Week-end

Week-end spelled in the old-fashioned way is Saturday and Sunday. Nowadays, of course, the two words usually run together as weekend, but people take the meaning generally as the same thing, apart from bank holiday weekends, which run into Monday.

It’s the end of the conventional working nine to five week. In our collective mentality in the UK, it conjures up images of day trips out for the family with the children. For some, this means hikes in the countryside up mountains or across dales, museum trips or visits to aquariums, zoos or the seaside.

However, many find comfort and pleasure in home time. On freezing cold days, all ages like to curl up with a hot drink to get lost in their favourite novel on Kindle or in hard copy, lounge on their bed or sofa listening to their favourite music or a podcast or maybe text friends and surf the Internet for good online shopping offers in clothes and footwear to click and collect later.

Summer, thankfully, offers the opportunity for good family time, such as barbecues with grandparents, while the kids play on slides or go in the paddling pool in the back garden.

I have many happy memories of such days. I remember out pet kitten called Toby leaping up at a butterfly, while my amazing Gran, who lived with us sunned herself in a deck chair and I pottered around in a cotton dress my Mum had made.

Out of the two days, Sunday has a character of its own. For those in my own ethnicity (white northern and British), it means a roast dinner; mainly roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with roast potatoes and two or three veg, followed by a pudding with custard or apple pie with cream and ending with a drink of tea.

As a poet, here is my own take on weekends.

Week-End

1.
Saturday, Sunday,
Chill-out time days,
Laze and lie in ways,
to savour your novel
over cocoa
and a biscuit bar
for dunking,
Lunch with friends
a blaze of chatter
in artsy cafes.

2.
For families,
Away-days beckon,
Seaside haunts with fairs,
Fortune tellers, fish shops
or forest trails
Cracking with bracken,
Cities with story,
Back-in-time tours,
a window into the why,
how and who of today.

3.
For those with cash,
the beckoning break,
Reality paradise,
Driveaways, fly-aways
Coasts, Coves and Castles
to rediscover romance
and each other,
Say the things you should say,
Find harmony in love,
But these things have a price.

If you don’t believe me, maybe you should take a look at Taylor Swift’s account she shared online about her holiday stay in actor Dominic West’s Irish castle (at the cost of £14,000 a night).

She didn’t spend a weekend there, but at £28,000 for two nights, I am sure many people would be tempted to make their holiday there a short stay!

Taylor Swift's week-end

From the pop star’s account, the holiday she enjoyed sounds fantastic, from photographs of the property, it looks like a dream and being a historical tour guide in London, boy, would I like to stay in that castle!

It would make me feel like a queen in somewhere like Hampton Court.

However, even if I had that kind of money, I personally would feel guilty because of the amount of people suffering homelessness and facing illegal evictions on account of the lax laws of our land that don’t protect innocent citizens.

For the more normal people that people like you and I are likely to run into, (unless you have your own caravan), holiday companies go full belt with temptations to potential customers. They promise city breaks, seaside locations or country hideaways. Another option for some is to have their own holiday pad – an apartment or holiday cottage – which means, of course, you always have to go to the same place, which is not everyone’s cup of tea.

It is the latter situation that inspires creative writers and composers.

Fiction writers seem to enjoy exploring the dark side of humanity through this short break, the weekend from hell.

Weekend, a short story by Fay Weldon is set in a weekend cottage where the central character finds herself in the same situation as her female forbears, in spite of being allowed to earn money.

It is a feminist take on 1970s Britain, when gender roles were still clearly defined.

The other female in the story, Katie does not offer empathy based on gender to the downtrodden wife and mother. There is no sense of sisterhood.

The protagonist, Martha, whose point of view the story revolves around, is also shown as being complicit in people using her.

The work offers a cynical view about human nature, as though sexual relationships are all about power struggles and there is no room for the fine sides of human nature like tenderness and romance.

In a similar vein, the page-turner set in Lisbon, A Weekend Away, by Sarah Alderson conjures up a sense of the Saturday and Sunday from hell when the central character’s horrible friend goes missing and sleazy, vile characters pop up all over the place.

Personally, I found the ending rather too far-fetched for my liking and implausible that all these horrible people could come into contact with one decent person, or that the subject of the book would not have concluded far sooner than she did just how awful her so-called friend was.

