A Favourite Film - Goodnight, Mr Tom

 A favourite film is a tough choice to make. I’ve picked a few. I think they started as books, with the exception of ‘Grease’, where if I remember correctly, the book came later, and ‘The Holiday’, which doesn’t have a book. Please put me right, if I’m wrong.

‘Grease’, the sound of 1978 and there’s a familiar song in my head as I type. It’s got to be my favourite musical of my generation. A sing-a-long, feel good factor romance. What’s not to like? Ok, stop and wait, there was another that year with great songs, ‘Saturday Night Fever’ with exceptional dancing and a serious storyline.

I don't like romantic comedy, generally, but I make an exception with 'The Holiday'. I like the story, the characters are believable and it isn't too sweet. The cottage is appealing, too.

The 1939 black and white version of ‘Wuthering Heights’ was my introduction to Laurence Olivier when I was eleven or twelve and of course, I fell in love with him. The film only told half the story, but that was Hollywood. Cathy’s death broke my heart.

1939 was the year for ‘Gone with the Wind’, another beloved book and film starring Vivienne Leigh who was about to marry Laurence Olivier, but we won’t dwell on that and it happened way before I was born, anyway.

I’ve got to include the original, 1940 ‘Rebecca’ whilst I’m held captive by Olivier’s gaze and Daphne du Maurier’s writing.

During my childhood and particularly around the age of eleven to thirteen, I watched lots of films with my mum, from Hollywood musicals to Hammer Horrors, but the one I associate with her the most is ‘A Taste of Honey’. This was not a film we watched together sharing chocolate and enjoying mummy and daughter time. This was my forbidden fruit when I was told not to watch it. Too late, the beginning had already got me spellbound, but she sent me to bed saying it wasn’t suitable for me. I think I was eleven at the time, very much a child, still played with dolls and very different to modern day eleven year olds. I knew better than to argue or make that annoying, disapproving ‘arr’ sound. My mum was going downstairs to work in our pub, so I listened out for her leaving. Seconds later I was leaning on the lounge door frame with the door to our flat slightly open so I would hear if she came back up. I was rooted to the spot and loved every second of that film. Whatever my mum was protecting me from went right over my head. I was just disappointed that Jo’s sailor didn’t come back. As an adult I consider ‘A Taste of Honey’ to be Shelagh Delaney’s stroke of genius. Perhaps my mum wanted to avoid awkward questions from me. I’ve worked it all out since.

I was a fan of John Thaw ever since Phyllis Bentley’s ‘Inheritance’ was serialised on tv. To me, he was what made ‘The Sweeney’ and he was born to be ‘Morse’. I wasn’t sure about this completely different character as Tom Oakley in ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’. Silly me to have such doubts. Not only was he perfect as the character, and the rest of the cast were equally excellent, the film, which was a tv adaptation of Michelle Magorian’s novel completely overwhelmed me. I cried so many times, full of sadness for what was being endured by this young boy, a war time evacuee. There are many twists and turns in the story and as it ends with an agreeable conclusion, fresh tears from me, happy ones this time. It really is that good. I think my eldest grandson might like to watch it with me.

My poem:

William Beech

Authority’s persuasion,
Tom Oakley’s reluctance,
Zach’s hand of boyhood friendship,
William’s acceptance.

My tears, they are relentless
For Will, where has he been?
Tom Oakley stopped complaining,
Taking in what he had seen.

William, shirtless when he saw
The scars left by the belt,
Sickened beyond all words by
The pain he must have felt.

I wish I knew Zach’s poem,
Verses of hope and home,
Safe in William’s pocket
From what life might become.

I love a happy ending,

It’s ‘Dad!’ I hear Will call
At the end of fear and doubt,
As even more tears fall.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Lost love in Blackpool.

Good afternoon readers.
This week I saw a sign for a girl at side of the road. A please call notice for a lost love from 50 years ago- with a mobile number on to contact. Once upon a time I'd have probably called it for a laugh, being a bit of an idiot but, these days I'm a much more romantic and mellow person- I write poetry and things. 
The sign inspired my poem for the theme of Anonymity- in that I found it quite sad to think that for half a century someone had harboured an idea of a woman, a perfect snapshot that moves and talks and dances- both ever and never disappointed. Anyway, I've written the poem below as a result- hope you enjoy reading it.


Taking the Chances

I didn't catch your name in '62
But we danced under the Tower, me and you
Until the last tram home
And then I never managed call
And I wonder, are you free now
Did you get to see the world?

I've imagined how your ringlets waved
From Tokyo's snapshots and NYC
How your flowered dress and dancing shoes
Have turned heads across each world city
How your blue eyes still might search the sky
How I hope you found your perfect guy

But, girl from the Tower, June '62
If you've still not found love- it's been looking for you.

Thanks for stopping by, S.

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Still but Stardust.

