Blackpool Rocks - UTMP

Blackpool Rocks. It certainly does. I’m out on the fringe, away from the excitement of most of what Blackpool offers as a holiday resort, but still close to the main roads for any of the emergency services. I’m always complaining about sirens disturbing the peace. Another reason why we’re looking to move.

Blackpool became my permanent home in the mid ‘60s. Dad achieved his goal of having a pub on Blackpool prom and we stayed long after that. The family was settled. Those earlier times were fun and some of my best memories are captured in my poem, ‘This Was My Blackpool in ‘68’. I’ve previously blogged about that particular summer, so I’ll say no more, but the poem can have another airing.

This Was My Blackpool in ‘68

Taking a tram from North Pier to Starr Gate.
A summer of fun and staying up late.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Anne, Auntie Kath and me, all holding hands
Crossing the Prom to get on to the sands
Where the grumpy deck-chair man always stands.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

We were young ladies with panache and style,
Playing the penny arcades for a while,
Frittering our spends on the Golden Mile.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Spinning the Waltzers three times in a row,
Make it go faster, we don’t like it slow.
And then the man said, “That’s it, off you go!”
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Out to a summer show, straight after tea,
Engelbert tonight at the ABC,
A back-stage delight for my mum and me.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Got to get ready, there’s no time to lose!
My trendiest outfit is what I will choose…
A pink ‘Biba’ dress with bright orange shoes.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

We wanted peace, love and Flower Power,
Charlie Cairoli and Blackpool Tower,
Seaside and sunshine for hour after hour.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

My first visit to Blackpool FC was with a group of school friends in 1970. If memory serves me well, the match was against Chelsea. I don’t remember the result. It wasn’t a pleasant afternoon. I found the whole experience scary, loud and lairy, full of the sort of men that would frequent our vaults, to be avoided. In future, I would stick to beat nights at the ice rink.

Oh, I’m just hanging out with the lads on this photo. They make me look so small.

Forty years passed before I became keen on following Blackpool FC again. This was a random invite to watch a match but I was lured in this time. The stadium had been transformed into a female friendly, welcoming place to be, greatly improved from 1970. I got the bug, well, we both did. Season tickets soon followed and since then, it has become a way of life. Before that, a promotion to the Premier League prompted a poem.

Sea Sea Seasiders 2010

Everything tangerine and white,
Fans all meet in great assembly.
Blackpool FC in the top flight,
They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

Open top bus in ’53,
Everything tangerine and white,
The FA cup for all to see,
Bill Perry’s goal, the town’s delight.

It really was an awesome sight
With deafening applause and cheer;
Everything tangerine and white
And flowing champagne and beer.

Open top bus like ’53,
Everything tangerine and white,
The play-off cup for all to see,
Ormerod’s goal, the town’s delight.

Ollie’s team have got the power,
Premier League, a dizzy height.
Blackpool flag atop the tower,
Everything tangerine and white!

The beach and the promenade were my playgrounds as a child. I’m happy for those carefree times and I’m lucky to have had such a diverse upbringing that moving around with a family and extended family in the pub game gave me. I love my memories. The Golden Mile is wonderful for all those who seek it, but there’s no interest for me anymore. I like the sea air and the Blackpool coast line, maybe a walk on the beach, but it needs to be firm sand these days. That’s what Blackpool rocks for me.

Some time ago, I read ‘The Blackpool Rock’ which is an intriguing and interesting book about aspects of Blackpool that are not in my personal experience. A gripping read. Steve Sinclair tells his story with honesty and integrity about the side of Blackpool he knew very well through his work as a doorman. Reading about it is close enough for my comfort and satisfies my fascination. There is also a TV documentary with Danny Dyer. It is definitely not my Blackpool in ’68, or maybe it was and I didn’t notice?

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Magazines - A Learning Curve

My first magazine was Look and Learn when I was still at infant school. My father bought it for me because I was captivated by a story my school teacher read to the class. I pestered him to ask her about it, which he eventually did, and I was delighted to have the story for myself. I think it was The Borrowers, or something similar.  As I got older, I read comics and books more than magazines. It was the usual ones, Beano and Dandy. We moved into a pub where a box of children’s books had been left ‘For the little girl’, me. Included was ‘Oor Wullie’ and ‘The Broons’ annuals. I loved them. They became my favourites characters and they still are. I’ve got many more of their annuals. I still have the collection of books that was left for me. It was my introduction to Enid Blyton and a lifetime of reading and writing.