Nevertheless, there is a good chapter-by-chapter hook to want you to read on and it is certainly entertaining reading.

The reality for many is that weekends are pretty uneventful for most people.

It seems appropriate to end the blog on a happier note, especially considering how things have been moving internationally.

Something to lift peoples’ spirits in these uncertain and shadowy times is surely the great song Weekend in New England.

The song reflects New Yorkers’ liking for a short, romantic coastal holiday accessible by a drive up the coast to the states of New England where, as the song says, they can enjoy the “long rocky beaches.”

Penned by Randy Edelman, an American musician, producer and composer, he recorded it for his 1975 album Farewell Fairbanks.

How it became a hit recorded by Barry Manilow, well, thereby hangs a tale.

Edelman made changes to his composition after the President of Arista Records, Clive Davis, who wanted Barry Manilow to record it convinced him that simplification of the verses could make it a hit.

The rest is history.

So why not click on the link below, lie back and enjoy this great song?

Barry Manilow - Weekend In New England

Thanks for reading. Have a good week-end,

Anne G. Dilley

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Walls - Bricks and Ice Cream

Watching ‘Countryfile’ on Sunday evening, I was spellbound by the on-going discovery work at Vindolanda, a Roman fortress near Hexham in the north-east of England and close to Hadrian’s Wall. If my memory serves me right, Hadrian’s Wall stretches from the Solway Firth on the west coast for eighty-four miles to Wallsend on the east coast and for all the times I’ve travelled to Scotland, I’ve yet to see a stone of it. I should make the effort. Many times I must have been in touching distance. Perhaps a detour to Hexham is needed?

Last week, we were on the ‘Nine of Us Went to Butlin’s and Survived’ tour. Some of us are still shattered. Some are mentally planning a return and others are in awe at the magical time we shared making memories. Two grandchildren, aged 7 and 6 were watching others on the climbing wall and were keen to have a go. The others were too young, but could cheer loudly from the side lines. I watched, heart in mouth, then, as they gained confidence after two or three attempts, I began to relax and film them. The one I expected to climb up like a rat up a drain turned out to be more timid, though he did well. His cousin, watched, figured it out for herself and got on with it. Girl power! Neither of them reached the top, but they smashed it for themselves and as they basked in their achievement, I was able to breathe normally again. Of course, they were harnessed, helmets on and fastened to safety lines, but nannas do worry.

Almost thirty years ago, we had an extension built to give us a workable sized kitchen, an improvement to the tiny space we had. Somehow, I made New Year’s Day roast dinner for fifteen people in there. Physically I’m a bit bigger now and I doubt if I’d be able to turn round in it. We’ll never know. Watching each step of the new kitchen come to life was exciting. The walls took shape, the windows – one in the wrong place, but I could rearrange the interior plans – everything was massive and amazing. It ceased to be fun when it was time to link into the house. Being October, it was chilly when the outside wall was taken down and no amount of covering and protecting saved everywhere else from the debris involved. This was the stressful stage that had me almost climbing the nice, new walls.

‘Wall’s’. I could recognise the ice cream sign long before I’d learnt to read. Williamson Park in Lancaster was my stomping ground when I was four. I would roll or run down the grassy hill below the Ashton Memorial to be caught in my dad’s arms and swung round. A little bit further along the path was a wooden kiosk selling ice cream and drinks. I would have a cornet, Dad would always have a wafer. Sometimes he let me have a small bottle of Lucozade, but usually it was ice cream with the promise of a drink of blackcurrant and lemonade from behind the bar when we got home. Oh, the daft things that reside in my memory. We had a pub near the railway station, my aunt and uncle had one in the town, soon to be joined by my grandparents who had retired from their pub in Sale. Sweet times.

I found this poem about Hadrian’s Wall,

The Great Wall of England
A poem for kids by Jon Bratton and Paul Perro

When the Romans conquered Britain
Thousands of years ago.
They built towns in England and Wales,
They didn't want Scotland though.

The Scotsmen and the Romans
Did not get on at all.
To stop the Scots from stealing sheep
The Romans built a wall.

It stretched from Solway Firth in the west
To the Newcastle in the east.
To build it they used many stones,
Millions, at least.

The Emperor who was in charge,
(Hadrian was his name)
Did lots of things during his reign
But the wall gave him lasting fame.

It took fifteen years to build it,
Things took longer back then.
Hundreds of horses pulled the carts
There were thousands of working men.

