Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Silence - The Snort

I’m responsible for one of those family stories that might get passed down in history, creating mirth amongst future generations. Or, the whole thing might just disappear into oblivion and never be mentioned again, no chance. Whatever the future holds, I will tell the truthful story now and I will call it The Time I Broke the Silence, or The Snort, for short. It happened about ten years ago.

We travelled to London for a family wedding. Money was a bit tight at the time, but this was my eldest nephew getting married, the first born of the next generation and I would have moved heaven and earth to be there. I found ‘budget’ bed and breakfast accommodation at Tufnell Park which was close enough to Islington Town Hall where the ceremony was taking place. We only needed somewhere to sleep for a couple of nights. I had to keep reminding myself of that every time something was wrong. It was the worst place I’ve ever stayed. The fact that builders were on site, working inside with power drills and goodness knows what at all times of day was bad enough. No chance for some quiet time.  Light bulbs missing, wash-basin plug missing, electric sockets not working, leaky shower and mouldy toast at breakfast and no one wanted to listen to our complaints.  Dressed in our wedding finery, we had to pick our way across a semi-dark landing and reception area strewn with power cables and joinery tools. The only saving grace, there was just one, our car was safely parked in their enclosed yard.  I won’t name and shame, it was a long time ago and it might be different now.

     Islington Town Hall was bathed in warm sunshine. We mingled with everyone else gathered outside, embracing family and friends and happy to be part of this special occasion.  When summoned, we filed into the Council Chamber, silently taking our seats in the horseshoe shape that surrounded two ornate chairs for the bride and groom and a table full of flowers. Quite out of the blue, I started to feel emotional. The Council Chamber looked and felt like a cathedral. I looked up at the domed ceiling, blinking away tears. My head was full of memories, the baby boy who brought such joy into our bereaved family had grown into this handsome young man and was now about to be married.  I was not going to burst into tears, I really wasn’t. There was quiet music as the bride and groom took their places, then silence. I was overwhelmed and held my breath for fear of sobbing. I think I held it too long. I tried to calm down and breathe gently, but instead I let out a loud, massive snort.

     The noise seemed to echo round the circular building. I heard mutterings from the opposite side of the chamber. The lady next to me, who was the mother of the best man, turned herself right round to stare at me, nose nearly touching mine. I think she whispered her concern.  My husband was on my other side, but I don’t remember him speaking. My horrified daughter, a few seats along, was mouthing ‘God, Mum, was that you?’

     There was far too much laughter about it, later on. Bursting into tears might have been less embarrassing.

     Anyway, there it is, from the source, before anyone says ‘You’ll never guess what Nanna did…’

 

   Here is Desiderata, as true for today as ever,

 

 

Desiderata

 Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

By Max Ehrmann © 1927

 

Thanks for reading, take care and stay safe, Pam x

    

 

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