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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Artifice

If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made. A quote that seems attributable to a few people including Groucho Marx and George Burns and as Artifice can be described as something intended to craftily deceive I’m going on that basis to have a look at various deceptions that certainly use craft to fake situations with total sincerity but that irritate me enormously and to be fair a few that don’t.

I can think of a couple of my friends who breathe a sigh of exasperation when I start going on about those travel programmes where a car, or usually a Land Rover, is filmed motoring along a desert highway or a track in some remote forest and the voice over is going on about the adventurer daring to be alone in such a dangerous place before the car stops and the said adventurer stops and gazes out of the window and says something profound to the camera. Behind which is a camera and sound operator. There is a producer, probably a producer’s assistant. Possibly a truck with food rations. THIS IS AN ARTIFICE.

what you don't see

At the other end of the scale there are the adverts that show the quite ludicrous supposition that the brand new (pick a car) is so good that it manages to find completely empty streets in central London, New York, Paris etc that their utterly glamorous drivers are gliding through, usually with a vacuous smile.

I know it’s not really fair to have a go at adverts but sometimes they go too far in claiming properties that are completely untrue even if they are skilful and artful (another meaning of artifice). I remember years ago a mate was involved in the making of the ‘Harp Stay Sharp’ adverts. Can you imagine the state of sharpness you’d be in after 3 pints of that stuff.

staying sharp to the bottom of the glass

Talking about years past did I care that bands on Top of the Pops usually didn’t play live. Not in the slightest. I only wanted to see them and Pan’s People.

An ingenious stratagem is another meaning of artifice. I can’t help feeling the current government’s plan to sack thousands of NHS and government workers whilst claiming they want people to work is at a level of genius.

How about a few meanings of artifice that I’m totally in favour of. Going to the cinema is a voluntary act of wanting to be deceived. I’d be extremely annoyed if I wasn’t. The pure pleasure of fear as a door to the isolated house creaks open, the excitement of finding the treasure, the tears as a couple split up.

And then there is the reading of a book. No artifice needed except for your imagination and the writer’s skill. I particularly remember a couple of years ago I had got to the last chapters of The Martian’ by Andy Weir. I had to stay up to 2-30 in the morning to finish it. My heart was thumping right up until the final page.

the power of literature

Oddly enough you’d think that a person who practised Artifice would be an Artificer. And there is actually the profession of Artificer but he or she is a member of an armed forces service who is skilled at working on electronic, electrical, electro-mechanical and/or mechanical devices.

The specific term ‘artificer’ for this function is typical of the armed forces of countries that are or have been in the British Commonwealth and refers to a Senior Non-Commissioned Officer. Artificer is a job title and not a rank. Couldn’t be more opposite could it.

I couldn’t find any poems that appealed about Artifice but this mentions Artificer and I quite like it:

Wedding-Ring

My wedding-ring lies in a basket
as if at the bottom of a well.

Nothing will come to fish it back up
and onto my finger again.

It lies
among keys to abandoned houses,
nails waiting to be needed and hammered
into some wall,
telephone numbers with no names attached,
idle paperclips.

It can't be given away
for fear of bringing ill-luck.

It can't be sold
for the marriage was good in its own
time, though that time is gone.

Could some artificer
beat into it bright stones, transform it
into a dazzling circlet no one could take
for solemn betrothal or to make promises
living will not let them keep? Change it
into a simple gift I could give in friendship?

Denise Levertov from Life in the Forest. 1978.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Reading - I Love Books

 

This is a favourite poem by Julia Donaldson,

I opened a book and in I strode
Now nobody can find me.
I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,
My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,
I’ve swallowed the magic potion.
I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king
And dived in a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends.
I shared their tears and laughter
And followed their road with its bumps and bends
To the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came.
The cloak can no longer hide me.
My chair and my house are just the same,
But I have a book inside me.

                                           Julia Donaldson

I spent yesterday afternoon reading a book, an actual book with paper pages. I found a quiet corner, made myself comfortable and escaped into a gentle Josephine Cox. She could weave a good yarn and I found this one to be an excellent page turner. I’m often reading, but this was a bit different. I was out of the comforts of home to the clinical, basic décor of a hospital waiting area. My husband was having a procedure and needed a responsible adult to take him home and stay with him afterwards. That’s me, then. In sickness and in health. With him safely delivered to the appropriate department, I wandered off to find some lunch. I’m very familiar with our hospital, but new bits keep being added and I was thrown off course for a few minutes, until I recognised something. I’d gone the wrong way, so about turn, and quickly found where I wanted to be. Soon, fed and watered, I was back in the correct waiting room, ready to read for hours on end, which I did.