They built forts and towers as well
They built them very tall,
So the Romans could see the Scots
Who tried to sneak up to the wall.

The Romans stayed in Britain for
Hundreds of years, altogether.
I wonder why they stayed so long?
It couldn't have been the weather.

That the wall was built to last
Would be a fair thing to say.
It was built thousands of years ago
And is still standing today.

Indeed, from all around the World
People come to see it.
There's always a tourist around
You can almost guarantee it!

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Summer - Making Memories

It is here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Proper sultry, summer weather of hot sun and blue skies from dawn until dusk, which is around nine-thirty, and I would like to say it goes on day after day. It won’t. I think this is two days of heatwave, then rain, possibly storm, and cooler temperatures. My house is currently thirty-four degrees and I feel sticky and uncomfortable.  The heatwave may not be completely responsible.  After two and a half years of sticking to guidelines and looking out for myself and family, Covid has got me. I tested positive at the weekend after feeling unwell for a couple of days. There are no signs of recovery yet. When it cools down, I’ll rest in the garden, admiring the fruits of my labours, especially the planter I’ve called Tangerine and White.

The summers of our youth were everlasting and full of ice cream, the park, the beach and sometimes a holiday. Our holidays tended to be spent with family, when my dad could escape from running the pub for more than two days together. It was always good to spent time with our cousins. They are in the USA now, but they lived in London and the south of England when we were all children. My sister and I loved their big garden offering lots of room to play, even space for badminton.

For years home was a pub on South Promenade. We had the beach on our doorstep. Day after day we were there, not a care in the world and not a thought for how lucky we were. Someone would be with us until I, being the eldest, was considered old enough to take us across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines. My sister would choose an ice lolly or ice cream. I loved a portion of shrimps in a tiny paper bag. I can still taste how delicious they were. Better than anything sweet.

When our children were young, summer holidays meant the long road trip to Pembrokeshire and a couple of weeks staying in a static caravan. It was owned by family members who didn’t use it during the busy months of July and August, but were very happy for us and others to enjoy it. We were so privileged. We had holidays that wouldn’t have happened if not for the generosity of our extended family. Our children, and us have great memories of those wonderful times.

Making memories is what we’ll be doing in a few weeks when we take our grown up children and all our grandchildren to have a blast at Butlin’s. It’s our treat as grandparents and a one-off. It will be fun for all of us, of course, but it is centred on giving the grandchildren a fabulous time. My grandparents used to take me to Butlin’s when I was small, before I had a sister. Now I’m the nanna. It’s my turn.

Allow me the indulgence of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets,

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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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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Snow - Fun in Padfield

It snowed yesterday. Just a tiny bit. Enough for my grandson to notice and tell me and sure enough, there was a flurry. We watched through the back room window, taking a break – I should say another break – from my efforts to home school him. Some snowflakes were big, but they didn’t hang around. The sun came out again, the sky was blue, and the last snowflake melted on the window and rolled down like a big tear-drop.  My grandson isn’t bothered. They’re not used to snow. He didn’t want to go out in it the other day when we had a depth of half a centimetre. He’d rather stay in and keep warm, but as he had walked round in his wellies I thought he might be hopeful of us quickly fashioning a tiny snow person in my back garden.

We hardly ever get proper snow here on the coast. I think it was 1981 when I trudged home from a nearby friend’s house in borrowed wellies which just about protected me, so deep was the snowfall that took us all by surprise when we opened the door. Luckily, as we were planning on staying in, I had walked. Usually I would take my car expecting us to be going off somewhere. The snow lasted a few days. Telephones were not working. I couldn’t get a message to work, but it didn’t matter, no one else made it in. There were a couple of times in the ‘90s when school was closed due to snow and my children played out in it. Very rare. It’s different further inland.

Padfield School 

During my childhood, for a short time we lived in Padfield, a village near Glossop in the Peak District. My parents were managing the local pub / small hotel, The Peels Arms, still there and it’s a great place, by the way. I made lots of friends at the village school and had a party for my ninth birthday in the hotel dining room. It was a very quiet neighbourhood and not many cars in those days. We had previously lived in pubs on busy streets or in town centres so being allowed out to play was a first for me and I loved it. Once, and it was only ever the once for reasons you’ll understand, I was allowed to take my toddler sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the nearby playground where she watched me play on the swings and roundabout with my friends. I must have got distracted. I don’t know the length of time involved, but at some point back at home, someone asked, ‘Where’s Anne?’ and the realisation hit me. I’d left her at the park.  She was still there, safe and well and I expect she was happy that someone came to rescue her. I was in the biggest trouble.