September 1967.  I started high school and made a conscious decision to hate it because it wasn’t the school I wanted to go and I had to take two buses to get there and back.  I had a couple of friends with me from primary school, which was good, but I got picked on a lot and I was constantly bullied on one of the bus rides by girls from another secondary school.  It was a miserable time but I discovered something that opened my eyes and took my mind off my worries.  It was my mother’s weekly magazine, Woman’s Own.  It offered a wealth of important information to me, a curious eleven year old.  I read all the adverts for Tampax, Lil-lets, Kotex, et al and decided that I would have Nikini when this ‘period’ thing happened to me.  I learnt a lot about life from the Problem Page. I think Claire Rayner was the agony aunt at the time. The most fascinating read was her serialised articles which I remember clearly as being titled ‘What to Tell Your Children About Sex’.  This is where I discovered what was called The Facts of Life.  It might have taken my mind off school worries but such knowledge gave me other things to fret about.  I wasn’t ever going to do ‘that’, certainly not.  I don’t know if my mum noticed what I was reading.  She might have left the magazines out on purpose, hoping I would read those articles.  At the time, it felt like I was reading something forbidden and scary. Nothing was ever said. Years later, I had the book of ‘What to Tell Your Children About Sex’ and ‘The Body Book’, another of Claire Rayner’s.  She was a prolific writer of fiction and non-fiction, a former nurse and midwife and I think she was a TV agony aunt at some point.  She passed away more than ten years ago.  I hope it is true that she actually said, “Tell David Cameron that if he screws up my beloved NHS I’ll come back and bloody haunt him.”

Into my teens and off to the newsagents every Saturday morning to pick up my ordered Jackie and Fabulous 208 magazines.  Jackie was great.  I covered my bedroom walls with pictures of my favourite pop stars.  Those treasured pictures and posters were saved for decades until they got binned in a clear-out, probably when we emptied the attic for the loft conversion and I had to be brutal. Oh, how I wish I’d kept them.  I would have found somewhere safe to stash them.  Fabulous 208 magazine was connected to Radio Luxembourg. I liked to listen to DJ Tony Prince in the evening.

Magazines aren’t something I read regularly, but Woman’s Own is still as good as it ever was and I buy it occasionally.  Apart from that, if I notice an interesting article, an unusual knitting pattern or someone I know has contributed, I will buy it.

My Haikus,

I loved story time,
My teacher made it such fun.
Thanks for Look and Learn.

Woman’s Own page five
Now I know what they are for.
Is it a secret?

Is that really true?
I wish I dare ask my mum.
No, I’d better not.

Hooray! Saturday!
I will go out in the rain
To get my Jackie!

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Light in the Darkness - Shine, Jesus, Shine

I was born into a Christian family. It was a mix of Catholic and Protestant and some had a stronger faith than others. I was baptised in a Church of England church, but my Sunday Schools were always Methodist. One was a strict Wesleyan Chapel that could not accept monetary gifts from my father, a publican. I have always had my faith, never faltering in my darkest of days, and believe me, I have pulled through some dark, hard times. I believe in ‘each to their own’, respectful of family and friends beliefs, non-beliefs, thoughts and preferences. If I have a grandchild sleeping over, they always get a ‘night-night, God bless’.

My christening gifts included a C of E Book of Common Prayer and a bible with my initials on. These were from both sets of grandparents, I think. As a child, I was fascinated by the picture inside the prayer book, ‘The Light of the World’ by Holman Hunt, and found the person, who I later learnt to be Jesus, a bit scary looking. The light in my darkness. 

Our recent stay in Dumfries and Galloway got off to a confusing start when there was a mix up concerning our accommodation. We’ve stayed in the same lodge so many times that we consider it to be our own. It took a few moments to accept that it was occupied. All turned out fine. There are only six lodges spaced between trees and shrubs, all very private and all much the same. We soon found ours. It was only tea-time, around five, but dark already. This is a recognised Dark Sky area and glancing up, I couldn’t believe my eyes, especially my peculiar eyes. The sky was full of more stars than I’d ever seen, sparkling brightly, some tiny, some big, millions of them. We stopped unloading the car and switched off the lights and torches we were using, and just stood, staring at the sky. I could actually see them, my eyes, with problem vision giving me a struggle to focus all the time, could process this wonderful night sky. The most amazing lights in the darkness.

