Class

This word has a few uses. We talk about...a class act...a classy outfit...having class...first class to third class... in a class of its own...and then the reference to education...being placed in a class i.e. a group of pupils usually with similar attributes, a way of sorting people out. Like that comedy sketch of old, "I know my place".

I have no idea what to write this week for at this moment I have excruciating back pain. Even sitting at this chair is very uncomfortable. Instead I'll relate a story to you that I actually remembered and told only yesterday.

At primary school my class was in a 'hut' across the road from the main school. A stove was lit each day to keep us warm. The teacher was a tyrant (I do not recall her name). She was very handy with the tawse , or skud or strap! Spelling errors brought instant, and painful, punishment. Every night we had spelling for homework and I tried diligently to always get it correct by asking my parents or using the dictionary.

I vividly recall one particular day. It transpired that Mary England had received some sort of punishment that her mother regarded as quite unnecessary. So, her mother came to the class and confronted the teacher. An absolute barney ensued with shouting, cursing...it came to blows! Mrs England was assaulted by the teacher. I guess that someone in an adjacent 'hut' sent for assistance. Things really must have escalated. The outcome I do remember. The teacher was put into a strait jacket and taken from the building! How I recall that moment! We were traumatized! Next day the class was removed to the main body of the school into the welcoming arms of a lovely, kind teacher. It was her who encouraged me to tell stories, to write and recite. Thank you Mrs White....

And thank you for reading, Kath . 

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Class - Upstairs or Downstairs?

I’ve spent the last month or so re-reading my collection of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ books. These slim paper-backs tell the story of the popular TV series about the ‘upstairs’ Bellamy family of 165, Eaton Place, Belgravia, and their ‘downstairs’ servants. The drama series began in 1971 and taught me more about social class and modern history than any amount of school lessons. The books followed the TV programmes series by series and each chapter is an episode, written by the same screen-writer.  They work quite well as novels. Fading, falling apart and with tiny print that made me wonder how I was managing without my hands-free magnifying glass, these are part of my ‘most treasured possessions’. For back up, I have the complete set of DVDs.

History was, and still is, a big interest to me. Unfortunately, the history master at school failed to ignite any passion in the subject, standing at the front of the class non-stop talking about one of the wars like he was presenting All Our Yesterdays. The boys drew Spitfires, us girls yawned. Instead, I learned social, economic and political history from the events going on in Upstairs, Downstairs. At the time, 1971 onwards, class distinction was mostly lost on me. I loved the servants, Mr Hudson the butler, all his staff and everything they got up to and I equally loved the members of the well-to-do Bellamy family. There was just one thing that grated on me and opened my eyes to class differences of the time. In an episode where Lord Bellamy’s brother is briefly staying at Eaton Place, Hudson’s brother and family are also visiting from abroad, staying in London, and unintentionally, they are all lunching in the same restaurant. This is a regular place for Richard Bellamy to be eating out, but Hudson has had to borrow money from cook, Mrs Bridges, to fund the outing. Bellamy and Hudson seeing each other in the restaurant causes embarrassment for Hudson, who, in an attempt to big himself up a bit for the benefit of his brother  now feels that he is aping his betters. Later, he offers his immediate resignation. Bellamy won’t hear of it and tells Hudson he was pleased to meet his family and that sadly, he, Bellamy, will not be seeing his own brother again. I was glad of the happy outcome, but it made me wonder why being in the same place should be a problem. Surely the butler could go wherever he likes on his time off, and how he funds it is his own business?

I have followed Downton Abbey, Belgravia and others, but nothing captured the essence of the time period quite like Upstairs, Downstairs. I couldn’t decide where I belong, up or down, or somewhere else entirely.

Re-reading it reminded me of a time at work, not where I am now. We had coffee mugs for ourselves, but there were cups and saucers for visiting senior staff and directors. When I brewed up, I gave everyone mugs and no one said anything. Sometimes, we used cups and saucers in our office. No reason not to.

Growing up in pubs, we had domestic staff. I called them ‘Auntie’ or ‘Mr’ and they were very much part of the family from my point of view, particularly our housekeeper ‘Auntie Kathy’ who I adored and was close to, and ‘Mr Joe’ who came with the pub and was like another grandad. I was brought up to treat everyone with respect and kindness. We are all the same.

Is that the time? I’d better ring for tea – or go and make it.

Here's John Betjeman:

How to Get On in Society

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman

As cook is a little unnerved;

You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes

And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requistites all in the toilet?