A few people came and went, though it seemed to be a quiet department. Patients had a minder to accompany them, sitting in pairs. Conversation was whispered. Occasionally, a phone rang at reception or a mobile phone trilled. I seemed to be the only person reading. Most people had their phone out. A sign of the times, I suppose. I like to do a quick ‘Wordscape’ or remind myself of something I’ve forgotten on Google. Of course, they could be reading on their phones. I have Kindle on mine. It’s not the same as turning real pages. I miss that. I soon stopped people-watching and continued with Josephine’s novel.

Before Covid restrictions put an end to it, waiting rooms everywhere had a pile of well-thumbed magazines spilling off a table. I would fish out the most interesting problem pages in Woman’s Own. It was better than getting called into an appointment mid-way through an absorbing read of a riveting article, disturbed from and never to return.

I’ve always been a bookworm. As soon as I learnt to read, and I was a keen pupil, I was off into wherever stories could take me. I would get into trouble many times for continuing to read in bed after ‘lights out’, sometimes with a torch under the covers, which really angered my mother. She would threaten to take my book away, but she never did.

As a volunteer at primary school, I’ve enjoyed listening to children read aloud and praising them for an excellent effort. Now, based in the library I’m happy to help them to choose a book and give encouragement to read for themselves. I used to tell my own children that if they can read, they can do anything. Here’s a quote from Ricky Gervais, in his support of keeping public libraries open,

“I had no money growing up. My dad was a labourer and my mum did everything to make ends meet. Men worked hard. Women worked miracles. But education was free. As was the local library. I knew books were my passport to a better life.”

I agree, and Roald Dahl must have thought along the same lines. His ‘Matilda’ is terrific.

By the way, all went well at the hospital. We were there for hours, but those hours of waiting gave me a perfect opportunity to enjoy reading without feeling guilty that the kitchen floor needs mopping.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Missing - Is it The Borrowers?

One of the highlights of my week is the afternoon I spend as a volunteer in the Key Stage 1 library at my local primary school. I take groups of children from their classrooms to change their books, help them to find what they are looking for and help them to choose something that they could read for themselves. The afternoon usually includes me reading a story to a class, where I love to interact with the children and involve them as much as I can. Aged between five and seven, their smiles have gaps from missing baby teeth, some with new adult teeth erupting to fill the space. A wobbly tooth signifies that rite of passage towards growing up. It’s an event to be proud of, and when that perfect, well-looked after tooth comes out, it is treasure for Peggy, the Tooth Fairy, who sometimes leaves a reward. I never miss an opportunity to remind children to care for their teeth. My grandchildren are all at this stage, but it’s not just teeth that are missing in my house.

All kinds of things manage to become lost. Perhaps The Borrowers have taken up residence under our floorboards – it might be worth checking. There are jigsaws with pieces missing, I am reliably informed by the eldest. No one has bothered to try to find them. They have a 3D wooden dinosaur made of ten brightly coloured interlocking pieces which are numbered. Number seven, which I believe to be a piece of tummy and coloured red, has been missing for ages. They used it for a ‘Hunt the Thimble’ kind of treasure hunt. No one can remember where number seven was hidden and I have exhausted myself searching. Duplo and Lego get mixed together and I don’t bother checking them. The missing things don’t start and end with the children.

We’re still in January, just about, and already something is missing from a Christmas present belonging to my husband. A small charger cable, unique to the electric item it came with. This is odd because he looks after his belongings and keeps things together properly. We have searched everywhere, endlessly. A replacement is not obtainable. He bought something almost the same that would do. It required slight adjustment to which a Stanley knife was the appropriate tool. A Stanley knife can give a nasty cut to a thumb and it can bleed like billy-o for those on Warfarin. We don’t think it needed a stitch.

I have a younger sister, occasionally mentioned in blogs. She was a toddler in 1964 when we lived in a pub in the village of Padfield, near Glossop. I had my ninth birthday there. The village was considered safe and I was allowed to play out with friends, either on the street or further along to the swings and slide on a cinders-covered playground. My mum let me take my sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the playground. I don’t know what happened, I guess I became distracted and forgot about her. Later, back home, Mum’s asking where Anne is – I still have that sinking feeling – I’d left her in the playground. We ran all the length of Temple Street and thank goodness, she was still there, sat in her buggy in the twilight. My mum muttered something between clenched teeth about what I’d get if Anne had been missing. I’ve been dealt a few good hidings from my mother who was definitely a smack first, ask later sort of parent, but the smacked bottom I got for this was by far the worst. I mentioned that Padfield was a safe village and all the children had the freedom to play out. Another year and news of the Moors Murders broke. We had been on their doorstep.

