Work

 

Work, that necessary thing most of us have to do at some point in our lives to earn money for our upkeep.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a teacher or an author, or both. I played school with my dolls and teddies. One particular teddy was always the naughty one and in trouble. His sums were wrong and his spellings were atrocious. I was an early reader which triggered a passion for writing my own stories. A love of ‘The Broons’ and ‘Oor Wullie’ educated me in Scottish dialect which I sometimes used in my written dialogue – not always appreciated by my teacher.

My mum was my mentor, my homework checker, my partner in fun and my planner for my future. Everything went awry with her passing and I was more or less left to go it alone. Floundering.

Dental nursing had never been on my list of possible occupations or training, but somehow, and luckily, it happened. There I was, schooldays over, thrust into the long days of a busy dental practice, 8.30 until 6 p.m. Monday to Friday, with college lectures on Monday evenings. Those were very long Mondays. A co-worker, who became a close friend, and I would take the bus from Blackpool town centre to St Anne’s College of Further Education for two hours of fascinating dentistry delivered by a local dentist, not the one we worked for. I didn’t mean for that to come across as sarcasm. It really was fascinating, and I was deeply interested and keen to do well. All this for £5.50 a week. Two years later, and a bit more money, I qualified, then shocked everyone by leaving to work in an office. Many years later, I returned to dentistry as a receptionist.

When my children were small, I helped in their school. It’s something I enjoy again as a volunteer since I retired. Too late to teach, but I’ve still got skills to share and help to offer, especially in the library and story-telling to infants.

I’m proud of my published work as a writer. I’m not a famous author, not yet, but never say never, and I haven’t earned a penny from stories or poems, but I have made some achievements. If anyone remembers the ghost stories from the Haunted Hotel in Blackpool Illuminations, mine was included and I’m still very proud of that.

My Haiku poem,

Working With the Public

Most people are fine,
Others can be difficult,
Arrogant or rude.

My pleasant calmness
And my eagerness to help
Didn’t always work.

Even my best smile
With a positive approach
Failed on occasion.

I met nice people
It wasn’t all negative,
I made some true friends.

Life-long friends as well.
We all matured together
And share a close bond.

Now in retirement,
Life should be quiet and still,
But no, it isn’t.

There’s still work to do,
So many places to go
And new friends to meet.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

I ❤️ You

I feel this week's blog concerning love should be about the attachments that enrich life and give it meaning, so let me start off with a portmanteau quote: 

"There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved. To love is nothing. To be loved is something. But to love and be loved is the greatest joy of all."

Discuss (as it would then say, if it were an exam question), though there are not necessarily any right or wrong answers, and nobody would ever get 100%.

So who (or what) do you love? We can treat this like a brain-storming session, if you'd prefer. Don't be shy. Here's a sort of alphabetical trawl...

Family. Yes, that's a good enough place to start. Parents, siblings and children are definitely on my list. My parents are no longer of this world. I was going to add 'sadly', but they'd both be well over 100 years old now, so probably wouldn't want to be around anymore. But I loved them while they were here and I miss them. I love my brothers, though they live in disparate parts of the country and we don't see each other as often as I'd like. And I love my daughters, definitely part of the greatest joy of all. In fact I'm visiting them and a grandchild down in London this week-end.

Inamorato/a. I use the old Latin term for a romantic pairing. Be that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife (maybe they should be in the 'family' grouping), partner, master or mistress, these loves are probably the most exhilarating, intense and often unsettling attachments we make.

Pets. Yes, why not? I have loved cats and I'm sure been loved back. For some people its dogs or horses, ferrets, monkeys or mongooses, birds, fish, snakes. I think the love has to be individual for animals though, not a generic warm glow for a species.

Places: Some of us imprint on a specific location that we think of as our 'happy place', perhaps somewhere associated with joyous memories from an original visit and somewhere we love going back to time and again.. The merchandisers have caught on to this emotion with their "I ❤ [insert location here]" T-shirts, fridge magnets and other paraphernalia. 

Religious: I suppose love of a God (or Goddess) is a valid affection. My own parents effectively dedicated their lives to a religious cause, and many priests, priestesses, monks and nuns and deeply religious individuals down the ages have made that affiliation a cornerstone of their lives.

Teams: This may be closely linked to places, in that sports teams tend to be location specific, and maybe it's a deep-seated, almost tribal need that many of us feel to belong to some sporting enterprise like a football club, to share in moments of communal passion, both delight and despair, as the fortunes of a team fluctuate. Indeed, some of us give of our time freely for the cause.  

Things: I think we're getting into dubious territory now. Clearly, many people derive great pleasure from material objects, collections of objects (vintage cars, stamps, shoes, works of art) but I'm uncertain to what extent such attachments can be described as love. Does it debase the concept to talk about loving one's possessions, loving one's food, loving one's bed, one's car. one's job? I'd be interested in your thoughts about this.

Universal: To quote Bob Dylan: "Love is all there is, it makes the world go round." It sounds simplistic but maybe it's the most profound lyric he ever wrote. We've come full circle and I refer you back to the quote with which I started this piece. 