The frills round the cutlets can wait

'Till the girl has replenished the cruets

And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,

But the vestibule's comfy for tea

And Howard is out riding on horseback

So do come and take some with me.

Now here is a fork for your pastries

And do use the couch for your feet;

I know what I wanted to ask you -

Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes dear?

I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;

Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doilies

With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

John Betjeman  (1906 - 1984)
 

             
Frost Report Social Class sketch: click here to play

Thanks for reading, keep well, Pam x

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Generosity - In All Its Forms

When I was young it was unheard of to give teachers presents at Christmas, Easter or any other occasion.  However, I noticed, when I began teaching twenty five years ago, that it had become the habit for children to present their teachers with any number of elaborate and expensive gifts.  I still have a beautiful designer vase that I received from a family who I guess weren’t short of money.  It sits in my bathroom, and I think of the little girl who gave it to me every time I look at it.  The last I heard, she was engaged to a well-known footballer.  There were always lots of bottles of wine, flowers, chocolates, and the odd ornament, and, although I was very grateful, the ornaments usually got recycled fairly quickly.  I once opened a package to find two delicate bone china Burberry mugs.  As I held them up admiringly, the child said proudly, “Happy Christmas, Miss. My dad bought them for my mum, but she didn’t like them so she said she’d wrap them up for you.”

However, the one present that particularly sticks in my mind is the tiny package given to me by a rather scruffy six year old, who obviously came from a family struggling to survive.  She handed it to me proudly, then sat down on the carpet with the rest of the class, and fixed her eyes on me.  I opened it with some trepidation and a fixed smile on my face.  Inside was the smallest, dirtiest piece of soap I’ve ever seen.  I don’t know if you’ve ever had to wax lyrical about a multi-coloured squashed ball of soap, the size of a pea, but let me tell you, it’s hard to find words that convey one’s gratitude.  

The ritual was to open each present, hold it up for all to see, say something complimentary and then make it quite clear that I was happy with a present, a card or nothing at all (“hearing you wish me , ‘Happy Christmas,’ is the best present I could have…..”etc etc) 

“Lovely,” I heard myself say, to the sounds of infant sniggering, “did you make it yourself?”  The little girl nodded self-consciously. 

“Well,” I said decisively, “home made presents are the best of all.”  At this point I didn’t care whether I insulted the wine/chocolate/flower givers, who actually appeared oblivious, and were staring at the soap with a degree of puzzlement.  All I was bothered about was making that little girl feel special for gathering up the old slivers of soap from the plughole and moulding them into a colourful gift.  I was just grateful there were no pubic hairs or any other unwelcome human detritus on show.

Hers was an act of generosity that actually meant so much more than the snatched bunches of flowers or the recycled gift sets (no offence, parents).  It meant that this little girl, who had nothing, had obviously given some thought to a gift she could produce herself at no cost in terms of money, only time and ingenuity.  I’d like to tell you that this six year old grew up to appear on Dragon’s Den or the Apprentice, but the last I heard she was on the till at Tesco.

Generosity is a funny thing.  It’s not just to do with giving money or presents, more about a state of mind.  Some people are mean-minded, both in terms of gifts and in spirit, others are the opposite, generous in every way, regardless of wealth or lack of it.  This morning I asked my ten year old grandson what he thinks generosity means.  After a moment's thought he said, 'giving, kindness, sharing, smiles."  I don't think he was far wrong.  Some of the most generous people I've known have had the least in material terms.

Thirty odd years ago I was in a very bad way mentally, having suffered from severe Post Natal depression.  I had three young children and a husband with three jobs, doing his best to hold it all together.  I wasn’t coping very well, and my parents lived two hundred miles away.  One weekend they came to visit, and my mum told me she was staying on till I was feeling better, however long it took. Anybody who has ever suffered from depression (and needs their mum, at whatever age) will know the relief I felt as I heard this plan.  My mum was teaching at the time, had arranged unpaid leave and wasn’t going home till I could cope without her.  And this was after she’d driven up one weekend following a week teaching, driven back on the Sunday night, then turned round and driven straight back up after a desperate phone call from me.

Now that’s what I call selfless giving, kindness, generosity.  And something I will never forget.