On Christmas Eve, my daughter and I took her three children to the Christingle service at our local church. The children had been before to various services and to Christingle last year, so knew to sit quietly. After a while they were a bit fidgety. Matilda had seen a classmate across the aisle and wanted to sit with her, but was too shy to move. The boys, who had been sitting together, now had their mother between them and the threat of no Christingle orange. There was respite in the chance to sing as a well-known hymn began. As we stood, I heard one of the boys say ‘It’s Nanna’s God bless you song’ as I popped Matilda to her friend, with a ‘thank you’ to her Nanna who is a friend of mine. Shine, Jesus, Shine. I used to choose it a lot when my children were small and part of my Sunday School class. With all the children joining in the chorus, it must be a popular hymn from school assembly. A little later a loud chorus of ‘Sing Hosanna’ was raising the roof. At the end, all lights were switched off and flames from all the Christingles flickered around the church as everyone sang Away in a Manger. Beautiful lights.

A light in the darkness, a light at the end of a tunnel, a flicker of hope, that cloud with the silver lining. There is always hope for everyone, faith or not.

No poem today, sorry, but thanks for reading. A Happy New Year to everyone. Pam x

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Not Such A Nice Surprise

Terror definition: extreme fear, dread, horror

And one of the worst feelings in the world.

I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve been terrified in my life. It might not be many, but every time was horrendous, some worse  - and more serious -than others.

The Lost Child Terror

Several times, I’ve lost my children in crowded places - only for seconds - but the terror that accompanies the realisation that you can’t spot your child is a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  I’m sure every parent knows the awful panic that hits you like a blow in the stomach, relief coming instantly that blue bobble hat is seen, or that familiar high pitched voice is heard. 

The Unavailable Meds Terror

A couple of years ago, I spent two weeks in a state of constant abject terror - which sounds like an exaggeration.  It’s not.  The medication I’ve been on for nearly 40 years was suddenly unavailable.  Stopping it abruptly could have caused untold damage, both physically and mentally. The terror I felt, before I finally managed to access a source, was off the scale. Thankfully the problem was resolved and my mood reverted to its usual state of moderate anxiety.

The Horror Film Terror

I used to think I didn’t mind a horror film.  I’ve realised, after practically gouging a hole in my husband’s arm, that I really can’t deal with them.  Any tension whilst waiting for something awful to happen, I find unbearable.  I jump easily so have been known to emit a loud scream at a crucial point in the film - bad enough at home, as I dig my nails into my husband, but worse when we’re in a crowded cinema.  These days, I won’t watch anything mildly scary. Which leads me on to…..

The Shining Game Terror

My husband thinks it’s hilarious to make me jump.  To be honest, it doesn’t take much.  I once returned home, thinking nobody was in, and opened the lounge door to unexpectedly find my teenage son and his friend (who I’d never met) sitting on the floor.  I screamed so loudly and so long that I honestly think my son thought I was going mad.  I don’t know how he explained it to his friend, but I never saw him again (that’s the friend, not the son).  In the past, my husband has turned all the lights off and told me he was going to hide upstairs and jump out on me like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’  I told him, in no uncertain terms that if he did that, it would be the last thing he ever did.  He couldn’t understand my terror.  ‘But you know it’s only me,’ he said, looking puzzled.  It was the anticipation of the jumping out that sent me over the edge of terror. He doesn’t even suggest it now, although I’ve noticed he and the grandchildren seem to love a similar game that half scares them to death.

And finally…..

The Theme Park Ride Terror

I know many people love the adrenaline rush that comes from an extreme theme park ride or from watching a horror film. I’m game for many things but putting myself into a state of terror isn’t one of them. I can have enough terror in my life without seeking it out. Anything that involves climbing into a seat with a metal bar or an industrial type belt in preparation to fly up in the air or career down a steep, winding track is to avoided at all costs. 

