Hooked

One Enid Blyton book was all it took to set me off on a life-time of reading. I’ve mentioned before about the box of books left ‘for the little girl’ in a pub we were moving into. The little girl was me, aged seven and the pub was The Boar’s Head in Blackpool. This was my introduction to The Broons and Oor Wullie, which enabled me to master a Scottish accent on paper. My teacher was not impressed, bless her. It was also my introduction to a love of Enid Blyton stories, with the donated hard-backs of The Secret Seven, The Ring o’ Bells Mystery and The Rilloby Fair Mystery. I was hooked. I read them over and over again. I remember finishing The Rilloby Fair Mystery and going straight back to the beginning. I loved it so much. A nearby newsagents sold toys and books. My parents knew exactly what to bring home for me. I still have most of the books. My children preferred Roald Dahl and J.K.Rowling. My grandchildren prefer activities on screens – a sign of the times – but Michael Rosen is loved by a grandson and Jacqueline Wilson is loved by a granddaughter. I was born in the ‘50s, thank goodness.

Another thing got me hooked, literally. My grandmother taught me to knit. My mother did, as well, but it was mainly Nanna. She crocheted a lot, making herself lacy tops that were like works of art. She had the patience of a saint trying to teach me. Watching her, deliberately going slow to show me, I would be confident that ‘I’d got it’. She would start me off by making a chain then handing me the hook and yarn to carry on. We were making a scarf. I was making a mess.

“Oh, give it here!” Another exasperated grumble as she grabbed the tangle of wool from my hands.

This went on into my teens and I failed to crochet anything except the foundation chain.

My grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. Something must have clicked because shortly after, I discovered I could crochet, after all, and I still do. I crocheted a fancy bedspread. That was the first thing I made. I have lots of blankets I’ve made from crocheted granny squares and I’ve managed to crochet teddy bears for charity. Yes, I’m crochet hooked.

Enid Blyton, known as a story writer, but less known as a poet. This is one of hers,

Fairy Snow

Yesterday, the sky was white,
For one big cloud was spread
From east to west and north to south
Above my head.

But in the night the fairy-folk
Began to wonder why
They saw no moon nor little stars
About the sky.

They didn’t like that big white cloud,
So up they softly flew
And tore it all to tiny bits
The whole night through.

And one by one the bits fell down,
Like feathers soft and white,
Until the ground was overspread
With dazzling white.

And now today that big white cloud
Beneath my feet is spread,
And all the sky is blue again
Above my head.

Enid Blyton  1897-1968

 Greetings from Dumfries & Galloway. Thanks for reading, Pam 

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Hurly Burly - No Mall & No Builders!

As far as possible, I will avoid any commotion, hurly-burly and busy places, especially since I retired from work. Sometimes things happen and I find myself somewhere I’d rather not be with no immediate escape and I have to grin and bear it.

With the exception of Springfield Mall, Virginia – going back many years when such places were new to me – I don’t like shopping malls. Warm and dry on a cold, wet day they might be, but bustling and noisy does not give me a pleasant shopping experience. My friend and I once got lost trying to find a way out of Manchester Arndale. We rushed one way, then another, back-tracked, or thought we were, and eventually asked a security guard. By then we weren’t bothered which exit, we’d find our bearings outside and we did. When our daughter was about thirteen she wanted to go to the Trafford Centre for her birthday treat, shopping, lunch there, everything possible. We had to do it. Luckily, she loved it and enjoyed spending her birthday money, having the promised lunch, but it was all in the over-crowded, loud hullabaloo that made me want to scream. I might be the only person who doesn’t like the Trafford Centre. I can live with that. I would probably hate Springfield these days.

It doesn’t stop at shopping malls. I can’t cope with having workmen in at home. Running repairs are alright and our usual heating engineer is very welcome when it’s time to service the boiler. Workmen with a capital W means builders and a team of them, taking over and making a mess, making a noise, either voices or machinery. As the family grew and more space was needed, it seemed like a good idea to have extensions here, there and everywhere which meant weeks of disruption. The end results were worth it. The house we move into will be staying exactly as we find it.

