written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label shoulder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shoulder. Show all posts

Tuesday, 26 September 2023

Adolescence - That Difficult Age


 A definition –

‘Adolescence is the phase of life between childhood and adulthood, from ages 10 to 19. It is a unique stage of human development and an important time for laying the foundations of good health. Adolescents experience rapid physical, cognitive and psychosocial growth.’

We all go through it, some better than others, but I think it’s a fair assumption that none of us would like to go through it again. The itchy personal areas sprouting body hair, blushing, sweating, feeling awkward and embarrassed, suffering acne, the onset of menstruation and, if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridicule of peers. We change and grow at the right time for our body clocks, so a twelve year old male or female might already have a mature body and be a fascination to their less developed friends, those later developers came under similar scrutiny. I suppose I was one of the many Miss Averages, but that didn’t mean it was an easy time. I had added problems. My mother always made sure I had a supply of sanitary towels. When she became terminally ill and no longer able to see to me herself, our helper, Auntie Kathy, was tasked with such things and I could bounce all manner of questions off her. My mother passed away when I was thirteen and a half. Auntie Kathy, who wasn’t a real auntie but a member of staff, was my rock. I had my grandmother, too, who was more special than words can say, but she lived away. When my father remarried within months, Auntie Kathy was no longer needed as our housekeeper and left us, but continued to be my saviour for many years. I was a frequent visitor to her home. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on, sometimes a good laugh. She was good at both. All this going on and adolescence, too. Oh, and at school there was a small team of horrid girls who stole sanitary protection by bullying others to hand things over, or steal from their school bags, teasing anyone who didn’t have anything because they hadn’t ‘started’ yet. Children can be cruel.

There was a boy in my high school class who looked the same in the fifth year as he had in the first year, though maybe a bit taller. About ten years after our school days we met by chance at the Derby Baths, of all places. He was in the forces, Army or RAF, doing very well and looking like a blond Adonis, what my dad would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’. He had grown up. I wouldn’t have known him, but he recognised me.

When it came to growing up, adolescence and puberty, I wanted to be the best parent I could possibly be to my children. I’ve always been open and approachable about anything. I attended meetings at school about Personal & Social Education so I would know exactly what was going to be discussed in their lessons and how various questions might be answered. Armed with information and confident to be on the right level I was ready. Our son, having reached a silent or grunty, living in his room stage, coming out to get fed, was fine. Our daughter, starting periods refused to have a conversation with me about it. I respected her wishes and privacy. I made sure she had what she needed and wrote her a letter explaining what I wanted to say. It was ripped up and put in her bin. I felt so hurt at the time. I wasn’t wanted, not allowed to even do this for her. Hormones, from both of us, firing in different directions.

My chosen poem, from Philip Larkin, it just had to be...

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 1 March 2022

Scales - Tweak That Metronome


 No amount of practising simplified Mozart pieces or running up and down major and minor scales would impress the piano teacher. I stopped trying.

In the pubs I grew up in, there was always a piano, sometimes more than one, and before the juke-box ruled the roost, there was always someone to play it. As a young child it was a skill I longed to learn. I listened to my mother’s Russ Conway records and loved him. I plonked about, wishing a proper tune would come out. It never did. I was enthralled by Sparky’s Magic Piano which we had as a set of 78 rpm records, so badly scratched that they hissed and crackled.  I was about seven and a half when my hands could just about stretch an octave, the required size for piano lessons. A teacher was found.

At first, it was okay. I suppose it was the novelty of actually learning to play the piano properly and it wasn’t all nursery rhyme tunes. It was harder than I had imagined but I soon moved on to simplified versions of the classic composers works which I enjoyed. As I got a bit older, my problem was the teacher and I would dread Saturday mornings so much I would keep a low profile, hoping my dad might forget to take me. He never did. The lessons took place in a small upstairs room at the teacher’s house. The house is close to where I live now and still makes me shudder, though he is long dead and I’m sure his house is a lovely home to someone else. I used to wait in a dim sitting room full of dark furniture with the deep tick-tock of a huge grandfather clock and the piano sounds of the person finishing off their lesson. Then it would be my turn. A whole hour in the little room, foggy and stinking with his cigar smoke that gave me a headache and I would feel tense if he left his desk by the window to stand behind me, always too close. The lesson would begin with a run through the scales and broken chords to warm up then he’d find me a piece of sight-reading that he would complain about. Nothing was good enough. I didn’t play to the correct speed, so he fiddled with the metronome and made me keep time with it over and over until I had it to his satisfaction or I’d given up, fighting tears.

