Mermaids - Of Course They Are Real!

I was thinking about mermaids, trying to decide how to approach this blog when I realised that the answers I was looking for might just be right in front of me. All four grandchildren come for tea on Mondays, or Mad Mondays, as they are known. Here they were, my cherubs, bursting with the knowledge from the magical world of the under eights and always eager to share what they know and to be helpful.

“Who can tell me what a mermaid is?” I ask.

“It’s a fish.” Someone offers.

“No, it’s a person with the body of a fish.” Someone else elaborated.

“That’s what I meant.”

With an argument about to break out between two of them about what is actually said and what is possibly implied, I intervened, separating the one being laid-back from the one being unusually pedantic.

“Never mind, I think I know what you both mean. Does anyone know where they live?” I look round, hoping to engage the younger children but one is glued to something more exciting on the tablet and doesn’t want to waste their ‘turn time’ talking to me and the other one wants to know if tea is ready. The others said, in the sea and on the beach.

“Nanna, mermaids aren’t real, you know.”

“What? Of course they’re real. There’s a statue of one in Copenhagen. Look at this!” Pretending to be shocked I quickly searched Google for The Mermaid in Copenhagen harbour and gleefully shared the picture as if it’s proof. “There she is.”

There was a bit of sniggering about the mermaid having boobs but the main point was that they were sure mermaids are not real. I was sure that they are.

“They must be,” I urge, “because, when I was a little girl…”

Slight rolling of eyes or glazed look. Either they are not old enough yet for my ‘When I was a little girl’ stories, or they think they have heard enough already. I’m mindful that the nearly seven and nearly six year olds have done a full school day and the little ones have been to nursery so they are tired and they’ve had enough paying attention. I really should be in the kitchen, but they are having this last snippet before I go.

“When I was little girl there was a film I really loved called Miranda. It was all about a mermaid called Miranda and she was definitely real.”

I told them a little bit about Miranda, what I could remember. Looking back, I don’t know why it appealed to me, it wouldn’t be as funny now and probably wouldn’t interest today’s sophisticated children. I won’t rush to find a DVD. Nothing will convince them that mermaids are real.

I made up a tale about a 19th century prostitute who sometimes wore a mermaid’s fish-tail. I won’t share that with my grandchildren, but I wrote a poem which I’ll share with you.

The Lass at The Mermaid Inn

In an attic room at The Mermaid Inn
She brushed her long and lustrous wavy hair
Preparing to entertain men within,
Smoothed fish-net stockings over slender legs
And poured another large pink gin.

She promised Paradise for a shillin’
Her delicate strokes with soft, gentle fingers,
Enough to send her guests a-quiverin’
Tender kiss from rose-bud lips, sweet, hot, moist,
With a subtle taste of pink gin.

Again and again, they keep returnin’
She takes their shillings and gives them her best.
There’s more for an extra tanner thrown in,
Loving and lusting at The Mermaid Inn,
Homesick sailors and more pink gin.

So sometimes, just for a joke and darin’
She would wear her opalescent fish-tail,
Close fitting, tight, a rainbow shimmerin’
Begging to be peeled away so slowly,
She seductively sips pink gin.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Simple Pleasures

How nice it is to please myself what I do and when I do it. Retirement is wonderful, apart from the lack of freedom we’ve had due to Covid restrictions. To be fair, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on much. I’m not one for much socialising, but when someone says I can’t, suddenly it’s the very thing I want to do. Revelations about social occasions the government got up to against their own rules make my blood boil. There’s enough being documented without me moaning. Give enough rope, etc. I’ll wait.

My family has been my ‘bubble’ since the end of the first lockdown relaxed movement enough for us to be together.  Sundays used to be family day. We would have all four grandchildren for lunch and tea, fun and games, cousins together, usually with one or more of their parents. Sometimes we need the help and we’d always end up shattered, even if we’d been doing quiet stuff like colouring or Play-Doh. Nowadays, with two of them being at school and two at nursery, we’ve changed to Mondays to make it a bit easier on ourselves – us getting older. We have two after school and enjoy their company for a while before the younger ones arrive a little later after nursery. It’s the lovely, simple pleasures that family time brings that gives me so much joy, even when there are tantrums and moody moments. My treasures, each one.