Morning all. The theme this week is 'The 1980s' which initially posed a problem for me.

I'm 25. I'm 25 and a quarter actually, give or take a week. I was born in 1986 and so, putting the initial horror thought aside, I must have been created some time around now. I decided that whilst this was a slightly worrying concept to run with for a piece of writing, it could lead on to something and so, I took Tuesday's blogger, the lovely Lara out for a bit of a drive.

Ponder, ponder, ponder then click- it dropped in. I wanted to reflect us- then. Before I was a thought, before the cogs had begun to turn on my own life, the period in the mid-80s when my parents must have been dating. Anyway, I've written it straight in to my notebook (which I have finally started to fill with poems) so will probably be reading it at an event sometime. Once again, it has been a pleasure, I hope you like it.

Still but Stardust.

Was it a night like this

A night somewhere deep in the mid 1980s

The stars as bright as Blackpool lights

to mark, there, the moment.

I imagine myself- shaggy hair,

jumper just like in the photo,

falling in love. I wonder- to look

through the window of time, if it was

like this. On one night

just like this.

Catch you next week,

S.

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Love Letter

Writers and poets have written letters for centuries; declarations of their love scribed on parchment, sealed inside an envelope and sent. But in a world that is progressively dependent on technology, is the tradition of letter writing – or more specifically the expression of love – under threat? Perhaps the more complicated aspects of life blind us, distort that which is simple. With our lack of sight we lose our way, and forget how to listen to the faint murmurs of heart.

For in a world that is reliant on the material (things of monetary worth), and which favours the concrete over the abstract, the concept of ‘love’ has become a cliché. As modern poets, we fear being clichéd, thus perhaps a part of us fears the subject of love... It would seem far easier to write of pain and sorrow – of a breakup, of the darkness in our minds – than to write about the joy.

I, myself, have only written a fraction of poems that could assert to have ‘love’ as their theme. And they are self-conscious, clumsy stanzas – worried of straying into a clichéd landscape: saying too much (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Quantity), only being able to speak in hyperbole (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Quality) and resulting in a poem of obscurity (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Manner). Therefore, I tend to find myself avoiding the subject of love – or tripping ‘head over heels’, if I dare to venture too near...

However, this week’s theme (‘Priceless Words’) made me think of love – and the letters that allow it to be preserved for years to come. Perhaps spending a week in Devon with my Nan has made me sentimental – but as she retold stories about her and my Grandpa’s holiday in the Lake District, it was impossible not to be moved. They were stories I’d never heard before, stories that only my Nan could tell and for me, at least, they are priceless.

I could conclude this blog post with one of Keats’ letters to Fanny Brawne, or Lord Byron’s declarations to Countess Teresa Guiccioli – in fact there is a multitude of love letters to quote from – but I’ve chosen instead to share a letter that my Grandpa wrote to my Nan while they were courting. My Nan, at the time, looked after the children of a doctor and his wife. She went with them on holiday for two weeks to the Durley Hall Hotel, Bournemouth – and my Grandpa wrote to her daily.

(15.07.1949) Friday 9.PM.

Hello my Sweetheart.

Thank you again for another letter, if the postman missed me one morning I would run him all round Coventry.

You ask me what I have been doing, well, I’ll let you into a secret, I am being miserable all the time. Don’t think I am blaming you, darling, because just think how nice it will be when you come back. I think it will have been worth it, don’t you?

Look darling, don’t bother to buy any presents because no one expects any, also don’t bother about Robert because it is his birthday in August, so it will be as well to wait for that. We can buy him something then. You know I don’t want you to buy me anything, as long as you love me that is all I shall ever want, darling.

Well, my sweetheart, we have got the first week over so the next one shouldn’t be too bad. I’m looking forward to a week tomorrow darling, are you!

Don’t worry about the camera, sweetheart. I’m sure it is alright, it has never let anyone down yet. I’ve booked up for Skegness on the Friday, I hope that will be alright for you. I wanted to book for the Monday, but as usual I was too late.

Have you decided what you are going to wear to come home in? Also, what you are doing about your case?

I think I shall go to the Forum tomorrow night, but I don’t suppose I shall enjoy it as I won’t be able to put my arm around you and feel your head on my shoulder. By the way, what do you mean about saving you a lot of kisses, you know I haven’t anyone else to give them to and what’s more I don’t want to give them to anyone else. You had better buy yourself at least six sticks of lipstick because you will need that many for Saturday alone.

But no joking sweetheart, I do love you more than I can tell and next Saturday is the only day I have been looking forward to since you went away. Will you marry me darling?

Well sweetheart, that is all for now so night, night and God Bless you, darling

all my love

George

P.S. Hurry Home.

Even after death words have the power to survive – to speak a voice that we thought we’d never have the opportunity to hear – and for that reason, words can be some of the most priceless (and precious) things in our lives

Thank you for reading,

Lar

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