Mind Your Language - Wash Your Mouth Out!

That soap. I can still remember the taste and the smell.  Green Palmolive rubbed hard in my mouth by my very angry mother. All I said was ‘bugger or buggery’ and obviously that was all it took for my mum to drop whatever she was doing, shout at me and drag me, literally kicking and screaming to our black and white tiled bathroom. The memory is so clear, perhaps I was traumatised by such a severe punishment to be inflicted on me at four years old. Anyway, it was Nanna’s fault.

Both my grandmothers were decent, lady-like women, but Nanna, my maternal grandmother, ran pubs like we did and she was, perhaps a bit more worldly wise. Nanna often said ‘is it buggery’ or ‘does it buggery’ in answer to questions, not to me, but I heard it often enough. In her world were many buggers, too, in fact everyone was a daft bugger, silly bugger, dirty bugger, lazy bugger, etc, and being in the pub trade, lots of drunken buggers. I spent lots of time with her so I suppose it wasn’t really shocking that I should say it myself. After the mouth washing, I sobbed to my mum that I only said what Nanna says. I don’t know if she took it up with her.

I worked with four and five year olds in an infant school for quite a while – the best years of my working life and I wish I’d stayed, but that’s another story. Young children soak up education like sponges and everything else as well. They love to tell their own stories, no holds barred, so I found myself knowing all sorts about everyone’s parents, siblings and home life. I am the keeper of many family secrets and my lips are strongly sealed. There are people out there who might be horrified if they knew what their child had said at school. Sometimes, there was inappropriate language and staff were advised to be tactful and simply ask a child to say it again as we hadn’t heard properly. There were not many swear words around that age group. If necessary, I would say that I didn’t know that word, and let’s just use words we understand.

Sometimes I have to check myself, or remind my husband that something isn’t ‘bloody’ it’s only a table, or whatever the item might be. It’s a hard habit to break, but we have our grandchildren round a lot and what big ears they have. They are aged five, four, three and nearly two. I’ve already had a gentle chat with the five year old about ‘some words are only for grown-ups and not nice for children to say’. How times have changed. My mother would have scooped him up to the bathroom and he would still be vomiting soap suds after his exclamation of ‘f--king hell’ when he dropped something under the table.

We had a small, metal plant pot on the draining board. I know it was in the way, I just needed to decide where to store it, so I take full responsibility. One day when my husband was doing something at the sink and our grandchildren were playing nicely, the planter fell to the floor with a loud clang. My husband, exasperated, called out ‘That bloody tin!’, which met with three of the four children bursting into laughter and shouting ‘Bloody tin!’ We were all hysterical, adults and children alike. It was the funniest thing ever. The ghost of my mum would have run in with the soap. The small planter, or ‘bloody tin’ which it is now referred to, is safely stored.

As for having my mouth washed out as a child, the deterrent is not lifelong, by the way. Mummy might be cross, but I swear sometimes. And worse words than ‘bugger’.

My poem is a reflection of working with the general public where not everyone is pleasant. Suffering pain and Covid rules bring out the best and the worst in people.

 

So, you scream ‘eff off’ at me

From the safety of your phone.

I’ll kill your call, line now free

And you can leave me alone.

 

Lately, I’ve been chucking back

The very same words you use.

I’m not taking any flak,

I’ve developed a short fuse.

 

I know you’ll understand me

Using your language, self-taught.

Unacceptable? I see,

You’re taken aback and fraught.

 

Say ‘bugger’ then, I don’t care.

Just be yourself, you are crass.

I’m not bothered if you swear,

Sticks and stones, and all that jazz.

 

PMW 2020

Thanks for reading, take care and keep well. Pam x

 

 

Read More

Sideboards - Thanks for the Memory

 

I wonder what happened to all the sideboards, those massive pieces of highly polished furniture that half-filled most dining rooms. Someone is going to tell me that they exist, in everyone’s home except mine. I won’t be surprised.  I’ve got what is loosely called a ‘unit’, sort of cross between a sideboard and a display cabinet, with a pull-down drinks bit – used by me as a sewing cupboard – in the middle. It is a much-loved wedding present. Actually, I've got two now, there's posh.

Thinking of the blog theme being sideboards has put me in mind of the ones I grew up with. My childhood homes were pubs and the private accommodation was usually spacious, offering plenty of room for a sideboard, and a piano, even. My mother was in charge of our sideboard. I had many warnings to keep out, nothing in there for me. It must have been jam-packed with family secrets and skeletons in the cupboard to need such fierce protection. I was allowed one thing, with permission, which was an old chocolate box full of black and white photos from when my mother was a girl. I would spend hours looking through them. I still have the collection, mounted in an album now and I really wish I’d kept them in the old, tatty box. It was part of the magic. Someone gave my mother a small packet of Thornton’s chocolates and she kept them in the top drawer.  Over time, one by one they disappeared. I learnt the hard way that there are only so many times you can get away with ‘they won’t miss just one’. Oh, how I’ve missed my mum for most of my life. I'd replace every chocolate ten-fold if it were possible for her to nip back for five minutes.

Sometime in the ‘60s we had the novelty of a house. The new furniture included a teak dining table, chairs and matching sideboard. The sideboard filled the length of our dining room and had thin, spindly legs. Cupboard and drawer handles were made of wood, chunky and round, unlike the dangly brass loops on the other one. We kept the new table mats and the best cutlery in the drawers.

