams, though I wake up during the early hours and feel immediately relieved that whatever was happening was only a dream.

Many years have passed since I worked in a primary school yet one night my sleep journey took me back there, where I was expected to take a Year 6 class and I was trying to explain to someone that there must be a mistake as I hadn’t been told and I wasn’t prepared. The person I was talking to was laughing and telling me I’d be fine. I was arguing that I’d come to work with infants in groups of six, not juniors in Year 6. I woke up before I was forced to face a class of enthusiastic eleven year olds. Phew.

I know that the trigger for that dream was a conversation I’d had with a friend and colleague from those happy days. Often there isn’t a reason.

In another dream I was on a swing, suspended from a great height, aware that one wrong move and I could fall. The swing was taking me too far backwards, so that my body was horizontal and my only safety was how tight I could keep hold of the chains attached to my seat. Something went wrong, of course, and I was falling with that horrible sinking feeling. Luckily, I woke up before I hit the ground, the sea, or whatever was below me.

Going to sleep, I think of happy things and my favourite places. I imagine myself travelling in a motorhome – I haven’t got one, but I don’t let that tiny detail spoil my fun – doing the North Coast 500 would be wonderful. Somehow, as I fall asleep, the gremlins get in and take over my dreams.

My poem, 

The View from the Lodge

Between the trees, the distant hills
Fade from green to grey.
I drink it in and take my fill
Of all I survey.

Beyond the gate the horses graze
In the lush pasture,
I’m happy to recline and laze,
At one with nature.

Paradise, where my soul belongs.
My dreams bring me here,
Surrounded by gentle birdsong
Any time of year.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, sweet dreams, Pam x

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Miniature - Small and Perfectly Formed

I’ve been fascinated by my friend’s collection of dolls houses since I first saw them a few years ago. They take up the longest wall in one of her upstairs rooms. I think there are six of them, various sizes, set out on a deep shelf with drawers beneath. The drawers hold all the tiny bits and pieces not in use and items to make things or decorate with. Some of the houses have beautifully made gardens. There is a kitchen garden with vegetables growing perfectly. The inside of the houses are set out and decorated according to the time of year. It was summer one year when I was calling in to water plants and keep an eye on things while my friend was on holiday. The miniature street looked warm and sunny with open windows and a picnic on one of the lawns. I’ve seen it all decked out for Christmas, complete with tiny coloured lights and the whole thing looking splendid. It is a fabulous hobby and I used to fancy getting an Edwardian townhouse and setting it up in ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ style, or making an old-fashioned pub with a nod to my background.

The area I was keeping free for such a project became the ideal place to house the gerbils. We had two in an open fish tank filled with wood chippings, fluffy animal stuff like cotton wool and usually an empty loo roll or kitchen roll to play with. They liked running through them as if they were tunnels. When fed up with them, they ripped them into strips and added them to their nest. My children were still at primary school. The cats had gone to cat heaven, as had a couple of hamsters and we hadn’t yet introduced a family dog.

By the time the gerbils expired, so had some of my eyesight and twiddling with miniature furniture and tiny household items was beyond me. I was and still am interested in my friend’s hobby and I find pieces to gift her. One of the many Christmas trees is a present from me and we found some cakes and bakery things in a specialist shop while on one of our jaunts.

A special gift from my friend to me is something I will always treasure. She turned an ordinary shoebox into a miniature living room for me, putting in my favourite things, even a photo of my husband and I hanging on the wall. I was speechless at the time and I still love it as much as I did then. It is me. I think the knitting has fallen off the chair a few times over the years, but it’s fine, and the DVDs, CDs and books, she knows me so well.

Jane Eyre. Good choice. It would be that or Wuthering Heights, or Rebecca, but I’m glad she chose a Bronte for me. I’ve loved all of their books and I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many visits to Haworth Parsonage. One visit was in the summer of 2005. It was 150 years since Charlotte’s death and a special exhibition displayed some of her clothing and personal belongings. At only 4’6” tall and slim, she was very petite. Her outfits were almost miniature versions of her sisters’ attire. Her boots and bonnets, like those of a child’s. Luckily for me, the hand-written miniature books, at least some of them, were on show.