It snowed that winter, as it does every winter up there, and we were cut off. It must have been after Christmas because I remember sitting  by the fire in the ‘snug’ bar making the baskets from the gift of a basket weaving set I had received. No one could get in or out of Padfield.  Everything carried on as normal. The school had four classes with three teachers. Standard One and Standard Two shared a classroom with one teacher and all the staff lived locally. Snowy schooldays were fun, messing about all the way there and all the way back. The problem was that deliveries couldn’t get in, so provisions at the shop ran low or eventually ran out. I remember my mother helping out with food from the hotel to whoever needed it.

If the travel news on the radio gives information about the Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow, I know that Padfield and possibly Hadfield are cut off. I think back on my time there with fondness – apart from the incident with my sister – some great memories.

Padfield in the Snow
A snowman stood by every gate
Watching us marching down to school.
“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late,
Last one in is Mrs Swift’s fool!”

It’s hard to rush in such deep snow
With a blizzard freezing your face,
Making snowballs ready to throw
At some mates, nearly keeping pace.

Mrs Swift is standing, waiting,
About to close the classroom door,
Watching us dripping, creating
The puddles on the wooden floor.

Her eyes are narrow, looking cross.
Above her glasses, angry frown,
No doubt to nine-year olds who’s boss,
“Come in quickly and settle down!”

Prayers, assembly and work to do.
Writing and reading and hard sums,
Then we’re painting in shades of blue.
At home time, some letters for mums.

More snowball fighting up the street,
Climb the hill, laughing and falling,
Icy fingers and frozen feet,
“Pamela, your mum is calling!”


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

The photo is Padfield School, not mine.

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Button Box Envy

There is something fascinating about collections of buttons...a bit like looking at precious stones. You want to rummage through them, admire them, covet them!

I used to turn out my mother's button box (actually a metal biscuit caddy) . Not only did it have buttons in it but there was always a tangle of thread, a few collar studs, some ribbon, the slide pulls from zips and sundry other items!

I buy mixed packets of buttons in one colour, for craft use, but inevitably they are seldom used as few match each other. I try to have some semblance of order in my two plastic tubs, but it doesn't always work out that way. I start with good intentions and have one box for matched buttons, either strung together or still attached to cardboard. The other box is meant for odd buttons and those that come as spare buttons when you purchase a garment. I say "meant for", as they always get muddled up!

Imagine my utter joy when, during lockdown and no sewing shops open, I found a set of eight matching buttons suitable to attach to a cardigan I'd just knitted! These buttons did not 'match' the colour, but were made from antler so co-ordinated with the Aran design. Such a relief that was, as I didn't like the idea of an unfinished project.

My piece today is about looking through button collections....

        

Button Box Envy

Open up your button box and let me look within
Oh ! I see lots of colours, lots of shapes - thick and thin
Ones that match tied together with coloured thread,
Or still attached in rows on labelled cardboard.
I run my fingers through the box, to see the colours bright.
Stopping to admire a glass one that twinkles in the light.
Mother -of-pearl, wood, plastic, even reindeer antler.
Two -holed, four-holed --shanked and fabric covered.
My mother's button box, I played with as a child,
To match them altogether , like in a system filed -
Also there were collar studs, press studs and zip pulls,
Jumbled altogether with bobbins, lace and ribbon.
If you come to visit, you'll love to look at my collection.
Gaze with wonder at the history - held in recollection.
Four buttons from a jacket I wore in '72.
A blazer button, much older, never to be used...
I'll never use most buttons within that box of fun,
But often find an odd one to replace a missing one.
I envy other button boxes and like to explore their depths.
So look out your own collections and find memories there.

Thanks for reading, Kath

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Fragrance - In Memoriam

The mornings, a time for toast and cereal, checking homework is in satchel, P E kit if required then sending children off to school. Next would be allocating jobs to the household staff and bar staff, rotating the tasks as fairly as possible and getting stuck in herself where she was needed.