My grandmother’s sideboard was huge. I don’t know how old I was before I could see the top of it. I remember that it filled the end of her lounge. It had three cupboards in a row, three drawers, one above each cupboard and legs that I referred to as curly in shape. The most important thing to me was that I was allowed to rummage in it to my heart’s content, as long as I didn’t make too much mess and I put everything back. And I mustn’t touch Nanna’s knitting.  There wasn’t much to play with, but I enjoyed tidying everything up. Some items came to be mine over time. I still have a set of electro-plated nickel silver fish eaters with matching servers and a set of cake forks. On top of the sideboard used to stand a couple of bookends with a matching vase. I don’t know what happened to the vase, but I treasure the Bosson’s bookends, despite their theme of Hunting Scene.

Here are a few memories as Haikus,

Like a lifelong friend

Silently storing secrets

Behind locked cupboards.

 

Dark and imposing

Child-size fingers folded round

Your barley-twist legs.

 

A framed photogragh,

The once-happy bride and groom.

A short-lived marriage.

 

A sideboard cupboard,

Whiskey, brandy, Bacardi,

Cinzano and gin.

 

Flowers, past their best

Not quite ready to throw out,

Last week’s thoughtful gift.

 

I hate the subject,

Bosson’s ‘Hunting Scene’ bookends

Are cherished by me.

 

Fleeting memories

Of a lifetime of sideboards,

Bygone furniture.

Thanks for reading, keep safe and well, Pam x

                                                                                                

Read More

Unlocking the Secrets

There’s something about a key. It teases us. It’s powerful and it seems to know how much we need it. It unlocks some answers. And keeps others hidden. 

When my grandad died at 93 he left behind a house filled with all sorts of ‘useful’ items. Born in the late 1800s he was a product of both world wars and the ‘make do and mend’ generation. Nothing was thrown away that just might come in useful. Old screws and nails; odd pieces of wood that might have been fashioned into a doorstop or filled a hole in the wall; pieces of paper with random writings; hammer heads and their broken handles; the list went on. I remember my dad and his siblings, going through drawers and cupboards and despairing of the rubbish that had been kept ‘just in case.’  

One day my dad came home with a small wooden box. He shook it and it gave a satisfying rattling sound. We wondered if it could be something of value. Jewellery, watches, old coins? Dad obviously knew what was in it. We realised it wasn’t going to be valuable by the way he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Slowly, he opened the lid and held out the box with a flourish. We all peered in. He turned the box over and the contents spilled out onto the table.  We stared at about fifty keys, of various shapes and sizes.  

‘I mean -,’ said my dad, still shaking his head, ‘what good are these?? They’re not labelled, there’s no clue what they’ll fit. Ridiculous.’ 

I liked the keys. I picked one up and turned it in my hand. It was small with a fancy top. I wondered what secrets of my granddad’s it had kept locked away all those years. I thought the keys were beautiful and would love to have kept them, but dad was so adamant they were a waste of space that I knew it would be pointless to ask. 

Just over a year ago my dad died, aged 92.  Going through his desk I found a small drawer that rattled. I don’t know if they were the same keys or ones that he’d collected himself but I rejoiced at the irony, the continuity, the way life goes on. And the way life goes round in circles. 

The other day, going through some old papers of my own I found a diary from when I was about eight. I can’t be precise as it’s locked, with no date on it. It’s locked, and there’s no key. I can see that key now. I can feel it’s lightness in my hand. I was aware, even at that age, that it was cheap and flimsy and could bend if twisted too far. That diary holds my sixty year old secrets. Should I try and find a key?  I pull out the secret drawer in my desk, and poke my finger in. There’s no tiny key hidden at the bottom but there are plenty of others, all with their own secrets. 

No Key to That Time by Jill Reidy

I’m eight

My life revolves around school

And friends 

Mum and dad

What’s for tea

And arguments with my brothers

Of parties

And dresses with netting

The dread of school dinners

Handstands at playtime

Perfecting French knitting

Susie, my baby whose eyes never close

Playing out on the streets 

with Iris and Edward

Penny lollies and dancing

These are my ramblings 

An eight year old's secrets

They’re locked in my diary

They’re locked in my diary

With no key to that time 

Thanks for reading........ Jill

Read More

An Act of Inaction

Certain things prove difficult, even though their accomplishment requires that we do less, not more. Dieting, at its simplest, demands that we consume less food than is our habit. Forgiveness, that we release enervating anger and resentment. And secrecy? All secrecy asks is that we remain silent.

However much we may bemoan or boast of laziness, doing less can feel like a kind of torment. Achieving a desired outcome requires action, not inaction. Doesn't it? If we want to lose weight, launching into an fitness routine can assuage that need to do something, but the important step of inaction—of not having that cupcake—is often where we fall down. Not just because cupcakes are delicious, but because steps that require inaction do not feel like steps at all. As for forgiveness, it is often achieved, not by letting go of rage, but simply because that rage has fizzled away over oxidizing months and years.

And secrecy? How difficult could it be to keep opinions and deeds and stories—those of our own and those of others—locked away from general view? Keeping secrets—like restricting food intake or offering forgiveness—can have far reaching consequences, good or ill. Information withheld or divulged may harm or heal, preserve or break reputations; the decision to speak or remain silent may even spell life or death in some circumstances. Practically anyone can keep a secret. Claims to perfect transparency are the claims of liars or the foolishly indiscreet; everyone holds some information back although the reasons can be as varied as self-interest, compassion or simply the desire to generate an air of intrigue. And yet, for many, secrecy is difficult. An urge to speak the unspoken calls to them with the siren sweetness of a cupcake in the fridge and the counterpoint to that siren song is the human desire to lay bare the secrets of others.

While careless talk can cost lives, an apparently uncaring silence can cost relationships for those whose lovers are unable or unwilling to share their secrets. Tantalizing though the possibility may appear, the desire to fully know another person may be as unwise as it is unattainable. Just ask Carly Simon.

Alison Raouf

Read More