Dust - If You Must

 

Dust if you Must by Rose Milligan Next

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better To paint a picture, or write a letter, Bake a cake, or plant a seed; Ponder the difference between want and need? Dust if you must, but there's not much time, With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb; Music to hear, and books to read; Friends to cherish, and life to lead. Dust if you must, but the world's out there With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair; A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, This day will not come around again. Dust if you must, but bear in mind, Old age will come and it's not kind. And when you go (and go you must) You, yourself, will make more dust.

 

That poem sums me up. I don’t live in a messy muddle, but I won’t lose any sleep over dusty shelves that can wait until tomorrow, or the next day. There is more to life. There’s a saying about ‘boring women have tidy houses’, something like that. It might be on a fridge magnet. I declare, I am not boring.

It is a bit disconcerting to read that household dust is composed of 20 – 50% dead skin cells. The rest is hair, fur, pollen, fibres from fabric and various other materials in the environment. I won’t dash for the anti-bacterial spray and a good cloth just yet. I’ll finish writing first, unless I see a dust mite or start to feel itchy. If it’s true, the layer of house dust doesn’t look any worse after five years. I’m not going to purposely run that experiment. I admit to being a teeny weeny bit embarrassed recently when we needed help to move a large sideboard and hatch style unit. The top surface of the hatch could have been a five year science exercise, but I know it wasn’t as long as that, I promise.

Soon, some remedial building work will create more than the average layer of dust. I’ll wait until it is all complete before I clean up.

Outside, the dry weather has made everywhere dusty. We spent the weekend enjoying some caravan time at one of our favourite places in Garstang. Passing vehicles, as slow as they were on the site, churned up powdery clouds with the dryness of the road tracks. Cars looked like they’d been through a sand storm.

Now, I’d like some help, please. Who wrote the poem ‘Dust if you Must’ credited above to Rose Milligan, but I also have the same poem in a book by Pam Ayres, showing her as having the copyright?

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Too Ridiculous for Words

I’ve realised recently that the word, ‘ridiculous,’ is one I use pretty often (along with, ‘exactly’ and, ‘absolutely,’ which irritated my husband so much that he had a t-shirt printed for me with the words on, spelt phonetically) 'Ridiculous' is usually uttered with a roll of the eyes and a look of despair, frequently in relation to a member of the current Conservative government, or in response to some petty rule that I really think is irrelevant. 

Over the years, I’ve become something of an expert on all things ridiculous. Let’s face it, I’ve been pretty ridiculous numerous times in my life, not least because of my fashion (mis)sense.  Looking back I’ve made a few ridiculous errors of judgment where clothes are concerned. There are numerous occasions where I might have slightly misjudged the ‘dress code.’  Having said that, I’m a great believer in wearing what you want (within reason) and not having to conform to somebody else’s ideas of ‘appropriate’ dress. When I started teaching I was pulled up twice on my attire. 

The first time, at the school I was on teaching practice, I’m willing to admit, in hindsight, and with thirty more years of sartorial experience behind me, there was an element of ‘ridiculousness’ about the outfit. It was a brightly coloured jumpsuit that I’d made for myself out of a pair of children’s curtains. Yes, I know. But it went down well with the seven year olds I was teaching. The deputy head obviously drew the short straw. He came to me after school one day and talked about maths, PE and the weather, before averting his eyes and mentioning - oh so awkwardly - that I might wear something different the following day.  

The second time was in my first teaching job where the headteacher and I had developed a kind of love-hate relationship. She would compliment me on my dangly earrings one day, then pull me aside the next, to tell me that my red ski pants (yes, they were in fashion in the early 80s) were inappropriate.  I disagreed, but, in order to keep my job, I went into tailored black pants the following day, and very quickly became a Stepford Teacher (with a few ridiculous additions - the green Doc Martins, the mad earrings, and the brightly coloured tops).  I was too much of a rebel to be completely converted. 

I’m sure, if I flick through some of our earlier photo albums, I’ll find plenty of examples of ridiculous outfits, but, to be honest, they were just a bit of fun to me. My mum assures me that I was never conventional, even as a child. When I got into my early teens and bought myself an age 8 Ladybird kilt (how on earth did it fit?) and a pair of red tap shoes to wear ‘down the high road’ on a Saturday afternoon I thought I was the bee’s knees. My best friend had an identical outfit, and I’m sure we were the focus of many ‘ridiculous’ comments. At the time, it was probably what we loved about those trips. 