My mum, hair scraped back from her naked face, comfy flat shoes, navy slacks, fine-knit pale blue jumper with the sleeves pushed up. I remember her being busy, hands on, making sandwiches to sell at lunch time and how quickly she could butter the bread; two loaves worth of grated cheese and onion, a favourite of the regular customers.  Our pubs were ale houses, before breweries franchised into eating establishments and takings became target based. Any snacks or lunch-time sandwiches provided by my parents was separate to pub takings and the income it fetched was their own.

Later, after tea and into the early evening, my mother would transform herself into the smart, glamorous, attractive woman she was. She styled her brown hair into soft curls lifted off her face and shaped neatly over her ears. Lipstick, a hint of mascara, a dress and high heeled shoes, finished off with a subtle application of Estee Lauder Youth Dew or Chanel No5. This is how I like to remember her, looking lovely, accompanying my father downstairs in the pub, leaving a waft of her favourite fragrance behind.

She died young. For years I kept an almost empty bottle of her Estee Lauder for the comfort her fragrance gave me. Eventually, what was left completely evaporated and the bottle was discarded. I still have a box of talcum powder, not that I can smell it, if it should have any scent left at all, after all these years.

My sense of smell vanished after chemo and radiotherapy. All the fabulous fragrances are lost on me now. Perfume, lilies, home-made baking, the aroma is all left to memory and imagination. I still wear my Christian Dior which I used to love, and why not? I might be wafting memories around those who care.

I found this poem,

Fragrance

The fragrance of
Love and care

The fragrance that
Repair

The fragrance which
Always reminds of welfare

The fragrance with
The power of flare

The fragrance of mother
Is the fragrance of prayer.  

 

By Gemini Girl on All Poetry

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Smell...one of the senses

As I sit and write this tears are in my eyes as some of my late husband's favourite music is playing. I was okay whilst the rock and roll played (I had a jive with the door handle), but what finished me was 'At Last '.....so my senses are still attuned to memory. Such it is with the sense of smell .

Aromas can quickly transport us to a different place, a different time.....a distant forgotten memory wells up from the past.

Smells can be uplifting. Recently its been that faint aroma of spring growth. It's not a perfume. It's more subtle. It's a newness. A reawakening. It lifts the soul and gladdens the heart. The weight is lifted from our shoulders and we shrug off winter's heavy mantle. Each season has it's 'smell'. Warm summer days smell of warm undergrowth. The evenings bring a tang of the sea (if one lives by the shore) or a peaty scent from the mountains. Autumn brings faint smells of decay, that is intense when we kick through the leaves under our feet. Winter is fresh and tangy. Does cold have a smell ? Well anyway we wrap a scarf round our mouths and are enveloped with the smell of the damp wool as we inhale.

Sensory gardens are wonderful for partially sighted persons (in fact for everyone). Each season brings different perfumes and the gardens are planted specifically with scent ...and texture...in mind. As many plants don't exude their perfume until they are brushed or crushed.

As for myself , I have a favourite perfume - Bronnleys English Fern (not available now as I've searched high and low ) ...but I have a stash stored away and the products are used on special occasions. It has been my favourite since I was 17, when I received it as a gift. So that takes me back to those teenage years, those early loves, those days when I didn't visualise getting older!

My father was very proud of his garden, which was laid to the growing of vegetables, with flowers relegated to the front garden or under the kitchen window. Every year he sprinkled 'stock' seeds and on warm winter evenings the aroma would drift into the house.

 Of course not all smells are pleasant and we quickly wind up the car windows if they are muck spreading! As individuals we can find different aromas pleasant or not. For me I can't stand the smell of parsley - especially when being chopped. This wasn't much good for a cookery teacher. I actually find the smell nauseous ! I don't like 'heavy' perfumes and often have an allergic reaction manifesting itself in serious sneezing. So again that can be difficult in the dance hall!

Cooking smells can make us salivate and in fact improves digestion and enhances the eating experience. It's complimentary to express "That smells good", to our hostess.

Animals use smell and they have a much keener sense of smell than we have. Search and rescue dogs use this when working. They greet each other by sniffing. It's thought that some dogs and cats can detect illnesses. My disabled friend has an assistance dog who detects when he is about to have a Potts attack and brings the medication. So just how ?? Do we give off some change in chemicals that alerts the dog ? It's a science still under review....

My poem today was written in 2014 and is about the senses.

