Dens - Sanctuary

My eldest grandson liked to enclose himself in the book corner. He discovered that by opening a door to the toy cupboard and a door on the fitted unit, he could comfortably place himself behind them, almost hidden and with plenty of room to look at books or build Duplo. He liked his own space even before a brother and sister came along to disturb his peace. It wasn’t long before he worked out how easily all the cushions came off the sofa and what a good idea it was to sit there and fashion himself a den by using the large ones to make sides and a smaller one for the top, or a roof. Sometimes a blanket was brought from upstairs and draped over the entire construction and he would be in there with a book or watch TV through a gap. A good den is great comfort.

1967. For the first time in my life, we were living in a house instead of a pub. It felt weird, so quiet, no juke-box filtering through the building, no babble of a thousand indecipherable conversations.  The house itself was very nice, a three bedroomed detached with a garage in what estate agents would describe as a ‘sought after’ area in South Shore. We weren’t there for very long, the way things turned out, and I have some happy memories, in spite of it being a miserable time in my life. My mother was seriously ill, having surgeries and treatments and it was better for her to have the privacy the pub didn’t have, which is why my parents bought the house. I started senior school, a school I didn’t want to go to but had to because I’d failed my eleven-plus. My friends passed and went to the school I longed to be at, but it wasn’t to be. Failed! I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. On the bus I was regularly picked on by pupils from another school. I had to take two buses and often chose to walk the longest part of my journey rather than be at the mercy of the bullies.  The house became home with us in it and our cosy furniture. We had gardens, front and back. Dad got a swing for me and my sister and the wooden shed at the end of the back garden became a den. A deck chair, a cushion from the house, a drink of orange and whatever book I was up to in Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series was all I needed. The shed housed the new gardening tools propped up in a corner. Gardening became my father’s weekend chore. As the air chilled and the daylight lessened, I moved to an indoor den. My sister’s room, which must have been massive when I think what was in there and all the space to play, had her single bed and also bunk beds where I slept when our grandparents stayed over and had my room. The bottom bunk made a great den by using the tartan blanket on the top bunk as a curtain for the length and borrowing a big towel from the airing cupboard to hang over the end. The fun was short-lived. I wasn’t supposed to ‘mess’ in my sister’s room, even if she, aged about 4, didn’t seem to mind. It sticks in my mind how cold that winter, 1967/68 was. No central heating, but the house was cosy with a coal fire in the back living room and hot water bottles in bed. To add to my misery, I developed chilblains on my feet and a seemingly ever-lasting verruca. 1968 brought joy and normality. My mother had made a good recovery and we were moving back to the pub. School remained a nightmare until 4^th year but everything else was good.

My grandchildren can make a mess, make a noise and make dens to their hearts content. They can also tidy up afterwards.

My poem,

“I’m in my den!”
The voice, muffled
By the cushions
Forming a cube,
Of a fashion,
In the place where
There’s a sofa,
Now and again.
And giggling
While I pretend
I cannot find
Him, in the blocks
Of patterned green,
And I’m blind
To the red socks
And toes wiggling. 

PMW 2022

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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On A Roll - Minor Misfortune

We’ve been on a roll of minor misfortune.  I think it started with the car breaking down. Luckily for me, I was at home getting regular updates on how quickly Green Flag can attend so I delayed cooking tea and sat down with a brew to watch the news. Modern day cars are like another world under the bonnet. A sealed world.

My father taught me basic car maintenance, oil, water, tyre pressure and wind-screen washer topping up. Over time, and with a succession of multi-owned vehicles, I learnt the benefits of a liberal spraying of WD40, or similar; how to check points, clean spark plugs and how a distributor fits together – oh my first Vauxhall Viva – it will be a metal cube somewhere now. Or perhaps a washing machine.

We were dealing with the sealed under-bonnet of an automatic Citroen Berlingo. The engine won’t start when there are warning lights on. The warning light stays on until the problem is rectified. The problem can’t be detected until the person with the diagnostic box of tricks plugs in and links to some software. The I.T. skills of the modern mechanic know no bounds. Whatever would my dad think? I bet they still suck air through their teeth while calculating the cost. Just kidding, that was my dad’s sense of humour. Green Flag and both repair garages were very good. We discovered that the gear-box is not automatic, it’s semi-automatic. That snippet of knowledge didn’t help the situation, but it meant relocation to a Citroen specialist.  It’s mended now, wheels roll. £££.

The stair carpet was coming loose on a couple of treads. At last, we got the fitter in to fix it. Straight forward easy job, even easier if there was a small, spare piece. Of course, there’s loads rolled up in the shed. Well, there was until someone sorted stuff out and went to the tip. Thank goodness, a couple of decent sized pieces were within reach, for someone with long arms, without the carpet fitter and myself  having to empty our shed. Funny how I’m often on my own at times like this.

We didn’t discover what set the smoke alarms off. Nothing was burning, no cooking going on, no steam from the shower. It was raining, very heavily, though I can’t imagine it was that. Our smoke alarms are connected to the mains, one goes off, they all go off. Impossible to think straight in that noise, I just wanted it to stop, right now. My husband discovered which one of the three was the culprit and disconnected it. A replacement was needed, something he could do himself and no great expense, just another ‘thing’ going wrong and we still don’t know what triggered it. Whilst checking, I went up to the attic room. It is a loft conversion and used to be a bedroom, but is an attic again since the children moved out and left stuff for storage. There was a small puddle on one of the stair treads, about three steps up. It has become a mystery. Everything up there was bone dry, no sign of the rain breaching the Velux windows or the ceiling and there is nothing to spill. Very odd. Also, the door had been locked for days. Spooky!

What I wanted to do before we ended up on a roll with all these little incidents, was to tidy the garden, get rid of our ‘complimentary’ buddleia, thanks birds, and plant some daffodils bulbs. Maybe tomorrow?

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw an advert for a ‘Garden on a Roll’. That would do nicely.

 

Here's something from G.K.Chesterton,

 

The Rolling English Road

 

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

 

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

 

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

 

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

 

G.K.Chesterton    (1874 – 1936)

 

 

 

 

I'm hoping for no more mishaps for a while. 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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