When the Brontes were children, their father, Rev. Patrick Bronte, gave them a box of wooden toy soldiers. Each child chose their own soldier, gave them names and made them into characters for what became the stories of Glasstown. The children branched out, Charlotte and Branwell wrote about Angria, and Emily and Anne wrote about Gondal. They wrote their stories in tiny script using fine nibs and magnifying glasses then made them into little books for the toy soldiers to hold. Not all have survived, but I’m glad for what has been saved.

I need another visit, when we can.

My poem,

Perched on the chilly window seat
She looked down, watching the mourners
Moving slowly with the coffin,
Listening to the solemn drum beat
For the second time that morning.
Squinting through the grey, wint'ry mist
Beyond the gravestones to the church
Her whispered prayer clouded the glass
And she drew a 'C' in her breath,
Just as Branwell beckoned her down
To write Angria's next chapter
For their soldier's miniature book.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Sauce - Keep It in the Fridge

 

Most of the door compartments of my tall larder fridge are taken up with sauces. Apparently, everything needs refrigerating when it has been opened and must be used within six weeks or sometimes only four weeks. We often go beyond that, with our general rule of ‘no fur, its fine’ unless it is obviously curdled or changed colour. Mint sauce, full of sugar and vinegar, in a jar with a two year ‘best before’ or ‘use by’ date, would surely not just ‘go off’ if left in the fridge for seven weeks instead of six? If you don’t hear from me for a while, I might have poisoned myself. Joking apart, nothing hangs around for too long, except the seafood sauce that I bought too much of one Christmas. I’d over-estimated the prawn cocktails, again. The name ‘Seafood Sauce', when did that happen? I searched the shelves in our massive, well-stocked Tesco looking for Thousand Island Dressing, in vain, on a rare physical food shop for last minute Christmas stuff.  Seafood Sauce would have to do. Anyway, I’m melon, not prawn cocktail, it is for dinner guests. Someone suggested mixing mayonnaise and tomato ketchup. I haven’t tried it.

Like lots of people, I was brought up in a family which had two sauces, red and brown. My dad loved tomato ketchup and plastered everything with it. He would have swamped his Sunday dinner if he could have got away with it. My mum liked H.P, Brown Sauce, or mustard, but mustard was a powder that needed mixing and that was a lot of faffing for one sausage butty. I was with dad on the ketchup, but only a small amount on the side of my plate and when it was gone, that was it. The glass bottle took ages to pour and my dad would push a knife in to get it going. Those were the days.

I blame Mrs Bridges, the cook from Upstairs, Downstairs, for my desire to make homemade sauces. I’m not a domestic goddess, I’m more for feeding a family or just the two of us these days, by affordable, practical means and I haven’t got a kitchen maid to help either. I love my own cheese sauce, perfect for cauliflower, broccoli or both, but my favourite is seasoned onions and mushrooms in cream with steak or pork. It is from a recipe for Boeuf Stroganoff but seems to work well,

Amongst the fridge door contents is the irreplaceable Heinz Tomato Ketchup, no other will do, and the H.P. Sauce. They were kept in a cupboard when I was a child. I keep Soy sauce and Worcester sauce in a dark cupboard with the vinegar, salt and pepper. I hope they are alright.

Here is Lake District, from Sir John Betjeman,

I pass the cruet and I see the lake
Running with light, beyond the garden pine,
That lake whose waters make me dream her mine.
Up to the top board mounting for my sake,
For me she breathes, for me each soft intake,
For me the plunge, the lake and limbs combine.

I pledge her in non-alcoholic wine
And give the H.P. Sauce another shake.

Sprint of Grasmere, bells of Ambleside,
Sing you and ring you, water bells for me;
You water-colour waterfalls may froth.
Long hiking holidays will yet provide
Long stony lanes and back at six for tea
And Heinz’s ketchup on the tablecloth.

John Betjeman  (1906 – 1984)

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and keep well, Pam x

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Blues - Don't Stop the Music

 

 

 

 

In my life, music soothes everything.  There’s a song for every occasion. Putting all the Christmas stuff away includes taking The Moody Blues ‘December’ album off the CD player. I will miss singing along to their version of In the Bleak Mid-Winter.  I got strange looks in church some years ago when it sounded like I’d made up my own descant.