     THE SENSES

      That certain piece of music
      Evoking distant memories -
      Childhood, family, dancing,
      Love, despair, laughter, grief.
      A tune stored deep in my soul
      Steps forward - makes me remember.

      That aroma briefly caught in the air
      Evoking distant memories -
      A forest, a building, a person,
      A love, an ocean, a cut lawn.
      A perfume stored deep in my soul
      Comes to mind - makes me remember.

      A touch, the sensitivity of my fingertips
      Evoking distant memories -
      A pet, a garment, a wall., a tree,
      Tall grain, a lover's skin, seashore sand.
      A sense stored deep in my soul
      A feeling recalled - makes me remember.

               

 

My picture is of gorse which grew in profusion on the cliff below where I used to live and smelt of

desiccated coconut......

Thanks for reading..breathe deep... smell the coming warm days ! Kath

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Resolve - New Horizons

Happy New Year to one and all, let’s see what unfolds in 2018.

When I was younger, much younger and naïve, I looked upon New Year as a new start with everything from the old year forgiven, forgotten and packed away. We wished everyone the best, and still do, always hoping for better times.  Back in the day New Year’s Eve marked the end of a couple of weeks of parties in our pubs. Sometimes my friends and I helped out at a private hotel ran by a family we knew, then joined in with the party until the early hours, looking forward to new beginnings. Fond memories still mentioned forty-odd years later. If only that ‘off with the old, on with the new’ actually worked.

This New Year’s Eve was quiet but pleasant, seeing in the New Year with our daughter, son-in-law to be and our youngest grandson, aged three months. His big brother was in bed. We watched Jools Holland’s Hootenanny and enjoyed a midnight buffet in their warm and cosy lounge then walked back to our house.

Nothing changed with the midnight bells and fireworks. I’m still carrying the illness that has overwhelmed me since before Christmas.  Sore eyes add to my malaise.  My worries and anxieties haven’t miraculously melted away and I’m no closer towards making decisions for the future. What shall I do about work? Do we move or do we stay? I could do with the magic wand I believed existed in my youth. Meanwhile, I wait for recovery and inner strength to help me resolve my issues.

I need a Moody Blues moment.

New Horizons

Well I’ve had dreams enough for one

     And I’ve got love enough for three
     I have my hopes to comfort me

I got my new horizons out to sea. 

But I’m never going to lose your precious gift

It will always be that way

‘Cos I know I’m going to find my own peace of mind

Someday. 

Where is this place that we have found?

Nobody knows where we are bound

I long to hear, I need to see

‘Cos I’ve shed tears too many for me. 

On the wind soaring free

Spread your wings

I’m beginning to see

Out of mind, far from view

Beyond the reach of a nightmare come true. 

Justin Hayward, (from Seventh Sojourn, 1972) 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Message in a Bottle

Everything seemed simpler in the 1950s when I was growing up. 

In the summer holidays (which, incidentally, consisted of endless days of constant blue skies and sun) we went to the local recreation ground - or 'rec' as we called it - most days. Sometimes our mum came with us and we took a cobbled together picnic - sandwiches, crisps, an apple and, if we were lucky, a Penguin biscuit. If mum was busy we went on our own. It was about a fifteen minute walk or a ten minute bike ride away.  My elder brother had a second hand bike - his pride and joy - from a jumble sale. Mum had paid seven shillings and sixpence for it - a lot of money at the time - but it turned out to be a sound investment.  So, sometimes we walked, sometimes we biked it, but either way we used to go and spend most of the day there, playing in the bushes and round by the pond. These days it would be unheard of for three children, between the ages of eight and fourteen to spend a whole day playing out, fifteen minutes from home, but in the fifties this was the norm. Men were at work, their wives were busy at home and so the kids entertained themselves.  

I only remember two incidents connected with the rec. One was when a man appeared from behind a tree and asked me to come and see what he'd got in his hand. I hadn't got a clue what he was talking about and took a step towards him, smiling politely.  Luckily my much more streetwise friend pushed me back and told him in no uncertain terms where to go  He turned tail and legged it across the rec, while we continued to play quite happily. I don't think I even bothered to mention it to my mum when I got home.  The other incident was far more worrying to me.  After a few hours at the rec I returned home, only to discover I'd left my brand new cardigan (hot off my mum's knitting needles) on a bench. Mum was fuming, promptly donned coat and shoes and raced up to the rec. Needless to say, in those days of common poverty, somebody had taken a fancy to my cardigan and it was no longer abandoned on the bench. My mum wasn't happy and my main worry was not that I'd lost my cardigan but that I might be banned from ever returning to the rec. 