My Haiku,

Do The Borrowers
Live underneath our floorboards
Claiming belongings?

Wooden dinosaur,
Its tummy is still missing
After sev’ral years.

We’ve waited for this,
Tooth fairy on full alert!
Wobbly one is out!

Front teeth are missing
And he’s got a gentle lisp,
Lovely impish grin.

It’s just a charger,
Ordinary, not special.
Why can’t we find it?

Where is your sister?
I felt my insides drop down.
Another smacked bum.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Struggle

Epimetheus and Pandora

“The name Epimetheus comes from the Greek god (or titan) Epimetheus (or hindsight) who was the brother of Prometheus (foresight). Together, they represented humanity.”

I read The Iliad and The Odyssey a long time ago but I would struggle to remember much Greek mythology now. Maybe worth a re-read, just to master the challenging names, even though I found lots of it scary.  Stephen Fry’s Mythos is on the shelf, looking more appealing. I’ll see. There is a reason for this.

I’m a reading volunteer at the local primary school. Actually, I’m not doing the reading, I’m listening, encouraging, praising and offering help where needed to Year 4 children, which is the 8 to 9 age group. I’m learning a lot. They don’t mind telling me what they think of reading. It’s a love or hate thing. I do my best to promote a positive love of books, stories developed by imagination and the joy of disappearing into the world created by a good author. It is lovely to meet a child who reads for pleasure. There are some struggles for me to overcome.

“I read in my head, Miss,” says the child with an open book half under the table.

“I’m sure you do, and that’s excellent, but you need to read aloud to me just for a couple of minutes while I check your progress. Pop it up on the table so I can see the words.”

Seeing the words would be good. The better the reader, the smaller the print, it seems. My glasses are the correct prescription but I struggle to see some pages and it’s hard to follow the text with a child who has a tiny voice. Then there was the stumbling over an unfamiliar name.

“Epi, Epi, Epim,” a pleading look for help. We sound it out together.

“Epimetheus. Well done!” I hoped I’d confirmed the correct pronunciation. The story was an age appropriate  Pandora’s Box. Other children also had Greek mythology stories. I’d better brush up before next time. Personally, I prefer the Amelia Fang stories by Laura Ellen Anderson.

One of my favourite poets, although he’s so much more, including writer, broadcaster and until recently, Chancellor of the University of Manchester, is Lemn Sissay, OBE, FRSL. Reading his autobiography was heart-breaking, tears on every page, a childhood full of struggle and adversity with situations which made me furious. I am in awe of him, the life he has made for himself and everything he does for the benefit of others. Out of many, I chose this poem,

 Let There Be Peace

By Lemn Sissay

 

Let there be peace
So frowns fly away like albatross
And skeletons foxtrot from cupboards,
So war correspondants become travel show presenters
And magpies bring back lost property,
Children, engagement rings, broken things.

Let there be peace
So storms can go out to sea to be
Angry and return to me calm,
So the broken can rise up and dance in the hospitals.
Let the aged Ethiopian man in the grey block of flats
Peer through his window and see Addis before him,
So his thrilled outstretched arms become frames
For his dreams.

Let there be peace
Let tears evaporate to form clouds, cleanse themselves
And fall into reservoirs of drinking water.
Let harsh memories burst into fireworks that melt
In the dark pupils of a child’s eyes
And disappear like shoals of silver darting fish,
And let the waves reach the shore with a
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Retirement - Bring It On!

I looked forward to retiring at sixty, as many of us did, and then, a bolt from the blue took away plans and wishes and sat firmly on our state pension for another six years. I’m there now and I still haven’t received the explanatory letter ‘sent to everyone’ when the changes were made. WASPI (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaigns and protests seem to have been sympathetically listened to in some quarters – Jeremy Corbyn, when Labour leader, said that women were “misled”, the situation “needed to be put right” and “We owe a moral debt to these women.” It was included in the Labour party manifesto. Even if nothing changed, it was going to be looked into. The flicker of hope died with the election result.