Here's a new poem (subject to the usual qualifications about it being a work-in-progress):

Nothing Says I Love You Like...

that time when you said you felt numb,

worthless, couldn't see any point to life,

that no one would miss you if you were

gone...

so I cradled you all night, talked to you

till you fell asleep, by starlight watched

you frail but beautiful, the ache become

mine...

and only moved as sunrise flamed your

room, your hair. With care I placed you

in the discovery position, saw your eyes

open...

and we smiled without a need for words. 

As a musical bonus, the Blue Aeroplanes suggest there are actually 25 Kinds Of Love - and fittingly this performance was recorded on Valentine's Day in 2010. Enjoy.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Dashboard

 

It is many years since I crashed my four or five year old face into the shiny dashboard of my father’s Jaguar Mk 2, I think it was. Cars, particularly Jaguars were Dad’s passion at that time and I was still in my ‘Go faster, Daddy!’ phase. No speed limit, no seat belts, and no fear, until he had to slam the brakes on that day. A bumped head, with a growing lump, loud crying from me and worries about ‘What will Mummy say?’ from him as he consoled me. He wasn’t driving fast at that moment. Something happened and he had to brake. It was before I started wearing glasses, luckily. We lived in Lancaster at the time and Sunday afternoons when our pubs closed between 2pm and 7pm, were family gathering times. Our family of licensees across Lancaster and Morecambe, regularly went out for a countryside picnic in a convoy to Crook O’ Lune, Caton or Hornby. Someone’s car would break down on the way home and all the men would be under the bonnet with calls of ‘Try it now!’ and ‘What’s on the dash?’

I took no notice of the dials and switches on the dashboard. All I knew was that some lit up and others didn’t, and there was a button to press to start the engine. It didn’t always work. Sometimes it made a slow, groaning sound and nothing happened until Dad, with much muttering, fixed it.

The dashboard started to make sense when I began driving and learnt basic car care from my dad. My first car was my beloved Austin A40. It was a gift from my dad and after the initial disappointment, which I kept to myself, I loved it to bits. I’d hoped for something more appealing, like a Mini, or a bright green Ford Capri. An Austin A40 didn’t offer much wow factor to a trendy seventeen year old. It was clean and tidy, had low mileage and was very reliable. The plastic dashboard had minimal things on it, very basic, but it had everything I needed.

Dad liked to tinker about with his cars. He wouldn’t get much joy these days with sealed units and computerised dashboards. Our car has all manner of things monitored. It tells us if a tyre has incorrect pressure. Dad would have relied on his eyes and checked them every week with the oil and water.

Dashboards have their place on everything, not just motor vehicles. Computers, mobile phones and household appliances. We had the misfortune to have two items reach the end of their useful lives within a week or two, and around Christmas when they are most needed. Our tumble dryer, after serving us well every winter for twenty-eight years, squeaked for the last time, then the twenty year old dishwasher released a puff of electrical smoke. Both have been replaced recently but what a search to find something suitable. I don’t want anything complicated, just something to do the job, and I don’t need anything connected to a phone app, though the new dryer has that facility, should I change my mind. Both appliances, nice and efficient, I must say, require ‘programming’ to turn them on, by going through the dashboard and clicking this and that. I’m used to simple things that turn on and off. I could choose how many minutes I wanted my old dryer to tumble. Now I have to program the new one, depending on fabric care and hope for the best. 

My Haiku,

The makers include
Instructions and warning lights
On everything now.

So complicated
With far too many features.
I prefer simple.

I don’t need an app,
Just ‘off and on, stop and go’
Suits me perfectly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

This Writing Game - Where Does It Start?

I’ve always had ‘this writing thing’, ever since I could hold a pencil and form letters, which was long before I started school. My mother taught me the alphabet in upper and lower case, how to write the letters and the different sounds they made, called 'phonics' now.  I was lucky to have my mother at home to do this sort of thing with me, and, although I was almost constantly the new girl at various schools due to frequently moving pubs with my father’s work, I had a good education. There was a lot of emphasis on producing good handwriting in my primary schools. An entire lesson could be spent practising until each letter was perfect and sat correctly placed along the lines in the writing book. I took pride in this, so much pride that my personal signature flourishes were frowned upon and deemed completely unnecessary. Individuality was not encouraged.

Books were a thing, too. My mother was an avid reader and she read my books to me. I was determined to read for myself and proved to be a quick learner when I started school. I’m from the ‘Janet and John’ era of the late ‘50s. I don’t think the ‘h’ in John ever gave me or my classmates a problem. We accepted what we were told, John says John. I remember being ready for my next reading book then having to wait longer because I kept mistaking ‘clothes’ for ‘cloths’. The things I still carry round in my head sixty-odd years after the event! No wonder I’m a bit bonkers. Anyway, I was moved up and continued going from strength to strength.

I was aged seven and in my last year of infant school when I was introduced to Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven and The Rilloby Fair Mystery by some books that were given to me. I reached the end of the book and would go straight back to the beginning and read it again. I couldn’t get enough of Enid Blyton but her books were discouraged by schools. Both parents bought me books regularly. I must have been so indulged, but I was always reading and the more I read, the more I wanted to write. The seed was sown. It took a long time to grow.