We played out after tea - cricket, the stumps chalked on to our front wall, the bat another jumble sale find; 'keep uppies' - until Gilly's mum came out and shouted at us for constantly banging on her wall; 'Keep the Sunny Side Up' with Iris Whitewell and Christine Archer - two big girls who, in all honesty, struggled to keep anything up, least of all their beefy thighs. I was self appointed choreographer and star dancer, with absolutely no ability in either field. We practised for hours for the show in my dad's garage, stopping abruptly if my dad or brothers dared to come in; we played Mothers and Fathers where my poor younger brother was always the baby; we held sales in the front garden, goods set out on kitchen stools, signs made from cardboard boxes. Our mums took pity on us and came and bought our old rubbish back. 

Back then, everyone had a local milkman, complete with super slow milk float, delivering to every doorstep. We had a baker, too, who left us our daily bread. He still had a horse and cart, which was a great novelty to us kids.  Most days we had a couple of pints of milk delivered. Sometimes my mum would leave a note in the empty bottle. What I really wanted was the half size bottle of orange juice that teased me from a crate on the back of the milk float. My mum said it was a waste of money - and at that time money was tight and certainly not to be wasted on such frivolities. The more I was told I couldn't have the orange juice, the more I wanted it. I devised plans of how to get hold of a bottle. I worked out how long I would have to save to buy one, but on 1d every other day for pocket money I soon gave up on that idea. Christine Archer had the bottles of orange regularly, but then she was allowed most things, including staying off school if she so much as murmured that she felt a little poorly.  In contrast, I had to be at death's door before missing a day's schooling. 

My lucky break came the day I was offered sixpence to go off with a man lurking at the bottom of our street.  I was highly temped to take the sixpence and leg it, but after the rec incident I was a bit more wary of strange men asking me to accompany them, and raced home to tell my mum.  The police were called, a description given and a police officer led me by the hand around the local streets, looking for the culprit.  I decided that any man who was willing to throw away sixpence on the off chance of getting a young girl to go off with him wouldn't be hanging around after his offer had been rejected, and sure enough, he was nowhere to be seen.  I actually felt it was all quite exciting being the centre of attention but my mum obviously thought I'd been scarred for life and was desperate to minimise the trauma.  She came out of the kitchen and handed me a scribbled note.  

"Just stick this in the milk bottle outside, love," she said, handing me the note.  I was about to complain when I glanced down at the piece of paper.  I grinned, went to the front door and poked the rolled note into the empty milk bottle.

The next day, my bottle of orange juice stood next to the milk on the step.  My brothers looked on enviously as I peeled off the foil top, raised the bottle to my lips and took a large mouthful. I never admitted to anyone, least of all my brothers or my mum, that the orange juice wasn't actually all that it was cracked up to be.

An Early Lesson in Disappointment by Jill Reidy

Eyeing up the bottles

On the milkman’s float

It wasn’t the white stuff that drew me

It was that amber nectar

Highly coloured

Reflecting the light

So many times

I’d imagined

The sweet, smooth orange

Sitting on the doorstep

In its half sized bottle

Next to the milk

It took a minor drama

To produce results

A simple message in a bottle

Foil cap peeled off slowly

Bottle to lips, head tipped back

Large swig...

An early lesson in disappointment

Thanks for reading     Jill

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Seashore memories

As a child, I grew up inland. A day trip to the seaside was a rare treat for the school holidays. I have the usual memories of building sandcastles on the beach, paddling in the shallow waves lapping on the seashore, watching them froth a little as they broke on the beach, and the feel of the sand, squidgy between my toes. Then the real nuisance of getting the sand off your feet at home time, never fully able to remove ALL the sand until you had a bath at home. I was never a collector though. I didn't feel the urge to pick up seashells or stones, or go looking for creatures in rock-pools with a little net and bucket.