Anyway, politics aside, my time has come and I’m trying to decide exactly when to hand in my keys and cross myself off any rotas. I’ve spent lots of time at home during the pandemic, shielding at the beginning, then having to isolate a couple of times when I eventually returned to work.  I like being at home. It’s been good getting a feel for life in retirement and spending more time with my husband who retired early a few years ago.  In normal circumstances we would enjoy the freedom of having lunch out, seeing friends and spending more time with family. These things will come back to us, hopefully before too long. I reduced my hours at work so I’m actually at home more than I’m there, yet I still can’t wait to leave.

I yearn for the freedom to just go where I want, when I want without having to plan in advance and ask permission. Deciding one day that we’re off to Scotland, or anywhere the next day, is the life for me. Spending summer afternoons reading in the garden was bliss last year and I look forward to doing it again. I knit and crochet a lot and love making baby clothes so with a current baby boom going on amongst colleagues at the moment I’ve been  a one woman cottage industry.  My writing has been on a back burner for too long. I was trying to use shielding and isolating time to write a best-selling novel or a brilliant TV series, but they’ve both been done, not by me, by the way, and I’ve been struggling to concentrate lately.  There are lots of things on my retirement list and I certainly won’t get bored. I might get fat(ter) on home-made baking, but never bored. I’ll enjoy finding out who I am, so let’s bring it on.

My poem,

When I can please myself on what I want to do each day
Without the stress and strain of doing my job in the way,
I will take time to rest, to think and to learn who I am,
Apart from a wife, a mother and a nanna called Pam.

My wardrobe’s full of Marks and Spencers matching navy blues,
Formal skirts and cardies and some uniform slim-line trews.
Tunic length NHS blouses, navy with polka dots,
Pockets stuffed with tissues and hair-ties, a tangle of knots.

Let’s get rid of such strict clothing and find a nice, new style,
Dresses, ear-rings, beads and things I haven’t worn in a while.
Skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a home-made Aran sweater,
My family and freedom will soon make me feel better.

I’ll wear long, floaty skirts and lipstick, and I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll join in with other WASPI girls on some campaign trails
And hope some good may come of it, though it’s too late for me
So many ‘50s women need to set their pensions free.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Hats - Not For Me, Thanks

My mother had a pill-box hat made of tiny pale blue feathers sweeping round the circular shape. She wore it for my aunt and uncle’s wedding. She didn’t like hats much. They were for church and special occasions. A headscarf would do for popping to the shop, a stroll on the windy promenade or for keeping her hair neat on the walk back from the hairdressers.

My granddad never went out without his signature tweed Trilby. He might have had more than one, I don’t know, but he didn’t object to me dressing up in it when I was little. The inside rim was shiny with his Brylcreem and it smelt sweet, like him.

I’ve recently been knitting cardigans and matching hats for my new baby granddaughter, Matilda. I love making children’s clothes and each item is a one-off, for a particular little person.

Crochet is not my speciality, I’m a bit hit and miss with it, apart from Afghan square blankets, but I managed to design and make Minion character hats for a local primary school Christmas Fayre. I’m not looking to give up my day job on the strength of it, not just yet.

I miss working with infants, especially literacy and reading. There is so much to learn from the four-to-sevens when looking at their world and listening to their stories.  The developing imagination of a child is fascinating.  I’m starting to introduce well-loved stories and poems to my grandchildren.  A current favourite is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  Soon we’ll be on to Dr Seuss and Edward Lear. I don’t mind if they grow up thinking that I am completely bonkers as long as they remember having lots of fun. And that I always dressed ‘in character’ for the benefit of the children who knocked on my door at Hallowe’en.

Apart from my black, pointed, witchy thing with the illuminated spider on the side, I’m not really one for wearing hats. I have a couple of home-made knitted ones for very cold weather that also keep my hair off my face in the wind. I’ve got a wide-brimmed sun hat for sitting in the garden and a ‘posh’ hat that I wore for a wedding, once. Me and hats don’t get on. It’s really my hair. I’m burdened with very fine, flyaway hair that reacts badly when I take a hat off. Most of all, I hated my compulsory senior school hat.

Someone else must have hated my school hat, too, because the first thing she did when she got on the same bus home was to grab it off my head and kick it all over the dirty floor, encouraging her friends to join in. This was a slightly older girl from another school. I knew her by sight from being in the year above me at the same junior school. I would already be on the bus for a short time before it reached her stop and I would dread her arrival.  She snatched the hat out of my hand once, when I tried to stop her getting it and another time it was my satchel that got thrown all over the place. Eventually, I agreed that my mother should intervene and she telephoned a complaint to the bully-girl’s school. Whatever was said and how it was dealt with worked. There was no alternative, we had to share the same bus, but she never bothered me again.