 When we were allowed, my husband and I travelled to Scotland on a couple of socially distanced breaks. We stay in a self-catering lodge and observe whatever restrictions are in place when we are out and about. Things are constantly changing but what we noticed each visit was that rules were strictly adhered to. We felt safe and looked after. Again, it’s the simple pleasures that matter for us; watching red kites, or the birds outside the lodge that I fill the feeders for twice a day, relaxing with a book, doing a bit of knitting or pottering about outside. It was great to be back after so long.

At home I like to keep in contact with my friends. One, like me, has kept very much to her immediate family throughout Covid, but we chat regularly on the phone or text each other, often after a Blackpool F.C. match. I’ve probably been at the ground, she’s been watching or listening at home. That’s another of my simple pleasures, going to the match, face mask on, being part of it regardless of the outcome and hopefully, walking home singing.

Music, as mentioned in my last blog is a necessary part of my day, lots of radio, but I’ve just taken delivery of John Lodge’s new album on CD and I’m happily giving it a hammering. I sometimes do the Sudoku in the paper, alternating between that and the word-wheel that drives me crazy. I’m mad, sad, simple or crazy, and I don’t care. I’m glad to be retired and pleasing myself.

My poem,

A welcome mug of Nescafe Gold Blend,

Enjoying a phone chat with a close friend.

“How’s it going? Are you coping okay?

I managed to get out for lunch today.

Doing the driving to help the guys plans,

A treat of salad and steak in St Anne’s.

Face mask and hand gel, all safety measures

Necessary for such simple pleasures.

Sunday was quiet, we just played Scrabble.

Monday was hectic with all our rabble.

At last, M’s wobbly tooth has come out,

The litt’luns were squabbling and falling out,

Just usual stuff, you know what they’re like,

They both want the pedal car, not the bike.

L loves to read, my darling treasure."

Fam’ly Mondays make a simple pleasure.

 

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Crowds

If you’d asked me, when I was a child, who is the person least likely to want to visit a circus, my response would have been instant and unequivocal: my dad. He liked his own company, was the most intelligent, most intellectual man I ever met - and my opinion never wavered until the day he died at the age of 92. Dad was into philosophy, chess, maths, anything that required deep thought and logical thinking, certainly beyond anything I was ever capable of. 

He liked to sit at his chess computer (one of the very first), sucking on his pipe and pondering his moves. Or he could be found, pencil and notebook in hand, working out indecipherable mathematic equations. His hero was Bertrand Russell, and he would try and explain various aspects of philosophy to me, all of which went totally over my head, certainly until more recent years when I began to take an interest. 

 So yes, dad would be my last choice as companion to the travelling circus. However, I was about to learn that there’s nowt so strange as folk. I only recall one visit to the circus as a child - accompanied by my mum and two brothers - where my abiding memory was the awful smell wafting up through the floorboards, the fear in my heart as the trapeze artists swung their precarious way across the big top, and sadness at the sight of the elephants looking resigned and dejected as they plodded their way around the ring. 

Consequently, when I had children of my own I was never very keen to repeat the experience. This is where my dad came, unexpectedly, into his own. ‘I LOVE circuses!’ he declared as I discussed the subject with my mum, who was usually game for anything involving her grandchildren. Mum and I swung round in shock. ‘You?! Circuses?!’ I asked in amazement. ‘Love them,’ replied dad with a big grin. And so it was that dad became unofficial Grandchildren’s Entertainment Monitor for special events. Parks and beaches didn’t interest him but show him a circus, a corny comedian or a fairground and he was in. He was packed off with most of the eight grandchildren, who came back with hilarious tales of granddad being singled out by clowns, animal tamers and even the ringmaster on one notorious occasion. Granddad, himself, returned glowing (once with badly applied clown makeup, which had gone down a treat on the tube), and excitedly discussing his next planned event. 

 I found it strange that my clever, often very serious, dad loved the madness of a fairground ride or the colourful world of the circus. Maybe it was due to the fact that, as far as I know, these things didn’t form part of his childhood. They were certainly a huge contrast to his working life as an optical engineer and self employed optician. Whatever the cause, it was good to see his transformation on these occasions. 