Years ago I went to euro Disney with my mum, my children and their cousins. They all knew how much I hated any sort of theme park rides and were quite happy to go off on their own and frighten themselves to death, leaving me to sit quietly with the bags and coats and a nice hot brew.  However….. after a while one of the children came to tell me how much I would love a ride on some monstrosity called Space Mountain.  I assured them I was quite happy sitting drinking coffee. Another child came, then another, until I was pinned to the table by six excited children, desperate to get me on a ride. My daughter assured me it wasn’t scary, in fact, I would like it. I didn’t believe that for one minute, but stupidly I began to weaken. ‘How bad could it be?’ I asked myself. However bad it was, it would be over in seconds, surely? 

I allowed myself to be accompanied, or more accurately, frogmarched, towards Space Mountain, an innocuous-looking structure from the outside.  I began to relax a little.  Inside, in the dim light, still surrounded by my bodyguards, I realised there was quite a queue - and plenty of time to get nervous again.  The first waves of panic hit me as I saw a large sign on the wall, warning that this wasn’t the ride for anybody who was pregnant (no), had a heart condition (no, but I was beginning to feel that I might have a heart attack any minute) or ‘of a nervous disposition’ (yes, YES!)  I think I might have whimpered at that point. My daughter assured me that they only put up those notices to cover themselves. I wasn’t convinced.  The loudspeaker was now reiterating the warning messages.  I needed to turn back but there was a long queue behind us and the entrance was blocked. My daughter took my hand. 

‘You’ll be fine, mum,’ she said, ‘granddad went on it and he’s old. He loved it.’ 

I plodded on towards my fate, heart pumping, stomach churning, mouth dry, fear in my eyes. All classic symptoms of terror. It’s the fight or flight syndrome. I felt unable to do either. 

Eventually we reached the front of the queue and I was half pushed, half lifted into the seat next to my daughter. The whole thing tipped back so that our backs were parallel with the ground and our legs in the air. I gave a little involuntary scream. ‘Mum, it’s fine!’ My daughter hissed, ‘we haven’t started yet!’ 

The lights went out. It was pitch black. I groaned resignedly, and clutched the bar pinning me in.  Without warning, we shot up in the air at the speed of light! I screamed. Very very loudly. Possibly the loudest scream I’d ever emitted. We continued to shoot straight up, my scream accompanying us in one long wail. My daughter sought out my hand and held onto it.  My mind tried to process what was happening. All I could think was, ‘this is worse than childbirth,’ which at the time was probably one of the worst experiences I’d ever endured.  I stopped screaming. This experience was so horrendous it had actually silenced me.  I could hear my daughter’s voice, sounding worried but I couldn’t answer. ‘Mum? MUM??’ 

My eyes were firmly clenched together, as were my teeth. My knuckles must have been white. Every muscle in my body was tensed with terrified anticipation, every nerve screeched ‘abort abort!!’  We continued upwards, my thoughts still on the horrors of childbirth, and how it would be a blessed relief to be in labour right now.  If I remember rightly (I’ve blanked much of it out), we flew in every direction, rising and plummeting, twisting and turning, and all at a speed I could never have contemplated. I honestly thought I was about to suffer a heart attack. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, we began to slow. We came to a halt by a wooden platform, where an assistant raised the bar, grabbed my hand and pulled me out. He looked at me worriedly and asked if I was all right. I still couldn’t speak, but in answer, shook my head. I walked, like a zombie, towards the exit, my daughter running to keep up behind me.  Mum? Mum? Are you ok? Your face is green! Mum?’ 

I turned and stared at her, ‘Don’t you ever - EVER - try and get me on anything like this again.’  I said through gritted teeth. She nodded sheepishly.  ‘That was the worst experience of my life.’  I didn’t mention childbirth - she’d find out for herself one day. 

‘The worst,’ she said quietly, ‘was when you stopped screaming. I honestly thought you were dead.’ 

‘So did I,’ I replied, heading for the nearest cafe. 

This week’s poem is partly based on an incident with my grandson when he was younger.  He’s always had issues and phobias around certain foods.  As he’s got older and I’ve discussed it with him, I’ve realised that he experiences true terror even being in the vicinity of foods with specific textures. So this is for Rio, who is a lot better than he used to be, but still has to leave the room whilst I eat a yogurt. 