Amongst my special keep-sakes is the beautiful hat my late mother-in-law chose to wear for our wedding. It’s a pretty, navy blue satin pill-box hat, trimmed with navy net and a bow of navy velvet. A memento of a lovely lady from a wonderful day.

 

I hope my choice of an Edward Lear poem raises a smile,

 

 

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

 

I 

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 

      The Quangle Wangle sat, 

But his face you could not see, 

      On account of his Beaver Hat. 

For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, 

With ribbons and bibbons on every side 

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, 

So that nobody ever could see the face 

            Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

II 

The Quangle Wangle said 

      To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, — 

"Jam; and jelly; and bread; 

      "Are the best of food for me! 

"But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree 

"The plainer than ever it seems to me 

"That very few people come this way 

"And that life on the whole is far from gay!" 

            Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

III 

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree, 

      Mr. and Mrs. Canary; 

And they said, — "Did every you see 

      "Any spot so charmingly airy? 

"May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? 

"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

"O please let us come and build a nest 

"Of whatever material suits you best, 

            "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" 

 

IV 

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree 

      Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; 

The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee, 

      The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl; 

(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;) 

And all of them said, — "We humbly beg, 

"We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, — 

"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

            "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" 

 

V 

And the Golden Grouse came there, 

      And the Pobble who has no toes, — 

And the small Olympian bear, — 

      And the Dong with a luminous nose. 

And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, — 

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, — 

And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, — 

All came and built on the lovely Hat 

            Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

VI 

And the Quangle Wangle said 

      To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, — 

"When all these creatures move 

      "What a wonderful noise there'll be!" 

And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon 

They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, 

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, 

And all were as happy as happy could be, 

            With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

 

 

by Edward Lear,  1812 - 1888

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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A Very Private Place

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to hide away in a quiet, cosy corner, preferably with a book and a drink (back then, orange juice, these days, tea or coffee) and, if possible, some sort of calorific snack.   

As a child, there’s something particularly enticing about a den, especially one cobbled together out of old bits and pieces – blankets, tablecloths, scarves, discarded cushions – and all held together with safety pins and sellotape.  I always went for HCF  (High Cosy Factor) so warmth, low lights and a hidden view into the real world were all points high on my agenda.  That little area under the stairs was always good, so long as I had a cushion to sit on, a blanket to throw over me and the door was left slightly ajar for spying purposes.

I’m not sure where, when or quite how this obsession with these very private places started but I know it goes back a long way.  I remember when my brothers and I received transistor radios for Christmas.  We were thrilled.  It was certainly the best present I’d ever received and promised endless excitement, preferably within some sort of den situation.  The bottom bunk, with a blanket as a screen was a speedy solution, but even better was to take the radio under the covers at bedtime and wait, with escalating excitement, for Midweek Theatre, the highlight of my week.  Of course, this was a Wednesday night and I had school the following day.  I was supposed to be sleeping, so this was definitely a covert activity.  One night the play was so frightening that I was scared to open my eyes.  Worriedly, I turned off the radio, missing the grand denouement, and called for the comforting presence of my mum.  Needless to say, I never admitted to what I’d been doing, but whimpered something about a nightmare.  It didn’t stop the bed/den activity but it did make me a bit more choosy about what I listened to.

At about this time I was considerably in awe of my granddad’s shed, which was his little haven from the stresses of normal life (and my grandma).  It was small, jam packed with old jars and tins holding an assortment of nails, screws and washers, and had its own unique shed smell: wood shavings, glue, creosote and granddad’s Old Virginia roll ups.  Often, when we visited, grandma would be bustling about in the kitchen and granddad would be making something in his shed – tiny chairs made of pegs, crude picture frames, little boxes with ill-fitting lids.  Always a man of few words, he loved to be on his own, which probably explains his actions one day when my brother, then aged about three, was sent out to ‘see granddad.’  As young children are wont to do Geoff started giving granddad imaginary objects.  This went on for about ten minutes until granddad opened the shed door, put a tin on the ground, instructed his grandson, “Here, put everything in that,” and swiftly shut himself back in his shed.