 A couple of years ago the circus came to Blackpool and I took the grandchildren. I thought they would be mesmerised. I probably built it up too much. I soon realised that the main attractions were the hugely overpriced bags of candy floss, the flashing lights on sticks and the toilets which were outside and across a field. Thankfully, the days of the sad elephants were long gone, as were the giant cats that I remembered seeing cowering on plinths, under threat of a long whip. In their place, strangely incongruous, roaring motorbikes criss-crossing the ring, narrowly missing the dancing girls - and each other. All accompanied by flashing lights. 

Amalie, looking quite stunned by the motorbikes at the circus

Maybe the grandchildren are used to more sophisticated entertainment these days, or maybe the circus wasn’t a patch on Blackpool Illuminations and the Pleasure Beach, but despite that, I think we all had a good time. We made a lasting memory, even if it was only the excitement of the outside toilets....

When I was a child I used to love Children’s Favourites on the wireless on a Saturday morning. I once sent in a request but it didn’t get played. However, the Nellie the Elephant song, below, could be heard most weeks. It had a sadness about it that I recognised, even at that young age.   Years later, partly because it was so easy to remember, it became part of my repertoire of songs to inflict on the grandchildren. *

 Nellie the Elephant 

 

Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk 

And said goodbye to the circus 

Off she went with a trumpety trump 

Trump, trump, trump 

Nellie the elephant packed her trunk 

And trundled off to the jungle 

Off she went with a trumpety trump 

Trump, trump, trump 

The head of the herd was calling far, far away 

They met one night in silver light on the road to Mandalay. 

*thinks maybe this is why they weren’t that impressed by the circus…. 

 Thanks for reading….. Jill

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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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Mind Your Language - Wash Your Mouth Out!

That soap. I can still remember the taste and the smell.  Green Palmolive rubbed hard in my mouth by my very angry mother. All I said was ‘bugger or buggery’ and obviously that was all it took for my mum to drop whatever she was doing, shout at me and drag me, literally kicking and screaming to our black and white tiled bathroom. The memory is so clear, perhaps I was traumatised by such a severe punishment to be inflicted on me at four years old. Anyway, it was Nanna’s fault.

Both my grandmothers were decent, lady-like women, but Nanna, my maternal grandmother, ran pubs like we did and she was, perhaps a bit more worldly wise. Nanna often said ‘is it buggery’ or ‘does it buggery’ in answer to questions, not to me, but I heard it often enough. In her world were many buggers, too, in fact everyone was a daft bugger, silly bugger, dirty bugger, lazy bugger, etc, and being in the pub trade, lots of drunken buggers. I spent lots of time with her so I suppose it wasn’t really shocking that I should say it myself. After the mouth washing, I sobbed to my mum that I only said what Nanna says. I don’t know if she took it up with her.

I worked with four and five year olds in an infant school for quite a while – the best years of my working life and I wish I’d stayed, but that’s another story. Young children soak up education like sponges and everything else as well. They love to tell their own stories, no holds barred, so I found myself knowing all sorts about everyone’s parents, siblings and home life. I am the keeper of many family secrets and my lips are strongly sealed. There are people out there who might be horrified if they knew what their child had said at school. Sometimes, there was inappropriate language and staff were advised to be tactful and simply ask a child to say it again as we hadn’t heard properly. There were not many swear words around that age group. If necessary, I would say that I didn’t know that word, and let’s just use words we understand.

Sometimes I have to check myself, or remind my husband that something isn’t ‘bloody’ it’s only a table, or whatever the item might be. It’s a hard habit to break, but we have our grandchildren round a lot and what big ears they have. They are aged five, four, three and nearly two. I’ve already had a gentle chat with the five year old about ‘some words are only for grown-ups and not nice for children to say’. How times have changed. My mother would have scooped him up to the bathroom and he would still be vomiting soap suds after his exclamation of ‘f--king hell’ when he dropped something under the table.