My pleas to stop the lessons fell on deaf ears at home. I was at secondary school with homework and all manner of other things. I’d passed some grades, it must be time for a break. I tried to explain what made me feel uncomfortable and wary of the teacher, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on my thigh, just standing too close to me. I couldn’t say it.  Eventually, the teacher sent my father a letter to say that he was discontinuing my lessons in favour of more promising pupils. Good. I hope they push his podgy hands away.

I’m glad I learnt to play the piano. I’m glad of the enjoyment I get from having the occasional blast, satisfied that I can still do it.  I’m not in any way a talented musician – in the family that title belongs to my son and one of my nephews.

My Haiku poem, inspired by the scales:

“Play me C Major
Now with both hands together
No! No! Start again.

“Just play the right hand
Keep up with the metronome!
No! No! Start again!

“What are you doing?
Did I say play G Major?
No! Don’t touch F sharp!”

On my own piano,
Happy and loving music
Without him shouting.

Running through the scales,
Smooth and shiny piano keys
And my eyes closed, tight.

He made me wary,
He was a scary monster.
He made me silent.

When I found my voice,
There was no one to listen.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 16 June 2020

Superstition - Good Afternoon, Mr Magpie



It was here again the other day. I heard it before I saw it, that horrible noise, like a distorted football rattle, then it swooped down from next door’s tree to strut around my garden like it owns the place. The magpie. Hopefully, there’s another one coming along. Not that I’m superstitious. After a muttering of “Good afternoon, Mr Magpie, pass my best wishes to your good lady wife” I forget all about him and carry on wiping down the kitchen. I notice him fly away with a companion, “One for sorrow, two for joy”, that’s good.

It is just as well that I’m not bothered by cracks in the footpath. I can’t avoid them when I’m pegging out washing and so far, I haven’t come to any harm. They give the courtyard character and somewhere to brush away the shattered shell of the snail I didn’t mean to tread on.

I’m not worried by the number thirteen, but I wouldn’t want to have thirteen people round a dinner table or gathering. That’s the one thing I share with the queen. Actually, I don’t think I know twelve people who would join me for dinner. Well, after lockdown, maybe.

There are superstitious rules concerning cutlery which have existed from my childhood and probably made up by my grandmothers and other ladies of their generation in my family to encourage good table manners. Dropped cutlery meant unexpected visitors and if it was a knife, the visitor would be a man. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed this. I wonder what we’d get if I dropped a handful of teaspoons? No, I’m not experimenting. Anyway, it’s got to be accidental. There is a correct way to leave cutlery on a finished plate. Deviate from the acceptable and we’re inviting the devil, apparently. The devil doesn’t like salt. Spilling salt causes bad luck. Quickly remedy the situation by throwing a pinch over your left shoulder into the eyes of the waiting devil. To spill salt was considered to be wasting money, dating back to ‘salary’ times.

I once broke the mirror on a handbag compact. I still use it, very carefully because it has a sharp bit and I’ve had the odd nick. I should really buy a new one. I’m not aware of any bad luck as a result, certainly not seven years’ worth. When it comes to personal care, no nail trimming on Sundays, but I’ve no idea why not.

Is it just me with pillowcases? The open ends must always face the same way, usually towards a window and I won’t change bed linen on a Friday. Superstition or not?

Here is my haiku for that pesky bird,

Strutting so aloof
As if it owns my garden.
Arrogant magpie.


Thanks for reading, stay safe and well. Back soon, fingers crossed. Pam x