Next door to grandma and granddad lived a family with two girls around my age.  My envy knew no bounds when I opened the connecting gate one day to discover that their dad (a bit of a whizzkid in the DIY stakes) had built them a proper brick wendy house, complete with furniture, rugs, crockery and fancy curtains at the windows.  How I loved to play in that wendy house.  My dad, although capable of basic DIY, could never compete with Ernest Truslove.  Only recently, dad told me, with a voice full of incredulity, that years ago Hazel Truslove had revealed they were moving as ‘Ernest had run out of jobs to do in the house.’

The thing about private places is that they have to be just that – private.  They’re not places for crowds of people.  In my opinion, two adults could be one too many.  It’s private, it’s secret and therein lies its appeal.  The summerhouse we received as a Silver Wedding present several years ago is the culmination of a lifelong wish to have my very own private place.   I’m sure that desire had its seeds in Ernest Truslove’s wendy house, and although I don’t have fancy curtains or a rug I do have two chairs, a table and a collection of old candles.  And a sign that tells me I’m ‘living the dream.’  Summer evenings and I am ensconced in a blanket, just me, a cafetiere and a good book.  And if the husband wishes to visit he has to knock….

Rio in his Den

I wrote the following poem in memory of my childhood hideaways.

My Den - Jill Reidy

Pull the blanket right across

Secure with pins and sellotape 

But leave the smallest gap 

To peer through 

View the outside world

As it goes about its business

Whilst I, in my tiny den,

Nestle down into the cushion

Like a mouse in straw

Wrap the rug around my legs

Nibble at a biscuit

And turn the pages of my book

My mother passes, humming

I hear the strike of match 

And flare of gas on hob 

Water splashing in a pan

And the chop chop chop of knife on board

Sunday's leftovers 

Are whipped into shape 

Bubble and squeak, cold roast beef

Peas, and pickle on the side

Aromas mingle, waft towards me

Finally...

I am lured from my tiny hideaway.

Thanks for reading,    Jill 

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Literary merit: Adventure beckons.

I am the youngest child of four, by a gap of seven years and born into an extrovert, bustling environment.  My eldest brother played rugby and swam for County; my sister was a ballerina: my youngest brother was a bike mad, pain in the proverbial. My parents were publicans, always pushed for time, busy in the kitchen or bar until late in the evening.  I might have been the neglected, late arrival but lucky for me ... we had Nana. No, not the large sheep dog, child-minder of AA Milne's imagined story but a real life, elderly lady called Phyllis: My maternal grandmother.  Nana lived with us.

Nana was a godsend to all of us, although she was (according to the others), very strict, I loved her. She was the eldest of three children and was fortunate.  Her parents were wealthy, so although she was born in  the very late 19th Century, she was educated and then taught dance, pianoforte, etiquette and deportment at a girl's boarding school in Windermere. At 38 and unmarried, she had a daughter, (my mother), and although she was running the family guest house in Bowness, her younger brother sent her away to London before the birth.  This was 1920: the times were changing, but unfortunately not quickly enough, for Phyllis, who had to take a post as governess to the children of the owners of a hat shop in the West End.  My mother was 'cared for' by Nun's.

Nana taught me to read.  She shared with me her love of the 23rd Psalm, Wordsworth's 'golden daffodils' and Keats Ode to a nightingale. She would take me for imagined walks, along the banks of her beloved Windermere, among the bluebells, just by looking at the picture on her bedroom wall. She loved birds, knew the Latin name of every plant and flower and laughed at chimpanzees and Elephants. We didn't have a piano then, so she would sing with me, dance with me and teach me to stand and sit up straight. Nana gave me most of the gifts that I treasure most. Best of all she gave me her time, the most precious gift of all.  I was encouraged to read everything that had literary merit. When I began reading for myself, I began a lifelong adventure.  Who knows where it will end ...




 

The library at Ephesus.

 

A Literary Journey

 

Opening a book is exploration

Start to read and who knows what I’ll find.

In each printed tome, each timeworn binding,

lies a snare to captivate the mind.

 

If I sit and study ancient volumes,

read adventure history and crime,

brave a New World sci-fi speculation,

dip in A Brief History of Time,

will I only browse the lives of others,

those who reach beyond the libr’y wall,

or will I grow wise,  as any elder,

eager for when destiny may call?

 

Reading takes me on a flight of fancy,

lets me live a thousand, million lives,

opens wonders of imagination,

helps me venture far beyond the skies.

 

Like the great explorers, I must travel,

seek the place where steps are seldom heard,

open up the cover of discovery.

All great journeys start with just one word.

Thanks for reading.  Adele

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