In fact, my mum and dad are two of the most generous people I have ever met, frequently helping out children, grandchildren and now great grandchildren.  My dad has spend thousands over the years treating friends and family to meals and holidays, and tipping generously in restaurants, but woe betide anybody daring to ask him for a stamp.  As long as I can remember, dad has bought books of stamps, which are the most precious things he owns.  They live in his wallet, in his jacket pocket and are not to be touched.  If any one asked for one (in the days when we often sent letters instead of emails or texts) they would be subjected to a diatribe, the likes of which one wouldn’t want to hear more than once.  Similarly, the use of the landline (our only other means of communication in the 1960s) was closely monitored, with dad making frequent sighing visits into the hall to check whether I was still chatting.  I always thought it strange that someone so generous would worry about a few pence, but now I'm guessing it's more to do with living through the war years, when everything had to be scrimped and saved for, and every penny was precious. Long live dad's generosity!

Although I see myself as a pretty generous person, I’ve noticed more and more, recently,

that my books of stamps are being hidden in the depths of my purse, and woe betide anyone who has the audacity to ask for one……..

Can't Buy Me Love 

by the Beatles   (my sentiments entirely)

Can't buy me love, love
Can't buy me love

I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend
If it makes you feel all right
I'll get you anything my friend
If it makes you feel all right
'Cause I don't care too much for money
For money can't buy me love

I'll give you all I've got to give
If you say you love me too
I may not have a lot to give
But what I've got I'll give to you
I don't care too much for money
For money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can't buy me love
No no no, no

Say you don't need no diamond rings
And I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things
That money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can't buy me love
No no no, no

Say you don't need no diamond rings
And I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things
That money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love, love
Can't buy me love, oh

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The see you smile

OK, purple prose, yeah.

Firstly I looked up 'prose' or as I found out, to just write normally. Then I looked up 'purple' which returned various information sites talking about colour. I figured this was not the answer I was looking for, so I typed in 'Purple Prose' and found that it is a piece of writing that is exaggerated and over the top, over flowery or over told.

Then it dawned on me, this week is national by a card week or Valentine's day. This, to me, obviously meant over the top, loved up to the max, romantic prose (see I can use the word now)

So, using my muse as inspiration, I started writing. I think I've written more of a poem to be honest however, it is very much something to be delivered with emotion in a performance with more ham than a pig.

Whatever it is I'm pretty sure I got the purple patches right.

Enjoy

To See You Smile

To see you smile

because of me.

Not to mock,

nor to sympathise,

nor to stand over me with grandeur

controlling my every movement by the sheer whim of your thought.

To see you smile

because of me,

my wit,

or my charm

or because you simply knew I was alive and saw me

bestow some kindness on a stranger for nothing less than your approval.

To see you Smile

because of me

and hear the singing angels

ignited in to the song of a thousand heavens

by the delight radiated from your face

just from having the smallest, most minute, insignificant thought of me

To see you smile

because of me,

is to see more than this or any universe has to offer,

is to be encapsulated by a moment the expunges all light

except that which shows your face

and blesses my eyes with a power far greater than the creator himself

To see you smile

because of me

Is all I ever need to live for.

Nothing, not even the greatest of all the foods and wines

could ever be more intoxicating

than to see you smile,

because of me.

Colin

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Anecdote: Learning to Count

On Monday afternoon my eldest nephew, who started school in September, snuggled beside me on the sofa to show me what he’d been learning.

Still dressed in school uniform, looking far too grown up, he thumbed through his workbook, explained each page and then decided it was time to test my number skills. He randomly pointed at a ‘7’ and said, “What’s this number?”

“Seven?”

“Correct.”

This continued until I’d named all 20 numbers and Joshy finally declared, “Yes, you’ve done it.”

“Do I get a sticker?” I asked with a smile.

Joshy thought for a moment (a fleeting look I wish I could capture and keep) before these words fell as beautifully as sycamore seeds from his mouth:

“You can have my sticker,” he said as he peeled a small black and yellow sticker from his jumper, “It’s from my orange.”

I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated a fruit sticker before; I’ve certainly never loved one, but, as Joshy pressed this one onto my knitted cardigan, I loved it. Not because it was aesthetically pleasing (because it wasn’t) and not – like those metallic stars from my own school days – because it marked an achievement, but rather I loved it because it was kindness in its simplest and purest terms.

To Joshy it wasn’t complicated like the subtraction he’s grappling with, and it wasn’t homework he’ll be marked on and praised for, yet, he still gave his sticker freely, asking for nothing in return and reminding me that some things just can’t be measured by numbers.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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The Most Important Thing in the World

The most important thing in the world is to be kind.

This is the lesson my mother taught me.  She taught me lots of things, obviously, but this one vital idea was repeated many times over the years.  If this is your doctrine, you don't need other rules, because this covers most eventualities. 