We had a small, metal plant pot on the draining board. I know it was in the way, I just needed to decide where to store it, so I take full responsibility. One day when my husband was doing something at the sink and our grandchildren were playing nicely, the planter fell to the floor with a loud clang. My husband, exasperated, called out ‘That bloody tin!’, which met with three of the four children bursting into laughter and shouting ‘Bloody tin!’ We were all hysterical, adults and children alike. It was the funniest thing ever. The ghost of my mum would have run in with the soap. The small planter, or ‘bloody tin’ which it is now referred to, is safely stored.

As for having my mouth washed out as a child, the deterrent is not lifelong, by the way. Mummy might be cross, but I swear sometimes. And worse words than ‘bugger’.

My poem is a reflection of working with the general public where not everyone is pleasant. Suffering pain and Covid rules bring out the best and the worst in people.

 

So, you scream ‘eff off’ at me

From the safety of your phone.

I’ll kill your call, line now free

And you can leave me alone.

 

Lately, I’ve been chucking back

The very same words you use.

I’m not taking any flak,

I’ve developed a short fuse.

 

I know you’ll understand me

Using your language, self-taught.

Unacceptable? I see,

You’re taken aback and fraught.

 

Say ‘bugger’ then, I don’t care.

Just be yourself, you are crass.

I’m not bothered if you swear,

Sticks and stones, and all that jazz.

 

PMW 2020

Thanks for reading, take care and keep well. Pam x

 

 

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Flower-Pot - Things We Love

There is a special flower-pot in my garden. It hasn’t always been a flower-pot and it is a fairly recent addition to my green-fingered efforts. It’s a huge, heavy ceramic bowl that my late mother-in-law marinated dried fruit in ready for homemade Christmas puddings, Christmas cakes and mince pies. The results were always delicious and we looked forward to being given our share. There would be lots to go round. I don’t know how she managed to lift it, even when empty. When it came into our possession, I struggled to move it, wanted to keep it and there was only one practical thing to do. It would make a fabulous flower-pot, if my husband could drill drainage holes in the base of it without it breaking. Success.

I never knew my father’s sister, my Auntie Peggy. She died years before I was born, but I have stood by her grave in Southern Cemetery, Manchester and wept, a grave now shared with her parents. The tears were not for a relative I didn’t know, they were for the shattered, vandalised flower-pot that my father had discovered on his visit and lovingly piled the pieces in front of the headstone which had escaped serious damage. It was leaning back, but still in situ, unlike many others that had recently been attacked. This was in the early 1980s. Peggy had died around 1946/7 aged 21. They were not a rich family; they were ordinary people making ends meet. Dad had told me how his mother, my Nanna Hetty, saved a few pennies each week to enable her to buy a special flower-pot and have Peggy’s name inscribed on it. He was saddened by the mindless violence which destroyed so much and caused upset to the bereaved.

I’m currently looking after two special flower-pots. These are really disposable cups being recycled to nurture sunflower seeds on the kitchen window-sill until they start to grow and get strong enough to plant outside. They are the work of my two elder grandchildren, with my limited assistance, of course, though I came in handy for the cleaning up afterwards. We had such a fun time together. There was a moment of disappointment when I explained that the seeds wouldn’t start to show immediately, so no need to watch over them. Distraction tactics usually work, or failing that, chocolate buttons. ‘Nanna Time’ is the best.

 

 

I found this poem,

 

The Flower by Barbara Miles Jackson

All spring and summer,
One thing after another.
No time for gardening,
And summer's ending.

Checked the mail everyday,
That much needed letter,
Drowned out by bills,
Junk mail and books.

Family out of tune,
Other plans and people.
Holding their interest,
No easy as before.

Looking out my window,
At four flower pots.
Dirt dried and cracked,
For lack of water.

There in a big pot,
Green leaves sprouting.
New wonder to see,
A lone flower growing.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 









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Winter Ghosts - Nearly Christmas

Christmas is taking shape. I’ve made the cake, bought some but not all gifts, made food plans and put the tree up. I loved the looks of delight on the faces of my two and a half year old grandson and one and a half year old granddaughter when I showed them the tree and the special things hanging on it. The baby, another grandson, is too young to take any notice yet, but I showed him everything and told him about the star, the angel and mix of baubles that all mean something. They don’t know it, but these beautiful children save me from getting too maudlin when I miss my family.