This Dr John Cooper Clarke poem reminds me of being lost in the hurly-burly of a pre-Christmas Arndale Centre,

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Daily Bugle – Front Page News

A drunken posse on a booze cruise

Swear me in I got nothing to lose

High five – low morale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

I heard about it at the Taj Mahal

I nearly choked on me Taka Dahl

I quizzed Chief Wiggum and he said, “Waal

Cuff ‘em boys – trouble at the Mall”

 

Tripe stand bloody fell over

Its covered the place in a beefy odour

Better take a nosegay pal

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Bury my heart at Clinton Cards

Remember me to the old guard

These days you just gotta be hard

Because like they say in this here locale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

H & M is full of flunkies

And Tony and Guy couldn’t give a monkey’s

In the dying words of Gore Vidal

‘Appen it’s trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

JCC

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sideboards - Thanks for the Memory

 

I wonder what happened to all the sideboards, those massive pieces of highly polished furniture that half-filled most dining rooms. Someone is going to tell me that they exist, in everyone’s home except mine. I won’t be surprised.  I’ve got what is loosely called a ‘unit’, sort of cross between a sideboard and a display cabinet, with a pull-down drinks bit – used by me as a sewing cupboard – in the middle. It is a much-loved wedding present. Actually, I've got two now, there's posh.

Thinking of the blog theme being sideboards has put me in mind of the ones I grew up with. My childhood homes were pubs and the private accommodation was usually spacious, offering plenty of room for a sideboard, and a piano, even. My mother was in charge of our sideboard. I had many warnings to keep out, nothing in there for me. It must have been jam-packed with family secrets and skeletons in the cupboard to need such fierce protection. I was allowed one thing, with permission, which was an old chocolate box full of black and white photos from when my mother was a girl. I would spend hours looking through them. I still have the collection, mounted in an album now and I really wish I’d kept them in the old, tatty box. It was part of the magic. Someone gave my mother a small packet of Thornton’s chocolates and she kept them in the top drawer.  Over time, one by one they disappeared. I learnt the hard way that there are only so many times you can get away with ‘they won’t miss just one’. Oh, how I’ve missed my mum for most of my life. I'd replace every chocolate ten-fold if it were possible for her to nip back for five minutes.

Sometime in the ‘60s we had the novelty of a house. The new furniture included a teak dining table, chairs and matching sideboard. The sideboard filled the length of our dining room and had thin, spindly legs. Cupboard and drawer handles were made of wood, chunky and round, unlike the dangly brass loops on the other one. We kept the new table mats and the best cutlery in the drawers.

My grandmother’s sideboard was huge. I don’t know how old I was before I could see the top of it. I remember that it filled the end of her lounge. It had three cupboards in a row, three drawers, one above each cupboard and legs that I referred to as curly in shape. The most important thing to me was that I was allowed to rummage in it to my heart’s content, as long as I didn’t make too much mess and I put everything back. And I mustn’t touch Nanna’s knitting.  There wasn’t much to play with, but I enjoyed tidying everything up. Some items came to be mine over time. I still have a set of electro-plated nickel silver fish eaters with matching servers and a set of cake forks. On top of the sideboard used to stand a couple of bookends with a matching vase. I don’t know what happened to the vase, but I treasure the Bosson’s bookends, despite their theme of Hunting Scene.

Here are a few memories as Haikus,

Like a lifelong friend

Silently storing secrets

Behind locked cupboards.

 

Dark and imposing

Child-size fingers folded round

Your barley-twist legs.

 

A framed photogragh,

The once-happy bride and groom.

A short-lived marriage.

 

A sideboard cupboard,

Whiskey, brandy, Bacardi,

Cinzano and gin.

 

Flowers, past their best

Not quite ready to throw out,

Last week’s thoughtful gift.

 

I hate the subject,

Bosson’s ‘Hunting Scene’ bookends

Are cherished by me.

 

Fleeting memories

Of a lifetime of sideboards,

Bygone furniture.

Thanks for reading, keep safe and well, Pam x

                                                                                                

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