My son however, will have fond memories of visiting the seashore with his Nanny when Mummy was at work. Walking along the beach and collecting the odd shell or pebble that took his fancy. Finding fascination in the patterns of the sand, or making new friends with dog walkers and their funny and faithful pets. He even became adopted by a Canadian Goose whilst visiting Fairhaven Lake (next to the seashore at Lytham) who would shoo away other geese, ducks, seagulls and pigeons who came too close to him. It even tried to scare my Mum away when she tried to pick him up to put him back in his car seat at home time! When that didn't work, the goose lay her beak on the ledge of the car window, looking wistfully at my little lad before they set off home. The seashore is a special place indeed for making memories.

 Not only for making memories though. My Mum's next door neighbour frequently goes down to the beach and scours the shoreline for flotsam. Any driftwood etc., is collected up and brought home to be made into artwork. You can see some of his work here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Set-a-drift-art-work/926340624073525?fref=pb&hc_location=profile_browser . Contact him through this Facebook page if you should wish to commision a piece or purchase any of his work.


Seashore:

The meeting place
'twixt land and sea.
One holds steady,
staunch,
solid,
while the other
massages,
caresses, 
gives and takes away.
Occasional gifts
washed ashore
sunbleached and worn.
Who knows how long 
these drifters have been
riding on the backs
of foaming white horses?
Ancient wood and rope
from ships wrecked
by angry
tempestuous
storms.
The flotsam
an offering
to the Magpie
with a creative mind.


Thanks for reading.  ;-)  x

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More precious than gold

This week we are looking at treasure, which, of course, means different things to different people. I have reached the conclusion that my memories are my greatest treasures, for they contain all the people and occasions that I hold dear in life.

 I’ve always been rubbish at photos. At every photo-worthy occasion I can be relied upon to forget my camera. Even when I’ve remembered to take it with me, I can easily leave it in the car, on the coach or just forget that it’s in my bag. With such a cavalier attitude to preserving noteworthy occasions for posterity, it is no surprise that my photo collection down the years is not a neat pile of albums, all thoughtfully populated with photos carefully annotated and in date order, so that some sense can be made of the decades they commemorate. No, it is an ungainly jumble of assorted packets and loose pictures, all rammed in a cupboard somewhere at my previous home and spilling out whenever the door is opened. This chaos is no doubt symptomatic of a disordered mind!

To me photographs are not the vital treasures that they are to many people. For some it feels almost like the occasion didn’t happen if there is no photographic evidence to prove that it did. I think there’s sometimes a tendency to use all one’s energy in getting the perfect shot and, in so doing, enjoyment of the moment itself can be lost. My treasures rely on memories of happy times, rather than the photographs produced for them. In recent times, I can think of a couple of brilliant occasions, for which the memories mean more to me than the commemorative photos.

My graduation day last year was one of the happiest of my life. I have a professional set of photos of me and my family, posed and somehow static and lifeless, which is rammed in a cupboard etc. It in no way reflects my memories of that day, which are of me and my family, sitting for hours in the glorious sunshine outside the No. 5 café after the ceremony, chatting and downing unseemly numbers of bottles of Prosecco. All around us were my college friends with their families doing the same, all united in pride at our achievement and relief that it was all over, getting gently sozzled in the warmth of a July afternoon.

Another occasion was Blackpool FC’s highly memorable promotion to the premier league. I have the programme to remind me, copies of all the press clippings of the event, the commemorative issues of newspapers, the match ticket stubs. None of them are necessary to enable me to conjure up at will the memories of a glorious sunny day, when the world turned tangerine; every service station on the long journey to Wembley thronged by singing, happy Blackpool supporters and neutrals wishing us well; milling around the ground in apprehensive anticipation and bumping into every Blackpool fan you’ve ever known; the breathtaking first sight of our end inside the ground, a sea of tangerine semi-hysteria; the noise and the heat of the remorseless sun; the match, the growing incredulity that we were going to win; the final whistle, the disbelief; the surprisingly muted atmosphere as we all trouped out of the stadium; the daunting realisation that we would actually have to play in the premier league!

Memories – more precious than gold, rammed in the cupboard of my mind. Hope they never spill out.

To finish, here are a couple of quotations about treasures that I enjoyed reading.

“Nothing in the tangible word that isn't living has any value beyond a dollar amount. Considering that dollars can only buy more tangible and inanimate objects, it would seem a far more worthwhile goal to instead learn to place value on the treasures of the mind. Memories, knowledge and skill together are the only things we will ever actually own.”
― Ashly Lorenzana

“Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.”
― Oscar Wilde

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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