My sense of humour is frequently activated by  sights or situations which could be accurately described as ridiculous.  I’m lucky to have friends and family who see the world in a similar way. One of the most ridiculous sights I’ve ever seen occurred on an aircraft. I was with my daughter and it doesn’t take much to set us off.  As we sat down to wait for take off a little scene began to unfold before us. Now, I am nosy (I like to call it curious) but my daughter is the opposite, and can’t understand my interest in other people and their lives. As she settled down to have little sleep, I listened in to the couple in front. What I ascertained was that they were work colleagues, off to some sort of conference. It was obvious they didn’t know each other very well, as the conversation was, at first, somewhat stilted.  The female was quite young, possibly early twenties, and the male was older, probably in his forties. He wanted to impress, and spent the whole journey talking about himself and his many achievements. Being a polite young girl his colleague nodded and put in the odd, complimentary comment as we flew towards London. 

When we landed the male seemed reluctant for the conversation to end, and I heard him asking if the girl would like to go with him for a drink.  I got the impression she wasn’t very keen but obviously was too shy or too inexperienced to say no. I woke up my daughter and quickly filled her in on the conversation I’d overheard. She was polite enough to feign interest as we stood up to get our luggage.  The couple in front also began to gather their things together and get their coats on.  I noticed the man, still talking, was struggling with his jacket, which was a short, bomber style affair. As passengers started to alight, the man continued to try and impress the girl, mentioning expensive clubs and restaurants - whist still wrestling with his jacket.  It was their turn to join the queue, and I was relieved to see he’d eventually managed to get the jacket on. Except that it was upside down. Hence the struggle. And hence the rather strange arm movements he was exhibiting as he descended the steps.  The girl was oblivious, I’m guessing she was working on an escape plan, and the man, although obviously uncomfortable, ploughed on with his monologue. 

My daughter and I noticed the problem at exactly the same time. We looked at each for a few seconds before bursting into  uncontrollable laughter. We followed behind, trying desperately to keep up, whilst also trying to stifle the outburst. We couldn’t. It was too funny: the man desperately trying to impress his bored young colleague whilst walking beside her in an upside down jacket. The more we looked at him the louder we laughed. He turned at one point to throw us a questioning look, but that just made us laugh all the more.  We followed him towards the baggage hall, not wanting to miss his discovery of the faux pas.  Sure enough, as we rounded a bend, he stopped, looked down at himself, stole a glance at the girl, and in one swift move, whipped off the jacket, turned it around the correct way and put it back on. This happened many years ago, when Blackpool airport was still open and flying planes to London, but my daughter only has to ask me if I remember the man in the upside down jacket and we’re both back on that plane and doubled up with laughter. 

For me, I think that incident pretty much defines the word, ‘ridiculous’ in all it’s forms: older man trying to impress young girl; older man trying to prolong the conversation by offering drinks; and, above all, older man in upside down jacket trying to sound like Mr Big.  I wonder what happened to them? Maybe they’re married now. If they are, I really hope they wore their wedding clothes upside down or, at least, inside out. 

I Started a Poem  by Jill Reidy

I started a poem

About all things ridiculous 

I listed them

Rolling my eyes

Tutting 

Judging

And laughing to myself 

I went to town on 

Make up

Fashion

And lots more 

And then

I realised 

That, over the years 

I’d been guilty of so many 

Of those things I deemed 

Ridiculous.

The sparkling pink eye shadow 

That sprinkled glitter down my cheeks 

Made me look like I’d been crying 

The skirt, too tight, too short

Revealing legs too fat 

Lips I tried to plump with stinging gel

Carefully outlined and painted shiny red

The too high shoes I couldn’t walk in 

The clompy mules on giant platforms

The baggy harem pants

And the skin tight jeans 

Leggings stretched to bursting

Tights like Nora Batty’s

Oh and the hair

The pink, the purple, the rainbow hues

And finally, the huge, Deirdre Barlow glasses

That make a spectacle of myself.

So I didn’t write the poem.  I decided it was just too ridiculous for words....

 Thanks for reading.......... Jill

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All Colours, Especially Purple

My View as I Write this Post 

When I volunteered to do some more guest writing for the Dead Good Blog and received the list of topics, the first title that came up was ‘colour.’ I ticked it, confident that I could write about a subject that dominates my world. It was only when Steve responded that I realised it had to be done by the following day - and I had a pretty busy 24 hours ahead of me.  Luckily, my guest spot was quickly moved to Sunday, so here I am, back again.