 Not Such a Nice Surprise by Jill Reidy

Grandma checks the texture

Pops a plate atop the mould 

In one swift move

Turns the whole lot upside down

Gives a shake  

That sends ripples down her body

Grandchild waiting for the great reveal 

Stands on tiptoe,  

Watches grandma’s fleshy under arms 

Swing back and forth   

He laughs

Anticipation mounts  

Grandma said a nice surprise

She places plate with mould upon the table

stands back 

Smiles at grandchild

And with a flourish

Removes the mould 

Pink blancmange in blurred bunny shape 

sits proudly on the plate 

Still shaking from the exit from it’s casing 

perhaps two seconds pass

Whilst grandma glances back and forth 

‘Tween child’s and bunny’s eyes

She smiles 

Grandchild gives a piercing scream

Runs from the room 

Sobbing loudly 

Mum says later, 

you know he has all these funny things with food? 

All these phobias 

With terrified reactions? 

He’s scared to death - 

Grandma stifles a sigh 

It’s a rabbit 

A pink blancmange rabbit - 

I don’t care what it is, says mum

He’s scared stiff of blancmange 

Or anything that texture

Custard, mayonnaise, yogurt, tomato sauce 

Even, sometimes, ice cream 

Remember that time, in Sainsbury’s? 

Where the yogurt spilt 

All down his trainers 

And I had to take him out? 

Calm him down? 

Grandma rolls her eyes and starts to speak

Mum stops her with a look 

She watches grandma scrape the rabbit

Still quivering, into the bin

It’s ok You can come back now 

She shouts into the hall

It’s safe 

Thanks for reading…….Jill 

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Terror - Ghostly Happenings

 

There’s something scary about looking up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. It started at my great-grandmother’s house when I was a little girl. Nothing happened, I was just spooked and the feeling has always been with me. Our landing light stays on through the night. My bedtime reading can’t be anything jumpy or thought provoking since ‘The Amityville Horror’ years ago – the film was bland compared to the book – such stories, and I enjoy reading them, are good for the afternoon. I accompanied my daughter to see ‘The Woman In Black’ at the cinema. This film absolutely terrifies me. I like the story, but I can’t watch it properly, not even on television at home.

“Tell me when this bit’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking,” I whispered back, face covered with hands.

Recently, the stage play was on at The Grand Theatre. I’m told it’s very good and scary. My daughter asked me to go and I would have done if not for the covid situation, even if I was to spend two hours staring at my knees in the darkness.

One of the pubs our family had on the front was a former hotel, full of empty rooms. Most of these rooms were on the floor above our living accommodation and was out of bounds to me and my friends for safety reasons. On the same floor as us but separate to our flat was a corridor of about six former hotel rooms. Two of them were empty until my paternal grandfather moved in with us for a while and made one a lounge and another his bedroom. My dad used one for a spirit store (drinks, not ghosts), one was a guest room where my other grandparents stayed on their frequent visits and one was Joe’s room. Joe came with the pub. He was a live-in member of staff, of some very senior years, and when not working, kept himself to himself apart from watching the Saturday afternoon horse racing on our television, full volume due to his impaired hearing. Once a week my mother or Kathy who looked after us all, made him his favourite steak and cow-heel pie. He was a lovely man and we were sad when he died. I believe he was ninety, or thereabouts. I would guess it was a couple of years after Joe had passed when someone played a trick and scared the living daylights out of me. At some point, I moved into what used to be Joe’s room. The corridor was always a bit dark, but enough to see my way. One afternoon, as I came out of the room, there was a white, waiter’s coat floating in the air.  I screamed as terror gripped me and my dad came running from the nearby kitchen. It was all supposed to be in good fun. It might even have been Halloween. The jacket was on a wire hanger hooked on to a light-fitting. I recovered, eventually.

For a short time, my father took over The Old Hall at Sandbach and we moved to live there. I mention it by name because it was featured on the TV programme ‘Most Haunted’. We were aware of a ghost. Nothing scary, just a woman in a crinoline dress with her hair piled high. She vanished as soon as she appeared and always in the restaurant at night. She wasn’t mentioned in ‘Most Haunted’ but Derek Acorah and his team found plenty of other paranormal activity that we weren’t aware of or been told about.

When our son was about three years old, he had what we recognised as night terrors. The first time it happened I was terrified. It was the middle of the night and his screaming woke me up suddenly. I was out of bed and in his room in a nano-second, heart pounding. He was sitting up, unaware of me, staring ahead, screaming and crying. I rocked him, calmed him down and settled him back to sleep, somehow, while filled with terror myself. The look of fear in his face unnerved me more than anything, like he could see something I couldn’t. Luckily, there weren’t many episodes.