I lost my main mentor when my mother passed away. Things can be ‘meant to be’, though, and upon leaving secondary school I was encouraged by my English teacher to keep writing, so I did. Life takes unexpected turns and leads us down unfamiliar paths, mistakes are made, lessons are learned and we move on. That makes it sound simple and straightforward when, as we all know, it very much isn’t.  Personal ambition was never far away. The writing game, it’s just there, we have to do it, even if it is something for ourselves, like a journal, it’s compelling. I hope someone reading this understands and agrees with me. I’m sure I’m not alone.

Creative writing continues to be my passion. I might get round to finishing ‘that novel’ or it might stay as it is, half of it on a shelf, the rest in my laptop. I loved writing it. I loved seeing a published short story in print. If that’s as good as it gets, I’m happy. It happened.

My poem, a tongue-in-cheek look at the future of education.  I’m glad that my grandchildren are learning handwriting and basic skills that I can relate to.

An Alternative Education

The 3 Rs soon to be redundant
Computer-led kids will be abundant
With all information mega-quick
It only takes a scroll down and click
No need for any conversation
Included in their education.

Last year’s reception class have all gone
And taken a leap up to Year One
To drag sticky fingers on iPad screens
And work out what technology means.
Will this be their basic foundation
Instead of formal education?

Numeracy, or let’s call it Maths
Has rules to follow specific paths
Beginning with learning how to count
Then adding up and sharing out.
One click away from calculation
Takes away their education.

The infants are learning to use a pen
It’s not a skill they’ll need again
For a future spent staring on-line,
Social activity in decline
With hardly any interaction,
So they won’t need our education.

When did this digital preference start?
Oh why no poetry learnt by heart?
‘Spell check’ becomes their favourite teacher
With ‘Grammar check’ an added feature.
The only future expectation,
A self-taught on-line education.

PMW 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Circus - Excitement and Anticipation

Piccadilly Circus, 1972. My friend and I felt like we had landed somewhere exciting. We were staying a long weekend with my family in Roehampton. Encouraged to go out and have fun, we took a bus then a tube and eventually emerged from the Underground at Piccadilly Circus. It was the hottest day ever and we went straight to Boot’s the Chemist for deodorant which we liberally applied in the nearby public convenience. My orange loon pants with navy blue pleats and a navy tank-top was my favourite and most fashionable outfit at the time. The trousers were made of stretch towelling – beach clothing, really – too heavy for such a hot day, but I loved them so much. (Except one night when I wore them to go ice-skating and they soaked up gallons of surface water, but that’s another story.) My friend was dressed more sensibly in shorts. We shopped on Carnaby Street, watched a busker, looked around Soho, sat on some grass in the shade and eventually made our way back to Piccadilly Circus and the tube station for the first part of our return journey to Roehampton.

It was fun when I was seventeen, but London like any major city is too busy, too fast moving and loud for me so I’m not a regular visitor. Exceptions have been made to go to see The Moody Blues a few times at the Royal Albert Hall or the O2 Arena. Well, of course I’d go then. There was another time when there was no holding back.

The Prince Edward Theatre, 1978. Evita. Tickets like gold dust, but lucky me. There is only one Che for me and that is David Essex. No one else can sing ‘Oh What a Circus!’ with such passion, giving everything to the exceptional lyrics of Tim Rice who perfectly captured the media circus of the time.

I was a child when my family moved to Blackpool. One of the first places I remember being taken to is the Tower Circus. Mid 1960s and animals were still a big part of the show, horses, elephants and am I imagining sea lions in the water finale? I don’t remember if lions featured. My favourites were always the clowns with Charlie Cairoli.

At around the age of seven, I latched on to books by Enid Blyton. I discovered that I could read something other than ‘the green reader’ or whatever my school reading book was. Still in the infants, I’d moved on from Janet and John and found that I didn’t need to read out loud to understand the text. Book after book came my way, Secret Seven, Famous Five, lots of the Mystery series, fairy stories, and somewhere in the middle, before the boarding school tales from Malory Towers or St. Clare’s, I read the circus stories, Mr Galliano’s Circus, Hurrah for the Circus! and Circus Days Again. They began with the arrival of the circus folk parading through the town and setting up camp. Excitement and anticipation grabbed me in the first paragraph and carried me along the chapter as the author introduced characters, illustrating each one with her vibrant description as she did all her books and I loved it. Circus Days Again is the only one of the trilogy in my possession. All of my Enid Blyton’s are treasured.

On that long weekend in London almost fifty years ago, someone joked about Piccadilly Circus and how wise we were to come home before dark. We didn’t know what they meant and we didn’t ask because we were two worldly, clever, independent seventeen year olds.

I found this poem:

Piccadilly Circus At Night – Street Walkers

When into the night the yellow light is roused like dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in the midst of the downs,

Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in expectancy to meet

The luminous mist which the poor things wist was dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town has driven so high.

All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,
All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round, and keep
The shores of this innermost ocean alive and illusory.

Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning looked in at their eyes
And the Cyprian’s pavement-roses are gone, and now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a Paradise
On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of the town-dark sea.

D H Lawrence (1916)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More