My love of colour goes back a long way. I don’t know what sparked it, as our house, when I was little, was mainly magnolia with a splash of white, a neutral background to all the colourful goings on, perhaps.  I do remember one episode of redecorating that, with hindsight, was certainly rather odd. With three young children tearing about the house the magnolia in the front room began to get extremely grubby around the light switch and below, where sticky fingers would rest whilst the door was opened.  Dad (or was it mum? I think they were both involved in the end) decided to brush over the marks with some leftover paint, which unfortunately didn’t bear much resemblance to the original colour.  It started with a small area around the light switch.  Whoever was painting stood back and looked at the completed work.  And decided it wasn’t completed after all. It needed to cover the grubby fingerprints below.  Painting was continued, with frequent pauses to survey the handiwork.  After an hour or so it was decided that the job was done.
 

There was a large ovalish area, measuring approximately a metre from top to bottom. It became known as The Egg, and it soon fitted in beautifully with all the other slightly bizarre repairs in the house.  None of us really noticed it after a couple of days, and we were only reminded of it when visitors did a double take and silently mouthed, ‘What - ?’ as they entered the room. 

When Dave and I got our own first house in the 1970s we decided magnolia was the devil, and instantly set about decorating each room in the darkest colours we could find: deep brown, rich red, green, orange and purple. In our defence they were the ‘in’ colours at the time, but I don’t think the in-laws saw it that way.  My mother in law had already practically had a nervous breakdown when I’d requested bright red and royal blue bedding as wedding presents.  She might have been more impressed if she’d known then that we’d still be sleeping in them forty four years later. 

I’d like to say I’ve grown up a bit since then, and now enjoy a restful, magnolia house.  Somehow this hasn’t happened and we’re still wallowing in purple, yellow and bright red rooms.  In fact, when our children were little we always referred to the ‘Red Room’ and the ‘Blue Room,’ not ‘The Lounge,’ and the ‘Dining Room,’ like normal people. My clothes are arranged in the wardrobe in colour order, my shoes go from black to purple to blue to red, and my socks genuinely bring me joy when I open the drawer. Pretty sad when I think about it.

I can’t leave this post without mentioning  the colourful, ever changing palette upon my head - an ongoing experiment with style and colour for the past 53 years.  I was lucky to have a mum who was pretty liberal about these things, well ahead of her time, and didn’t think it odd when I appeared one morning, at the age of thirteen with a full head of grey hair. To be honest it was an experiment that had gone slightly wrong, but, undaunted, off I went to my rather staid Grammar School, only to be singled out in assembly and sent home to ‘sort it out.’ 

By the time I’d had a few more colours (always a reckless experiment) I think the school had given up on me, and apart from the odd, sarcastic comment most of the teachers inwardly sighed and turned a blind eye. Since then I’ve probably sported every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Like the time I didn’t leave the bleach on long enough and ended up with bright orange hair (well before it was in fashion). I looked like Dick Emery in drag. My daughter (aged seven) sobbed and begged me to wear a hat when I picked her up from school the next day.  If I remember rightly, I found a hairdresser who had the skills to at least dumb down the brightness, although I still wore the hat as requested. 

Purple by Jill Reidy

It was the purple ink 

Siphoned carefully 

Into a new, expensive pen

I watched as it filled

The light cutting through the colour 

Wiped the nib on a rag 

Replaced the casing

Screwed back on the lid 

Felt it heavy in my hand 

It signified something

I wasn’t sure what

The end

Or the Beginning 

Whatever

Purple was the colour

My colour 

From now on

Thanks for reading,   Jill 

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The Colour Purple - Red Hat?



“When I’m an old woman I shall wear purple…”

My friend and I said this in unison then giggled like girls. We were in the back of our friend’s car, picking up another friend to go out to dinner. The four of us had previously worked together for at least ten years until the fourth friend, older than the rest of us, had moved away. It was always lovely to meet up again. This time she stepped out wearing a purple coat and a flowery patterned mauve scarf.  My friend and I didn’t mean to be rude, we simply shared a thought out loud.

I’m becoming increasingly fond of the colour purple, so maybe I’m already there age wise. My favourite used to be a deep, berry red, not quite burgundy. I considered it to be rich and warm looking, where purple was flat and made my complexion very pale.