Kindness is a modest proposal.  It requires understanding and empathy towards each other along with the extra effort of being helpful and generous. 

One of the stories of Enid Blyton which always stayed with me was The Girl Who Was Left Behind which appeared in her Stories for Bedtime book.  The tale involves a young girl who is on her way for a day out, with her school, at the beach.  She has been looking forward to the day out for some time.  On her way to catch the bus, she sees a boy fall off his bicycle.  Although she knows she will miss the bus, and her day out, she stops and helps the boy, walking him home to his mother who is so moved by the kindness that she takes the three of them for a day out by the sea in her car (cars were a big deal when this book was written). 

Personally, I know that I've missed many opportunities to be kind simply because I considered myself to be too busy.  It's an easy get out.  There are other excuses which go through my head when I see someone in need.  One of them is the idea that a person begging for money on the street can get help by going to a shelter or through the 'proper channels'.  And maybe they're not really destitute anyway.  Who can tell?

I've watched a neighbour's child run to school in the rain, even though I was driving in that direction, because I didn't want to make my own daughter late (I know - I'm a monster).  I even watched my neighbours stand outside in the evening while they waited for the gas company to check for a leak because my place was a mess and I was too embarrassed to ask them in (at least it wasn't raining this time).  So much for kindness.

Although I know I do kind things for people regularly, it's the instances when I could have helped and didn't that stick in my mind.  I feel ashamed that I didn't do that little bit.

Recently, I was walking with my daughter in the park.  We were tired and had our arms full of stuff.  A young girl ran up to a bin by the path and tried to put a bag of rubbish into the bin.  The bag split and rubbish fell all over the ground.  I felt sorry for the girl but was planning to carry on my way when my daughter turned to me and handed me her bags.  She ran over to the young girl and told her not to worry, that she would sort it out.  The young girl smiled and ran back to her family.  My daughter picked all the rubbish up and, as it wouldn't fit in the bin, put it back into the bag, re-tying it at the side so it wouldn't spill. 

Last week, this same daughter took part in the GISHWHES international scavenger hunt.  She co-operated with a group of 14 other girls from across the globe.  They did all sorts of crazy things to get points which included making a bikini out of tea bags, helping to break the Guinness World Record for hugs given in a week, covering my car in rubbish, hosting a traditional Japanese tea ceremony in a lift, making an origami crane in the rain, and posting a haiku about waiting in a bus stop. 

If you know how awkward teenagers can find social situations, you'll realise that to do all this meant going beyond their comfort zones.  Which makes me think that making myself late for work or feeling embarrassed isn't so bad compared to the opportunity to help someone in need or cheer someone up. 

Now I happen to know that the bloggers and readers of this blog are incredibly kind people.   My modest proposal is that we all go that little bit further this week and commit to an extra act of kindness.  If you'd like an idea, you can find plenty on the Random Act of Kindness website. 

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Gratitude

Last week I dropped my netbook on the floor. Afterwards it made an annoying beeping sound as if it were on a countdown to its own self-destruction. As I’ve now discovered, it had already destroyed itself, and every unsaved document on its unrepairable hard-drive was locked and lost within its broken components. Most of these documents were poetry related: finished poems, drafts of poems, quickly jotted ideas, and new poems that were still trying to find their form and direction. Stupidly, I had forgotten to back these documents up, and with one bump on the floor three years had been forgotten.

Poetry last week didn’t offer the taste of satisfaction that it usually evokes on the taste buds. Instead it was salty from the tears that caught my lips, bitter from anger at my own negligence…

But then, on Monday, something happened to wipe these unpleasant tastes from my taste buds, to remind me that some lost documents wasn’t the end of the world. And you, dear reader, played your part in helping this realisation to surface. As I unpacked boxes of food and toiletries from our Blackpool Foodbank collection, I was overwhelmed by your generosity and kindness. In just over a week we (as a poetry group) managed to fill almost four cardboard boxes with an array of items for those who are struggling and in need.

All the food collected by the Dead Good Poets

The salty, bitter taste was replaced by something as warm as cinnamon and as beautiful as snow tumbling in the headlights at night. I was filled with gratitude, because one solitary blog post had spoken to many people, because we’d made a difference to our community and given something back, because I’d asked and so many of you were willing to help. So to all of you, I would like to personally say thank you for your beautiful generosity (which I’m sure will mean the world to a few families this Christmas – and which certainly made my week a better one).

May each of your Christmases be filled with the same love you’ve shown.

Lara 

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