I’m fortunate to have a wonderful family round me of my own making but I miss my mum, dad, grandparents and all my extended family and friends who are no longer with us. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a family to give me strength of character and confidence to stand and grow alone when I had to. My guardian angels who picked me up when I fell, pointed me in the right direction when I took a wrong turning and stopped me from roaming a rocky path. Christmas brings them all near and even if I’m weeping yet again for what is lost, I’m joyful for the magical memories of Christmases past.

These winter ghosts gather to share in the Christmas of today, surrounding me with the love I grew up with. I hope our dinner is perfect, our company convivial and I wish, as I always do that just one more time, the family I miss could be sitting round the table. My Nanna, still with her pinny on, making sure everyone has everything they want, and my dad checking the wine. Until we meet again.

I will do my best to cook a lovely dinner. We’ll share thoughts and memories, we’ll laugh but not cry.  Someone will raise a toast to those who have passed but with us in spirit. The children will jump at the snapping of crackers and play with the contents then later mess about until they fall asleep, cheeks rosy and hearts full of love. It’s a family circle and I’m Nanna now.

I hope in years to come, my children and grandchildren will look back with fondness on memories of their own.

I have this poem in a frame and bring it out every Christmas.

Christmas Memories by Patience Strong.

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.
 

 

The photos are copied from my late father's colour slide collection. I apologise for the poor quality. It's a work in progress.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Here's a triolet I made earlier

My first attempt at baking was a disaster. Aged 22, I was making pastry for some pie or other and the pastry just would not form into a ball so that I could roll it out. Cue tears, nigh on hysterics, as time and again the separate crumbs wilfully refused to play ball, literally. I had no-one to tell me, show me how make pastry. (Advice from older self – pull yourself together and rub in a bit more butter or add a bit more water.)

My poor Mum, cook and baker extraordinaire, exhausted by full time work and four kids, never had the time or patience, bless her, to show us the ropes. She was too preoccupied with heaving meals onto the table for the six of us with monotonous regularity to assume the role of a saintly Jamie Oliver on top of everything else.

A few years later, I was churning out the pies, cakes, curries, stews like a good ‘un. This was because I was now experienced. I had tried and failed, then tried again. I had met with triumph and disaster and had treated those two imposters both the same. My love of food knew no bounds and I would have a go at anything, over and over again until I got it right.

 I love everything about food – browsing in food shops, buying it, finding out for myself what goes with what, reading about it, getting bargains, turning disparate ingredients into something delicious – and, of course, eating it.

 Here’s a triolet I made earlier:

Balanced Baking

 

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

For a perfect Victoria sponge.

All must weigh the same, same power.

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

Whisk and fold and blend and now you

Mix with love to a sloppy gunge.

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

For a perfect Victoria sponge

 

I think I was a pretty poor mother at the start, too! I was terrified by these beautiful little scraps of humanity, cast upon the ocean of life with me to protect them. I felt inept and ill-equipped to deal with something so momentous. I can remember pleading with my 4 month old (!) son, after I had fed, winded and changed him and still he was shrieking implacably, ‘Please tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do whatever you want.’  (Advice from older self – pull yourself together and take him for a walk.) My Mum was a tremendous help – these were her GRANDCHILDREN. Do not underestimate the power of that statement! In the intervening years, I hope I learned through experience, to be a good Mum myself, from very shaky beginnings. Again, I learned through all the mistakes, the ups and downs, the highs and lows that contribute to experience.

 Then it came my turn to be a Gran and what a revelation that has been. Somehow, I just knew instinctively what to do with them, all the old self-doubt evaporated and I had confidence from the outset with all three of them.

I am down with the kids, oh yes - I can sing JLS and One Direction's (appalling) songs with the best of them! Amelie thinks I’m cool because I write stories, drive a car and make the best broccoli. (????) Harris thinks I’m hilarious because I make him do Glad All Over, with all the gestures and because I pinion his little arms to the floor whilst bellowing ‘Ah One-ay, Ah Two-ay, Ah Three-ay’ like an old-style wrestling referee. Yes, I know it sounds like child abuse, but he chuckles uncontrollably.  Evie likes singing, reading and saying nursery rhymes with me - and loves doing Asda with me. And I have loved every minute of these special new relationships.  

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