Back to work, reasonably accepting that this is ‘my lot’ for a while longer, and hopefully just a little while.  I will do the best I can as we all do. We smile, we’re helpful, we care and not everyone appreciates us, but that’s life.  The other day was enough for me to remark that the season of goodwill was well and truly over and the chill of the waiting room was a result of the frostiness of the occupants. I’m speaking my mind, after all, being quiet hasn’t got me anywhere.

For those still carrying the winter blues, take a chill pill, put some music on and turn the volume up.

I’ve been listening to Tom Walker’s ‘What A Time To Be Alive’, a welcome Christmas gift. He’s more ‘indie pop/folk’ than ‘blues’, and younger than most musicians I listen to. My introduction to him was when he supported my favourite Moody Blues member, John Lodge on a solo tour a few years ago. You can be forgiven for thinking that I don’t move far from my favourite band, though my record and CD collection is eclectic.

It would seem that The Moody Blues have stopped touring as a band. No official announcement and so far, no farewell concerts, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fortunate to travel all over the country to many concerts on umpteen UK tours and have lots of good memories, some which have been shared on here from time to time. It is decades since I watched and listened in awe to a schoolboy rock band practising ‘Nights In White Satin’ at youth club, or sang along to ‘Question’ on the juke box in our empty pub. It has been an eventful journey of wonderful music. Long may it continue with the soloists.

Aside from the Moody Blues, I like the Rolling Stones ‘Let It Bleed’ album for its great bluesy tracks. And just for the record, Tommy Steele’s ‘Singing the Blues’ is the best cover.

With a blog theme of ‘Blues’, how could I resist the Moodies? And if you know me, you’ll understand and possibly yawn. Sorry.

I wrote this poem after a night at the London O2. We were moved from ground floor seating to higher up, which I didn’t want but it turned out to be a good experience in watching the arena fill up and observing other fans having a great night.

 

 

The Concert.

 

The lights are lowered, silence fills the arena

As the minstrels move through darkness on to the stage.

This is the moment, breathless anticipation,

Travelling eternity road has been an age.

 

Then a flute’s haunting melody rises above

Twin guitar riffs to take lead of the symphony.

Slow, bass drum, and applause reaches a crescendo,

Orchestral rock and voices singing harmony.

 

On the threshold of ecstasy, keeping the faith,

We’ve made this pilgrimage so many times before,

To be rewarded with autographs and handshakes

After waiting patiently outside the stage door.

 

PMW

 

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Travesty - Dressing Up

   

I’m sure I chose ‘Shelf’ for last week’s blog, which makes me feel really bad about not making a contribution. I had some notes in my head and even the beginnings of a poem until it all went pear-shaped or migraine-shaped. Well, not exactly a migraine but whatever it is affects my vision, my concentration and makes me feel worn out. It doesn’t happen often, thank goodness. Anyway, if ‘Shelf’ should come up again in the future, I’m halfway there.

 Thinking about ‘Travesty’ took me back to some dark days, long ago times before I was able to take control of my own life.

My mother had beautiful clothes. She was always perfectly dressed for whatever she was doing. Even the casual trousers and tops she wore for general housework and jobs around our pub were smart. She had fabulous cocktail dresses, suits and blouses that she wore in the evenings when she accompanied my father in the bar. They were always off to dinner dances so she had a selection of evening gowns, usually from an exclusive dress shop. She died young. I remember my nan and Auntie Kathy, our housekeeper, sorting out her clothes. They gave me some jumpers and blouses that I wanted. Some evening gowns remained in my mother’s large wardrobe, whether forgotten or on purpose, I don’t know.

My father remarried. Our family was never the same again.

They were going out to a ‘black tie’ function. Dad looked handsome in his best suit, bow-tie and highly polished shoes. I was horrified to see his partner giving me a twirl, winking and smiling widely, wearing one of my mother’s evening gowns and asking me if I liked it on her. I expect the hard slam of my bedroom door gave her the answer she was goading for. Dad didn’t realise it was my mother’s gown and was unfazed. I was livid, it was a travesty. She was an attractive woman and had lovely clothes and things of her own. There was no need to do this. I grew used to it and hardened myself to her hurtful ways.