 The purple thing started with my hair, ages ago. I wanted a bold colour under my longish three shades of blonde. I wanted to be very trendy for a forthcoming Moody Blues tour, so my first choice was blue. It would only be seen properly when I wore my hair up, and the colour would just peep through when my hair was over my shoulders. My hairdresser put me off, explaining that the blue would quickly fade to an unflattering grey. Red, then, I’ll have a deep red, to match most of my wardrobe. I liked it until someone was concerned that the back of my neck must be bleeding. Someone else suggested chestnut brown was very classy under blonde, but everyone has brown and I wanted individuality, not classy. Somewhere down the line, purple turned out to be perfect. It was very me, the flash of purple in my long hair and my red shoes, always red shoes. I kept this fashion going for years, until the approach of my sixtieth birthday.

I wanted a new look to mark the occasion and there were other things happening that year including the birth of our first grandchild. I was beginning the next era of my life, being someone’s nanna. There are now three beautiful grandchildren to dote on, but this was then.

The main decision, or rather, mistake, was the short hairstyle. Goodbye to long, blonde locks and goodbye to purple. It seemed a good choice at the time, but the next day I was back in the hairdressers, unhappy that it wasn’t right, and then a few days later I was in another salon with my tale of woe and having some improvements done. Reminder to self, I cannot style my own hair so keep some length and keep it simple.  I’m a few years on now and wonder about having the purple hair again. Who said ‘With age cometh wisdom’?

I have some purple boots, which I love and some purple-ish jeggings which don’t match with them but I have my eye on some dark red pixie boots. I think I’m ready for a red hat now, as well.

 

Jenny Joseph's poem,

Warning

 

When I’m an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens.

And learn to spit.

 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

 

Jenny Joseph (1932 – 2018)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Lovely locks?

Hair. We all have it. Some love theirs, some don't. Some just plain don't know what to do with it, like me!

Having always been a tomboy, from the age of around 5, my hair as a kid was always short. Easy peasy, brush and go. Some of my friends would sit with their Girls' World heads, applying the make-up and styling the hair. Not my thing though. The closest I got to being "girly" was a Curly Twirl Barbie. Complete with hair curler, I gave it a go for a little while at least. It made the ends of her hair ragged. So I trimmed it, very neatly I might add (I was quite proud of myself), taking off the tiniest, tiniest amount levelling it off. I don't remember how, but I got distracted, leaving the said Barbie with her REALLY long hair and the pair of scissors on the draining board. I came back to it to find the synthetic hair strewn ALL over the draining board, my Barbie lying on top looking like Yazz from the 80's group "Yazz and the Plastic Population". My brother had tried to "help" me. The only reason I got upset was that I thought I was going to get into trouble, besides that though, it wasn't my cup of tea so I wasn't too upset.

After I left High School I started growing it in an effort to shed my tomboy image, only occasionally getting it trimmed. My earlier years of non-girlishness had not prepared me for a lifetime of caring for my hair. I went though a phase, when it was waist length, of having it permed. However, my hair being so thick, the poor stylist had to use the skinniest rollers to make it stay put, otherwise it would just drop out overnight.

I have come to realise that I am a "brush and go" kind of gal. I am not one to faff, preen, spray, scrunch, backcomb or style in any way, shape or form.


Locks:

In 2014
my hair was so long
I could sit on it.
I wish I could say
that it was luscious
and healthy, 
it wasn't.
A thick head of hair
neglected
by a tomboy
wanting to feel more girly,
but not quite knowing how.
Never trimmed or pampered,
just washed twice,
conditioned once.
Eternally aching arms meant
I left it to its' own devices
slowly
growing.
Only brushed
and pulled back to avoid
tickling my face 
and getting in the way,
though it still did.
Constant ponytail
even at night,
again to try and stop 
a mouthful of hair.
Partway down my back
weaker strands broke
leaving split ends
and longer ones
resembling rats tails.
ENOUGH!
I finally snapped,
unable to cope
with the long ...
lank ...
locks.
I wanted to look smart
not like I was wearing
a witches wig!
Free to turn over at night
without tangling myself up
and giving myself
a crick in the neck.
So, on Remembrance Day
over two feet of hair
lay
languidly
on the cold floor
of the salon,
swept aside
as two old dears gasped
and marvelled
at my new
very 
short 
cut.
I still don't know
what to do with my hair.
So, I've started growing it ...
again!


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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