With all this in mind, I suppose it’s odd that I would happily spend a couple of evenings on ghost hunting tours with my friend. We had a fascinating time at The Grand Theatre in the dark and the talk from the organiser explained things that had happened to both of us at separate times on visits to see productions. When the opportunity to do something similar at the Spanish Hall came up, I was full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, some of it was so scary, the experience was overwhelming fear.

My poem, which features in The Dead Good Poets Haunted Blackpool,

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

An evening in the Spanish Hall
Fun-time promised for one and all.
Exciting times for you and me,
Paranormal activity!
Hopes and desires, all are risen,
Someone’s speaking, we must listen.
“Enter the rooms with open mind,
And be prepared for what you find.”
The semi-darkness of torch-light,
Anticipation of the night;
Wondering what there might be here
To chill us with delight or fear
We heard a strange and weird sound,
Quiet growling from underground.
Distant laughter, joyful patter,
Ghostly party fun and chatter.
Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,
Passing orb gives us a twinkle.
We crept across the ballroom floor
To where we hadn’t been before.
A woman beckoned from her chair.
As we approached, she wasn’t there,
Just vanished, like she’d never been
But we both knew what we had seen.
And later, on the wide stair case
I froze as something touched my face.
I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;
Someone was with me, there’s no doubt
When we sat in the back-stage room
We both smelt dated perfume
Like musky lavender and rose
Stagnant, lingering in repose.
And that mirror! I dared not see
The presence sitting next to me.
I felt their breath upon my cheek
And could not move, too scared to speak!
I must now be most explicit,
Show respect to restless spirits.
Never ridicule, tease or taunt.
It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

PMW 2012
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tanka - Just A Few



I'm away at the moment, yes, again. I know I've only just returned home long enough to do the laundry and re-pack the case, but here I am, in the wonderful Dumfries & Galloway countryside, comfortable in a hidden-away lodge that I've already written so much about.

This week's theme being Tanka - five line poem based on a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable, I've had a try.

Not only have I managed to write a few Tankas, I've found a wifi connection. One of the attractions about being here was the seclusion, no signal, etc., but hey ho, things move with the times and we don't have to use what we don't want. Anyway, to my own advantage today, so here goes. They are written randomly.

Lonely roads so dark,
Driving back from Kilwinning.
Two hour journey
On the A seven-one-three
And it's creepy and scary.

List'ning to John Lodge
On his live 'B Yond' cd
Some old tunes remixed
And some new ones blended in,
Salute the Moody Blues man.

Watching the robins
Bossing round the bird feeders.
Claiming ownership,
Puffing out a proud red breast
Homing in on the fat balls.

A drive to the hills
Then all stops for 'Popmaster'
Wherever we are.
Some questions are too modern
And correct answers are few.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

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Did you check under your bed?

Whether you believe in fairies or not, one should never take the chance. Because what if you're wrong? What if all those things are real? That as you sleep Trolls come and try to steal your breath, or monsters as big as your room come to feast on your eyes.

What if every nightmare you've ever had wasn't a dream, but just your way of remember what actually happen that night? Is it worth taking the chance? For five minutes of your life each night, is it worth risking your very soul?

Take heed of the lessons of old written in the texts of tales. Centuries have morphed them into children's stories, rhymes of amusement. Read them and remember their lessons, for these are not just fanciful yarns designed to induce imagined creatures dancing in the shadows of the fires light. These so called 'fairy tales' are a warning to anyone who will listen. 

As the night draws near and dusk begins to snuff out the days sun, remember to doubt what you think you know, take the safe option. 

Are your sure your windows and doors locked?  Are the draft cracks covered? and...

Did you check under your bed?

When you lie alone at night,

Just before your eye shut tight,

And the journey of your dreams takes flight.

Did you check under your bed?

Make sure the monsters aren't hiding there,

In-between boxes discarded without care,

Waiting to jump out to give you nightmares.

Did you check under your bed?

Using your torch the examine the corners,

For wee little beasties and nocturnal marauders,

Often found in the pages of horror authors.

Did you check under your bed?

That scratching sound is it a cat?

Or maybe a giant mutated rat?

Looking for a new habitat?

Did you check under your bed?

Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies and Demons,

Ghosts, Ghouls and creatures of legions,

You could be moments away from being eaten?

Always check under your bed!

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