 

One of my favourite books and films is Daphne du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’. Perhaps I should announce Spoiler Alert here, just in case. There is going to be the Annual Costume Ball at Manderley and as the second Mrs de Winter is pondering over what to wear, housekeeper Mrs Danvers manipulates her into wearing a dress as illustrated in a painting of an ancestor of her husband’s. What Mrs Danvers doesn’t tell her is that Rebecca, Maxim’s first wife, wore the exact same costume for the last ball. She tricks her on purpose, knowing that Maxim will be angry and embarrassed at the travesty. Indeed he was, as a loud gasp of all the guests draws his attention. Seething, he orders his wife to go and get changed immediately. (If you haven’t read the book, I strongly recommend it. The Laurence Olivier & Joan Fontaine version is the best film.) The photograph is Joan Fontaine as the second Mrs de Winter.

 

My poem,

 

 

Pale Blue Brocade

 

Pale blue brocade, nipped in at the waist,

Gentle swish as the hem swept the floor.

Satin ribbon crossed her back and laced

The bodice, just skin-tight but no more.

Over her shoulders, organza swirls

And around her neck some plastic pearls.

 

 She knew it was wrong to wear that dress,

Obvious mockery in her eyes.

Her feigned innocence did not impress

Me. A travesty, undisguised,

Without Mrs Danvers’ poisonous touch.

This was sev’ral steps too far, too much.

 

PMW 2019

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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World Cup - Three Lions

A few World Cup memories.

 

I was there in sixty-six.  By ‘there’ I mean sat on the floor doing some artwork with my World Cup Willie colouring set, in front of a black and white television witnessing my mother go through every emotion. Eventually, someone on tv said, ‘They think it’s all over, it is now’ and my mother was ecstatic.  I must have inherited my love of football from her, and my maternal grandfather. We were in our upstairs sitting room in the pub on South Promenade. No big screens in pubs back in the sixties and no colour television for us at that time. Sport in pubs was limited to snooker and darts.

I didn’t follow the 1970 tournament. We were still in the same pub. I was sick of hearing ‘Back Home’ filtering upwards from the jukebox. My mother had passed away the year before. Life was hard and things were changing.

In 1978, my most significant World Cup memory is Archie Gemmill’s brilliant goal for Scotland against Holland. It was breath-taking and is still up there with my favourite goals of all time.

The 1990 World Cup didn’t have my full attention. It was there in the background while I sat at the sewing machine making wedding outfits for my page-boys and a tiny bridesmaid dress for yes, a tiny bridesmaid, my baby niece. There was cheering, beer cans being snapped open and I found myself singing Nessun Dorma a lot. England had fourth place. Now it was time to concentrate on our wedding.

I can still feel the sorrow from 1998. David Beckham and that petulant kick at Diego Simeone – I still can’t believe he was red carded, as he was fouled by Simeone in the first place and I can hardly type it, twenty years later. Football is such a passionate game. I was so upset that England lost out to Argentina on penalties and the first World Cup that our son was old enough to take an interest in ended for England the way it did.

Fast forward to 2014 and as always in our house, we have a chart up on the wall, flags flying from the windows and cars, England shirts at the ready and a Panini sticker album. It was a non-event, for us anyway. My husband was ill in hospital, though well enough to don an England shirt and watch a couple of matches in the day-room. By the time he was recovered enough to come home, the World Cup was all over for England.

So, here goes for World Cup 2018. In a few hours it might be all over again, but hopefully not. I’d like to see Gareth Southgate do well and I’d like to see this young, talented team progress. I’ll go and have a word with the three lions on my shirt.

 

 

I’m With These 2018 Heroes

 

The kitchen floor needs mopping

And the beds are left unmade

But I’m not doing housework

While there’s matches being played.

 

Look at the perfect pitches,

Neatly mowed and lush and green,

Ready for the world’s finest

To give us the best we’ve seen.

 

So bring it on, DeBruyne,

Ronaldo and Messi, too.

Fellaini and Suarez

I’ll be watching all of you.

 

A huge shout out for England,

For Harry Kane and the boys,

I’ve taught my grandkids to cheer

And to fill my house with noise.

 

Fav’rites Rashford and Lingard,

And my ‘Broadway’ Danny Rose,

I’m loving every moment

With these 2018 heroes.

 

It isn’t just the World Cup,

There’s tennis going on, too.

I’m sharing the time wisely,

It’s the only thing to do.

 

So, come on Kyle Edmund

What an impressive young man!

Wimbledon and I salute you.

Keep giving the best you can.

  

Pamela Winning 2018.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

 

 

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