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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The Sea - My Bit of Blackpool

 When my parent's wish for a pub on Blackpool promenade was granted, I had the joy of having a front bedroom facing the sea. I was fascinated by the view. The summer season was just starting, people were strolling past and each day seemed busier than the last one. Trams rumbled by, horses clopped along pulling landaus, bells rang out from the donkeys taking their place on the beach and squeals of delight or screams of fear came from the nearby Pleasure Beach. These new sounds were exciting but nothing compared to the noises of the sea. On a still and quiet day, with hardly a ripple on the incoming tide, there might by a gentle splash as the last wave met the sand. On a breezy day, the sea was louder and the tide came in with lively, white waves. One of my first memories of that room is of a sunny morning, the curtains half open and the nets billowing into the room on the fresh, salty breeze. In those early days, I shared the room with my little sister who was still in a cot and I would wake up properly to hear her calling my name and holding her arms up to be lifted out. I think she was two years old, which would put me at nine, nearly ten. I don’t know when she moved into a room of her own, though at some point she did.

My grandparents were regular visitors, leaving their pub to oversee ours – it was a family joke. Grandad would go and take an interest in the cellar lay-out and everything behind the bars. Nanna planted herself in the bay window of our private lounge and watched the world go by, tutting at some of the sights and loving the view of the sea. She would smoke her Park Drive and drink tea. Her knitting would remain untouched as the outside goings on captivated her.  I expected to be part of those goings on when I was old enough. I wasn’t, well, not quite.

We spent hours watching the illuminated trams when Blackpool Lights shone. We could see for miles up and down the promenade. My sister and I would be taken out by Dad in the car to enjoy a proper look and see the fabulous tableaux towards Bispham. Many years later, a story and a poem of mine featured along there, amongst others. Who could have known?

When the Illuminations end, Blackpool hibernates. The view from my window is dominated by the sea with no distractions. Trams, less frequent, thunder along but the horses and donkeys have gone. Gale force winds and high tides send waves crashing over the sea wall on to the tram tracks, into the road and often into our cellar. It wasn’t flooded completely, but Dad would need his wellingtons on. I watched the sea with my mum, from the comfort of our lounge. The noise of the sea would frighten me, roaring, pounding and fierce, rising at its most scary like some great water monster. It still scares me. I like to watch without being too close.

I loved that bedroom. Our family changed after my mother passed away and my bedroom was promised to another. I moved to a back room. I should have refused. That’s life.

During the full lockdown, I wished I lived close enough to the promenade to have a walk and a look at the sea. Suddenly, I missed it, everything, the sounds and the taste of salt on my lips. There was one very hot, sticky day during the summer when there was only one way to cool off. After tea, my husband and I drove to Anchorsholme and found a quiet spot. We had a short walk then stood by the railings, looking at the sea that was right out on the horizon. A gentle breeze was pleasantly cooling, swirling my summer skirt and loose-fitting top. We stood for an hour enjoying the fresh air, watching seagulls and the people in the distance. The Blackpool I like is the vast coast-line and the changing of the sea.

My chosen poem, a favourite from John Cooper Clarke, with a nod to John Masefield. It brings to mind the Golden Mile, 

i mustn't go down to the sea again

Sunken yachtsmen
Sinking yards
Drunken Scotsmen
Drinking hard
Every lunatic and his friend
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The ocean drags
Its drowning men
Emotions flag
Me down again
Tell tracy babs and gwen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The rain whips
The promenade
It drips on chips
They turn to lard
I’d send a card if I had a pen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

A string of pearls
From the bingo bar
For a girl
Who looks like Ringo Starr
She’s mad about married men
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The clumsy kiss
That ends in tears
How I wish
I wasn’t here
Tell tony mike and len
I mustn’t go down to the sea again.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

Photo from Blackpool Gazette

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Silence - The Snort

I’m responsible for one of those family stories that might get passed down in history, creating mirth amongst future generations. Or, the whole thing might just disappear into oblivion and never be mentioned again, no chance. Whatever the future holds, I will tell the truthful story now and I will call it The Time I Broke the Silence, or The Snort, for short. It happened about ten years ago.

We travelled to London for a family wedding. Money was a bit tight at the time, but this was my eldest nephew getting married, the first born of the next generation and I would have moved heaven and earth to be there. I found ‘budget’ bed and breakfast accommodation at Tufnell Park which was close enough to Islington Town Hall where the ceremony was taking place. We only needed somewhere to sleep for a couple of nights. I had to keep reminding myself of that every time something was wrong. It was the worst place I’ve ever stayed. The fact that builders were on site, working inside with power drills and goodness knows what at all times of day was bad enough. No chance for some quiet time.  Light bulbs missing, wash-basin plug missing, electric sockets not working, leaky shower and mouldy toast at breakfast and no one wanted to listen to our complaints.  Dressed in our wedding finery, we had to pick our way across a semi-dark landing and reception area strewn with power cables and joinery tools. The only saving grace, there was just one, our car was safely parked in their enclosed yard.  I won’t name and shame, it was a long time ago and it might be different now.

     Islington Town Hall was bathed in warm sunshine. We mingled with everyone else gathered outside, embracing family and friends and happy to be part of this special occasion.  When summoned, we filed into the Council Chamber, silently taking our seats in the horseshoe shape that surrounded two ornate chairs for the bride and groom and a table full of flowers. Quite out of the blue, I started to feel emotional. The Council Chamber looked and felt like a cathedral. I looked up at the domed ceiling, blinking away tears. My head was full of memories, the baby boy who brought such joy into our bereaved family had grown into this handsome young man and was now about to be married.  I was not going to burst into tears, I really wasn’t. There was quiet music as the bride and groom took their places, then silence. I was overwhelmed and held my breath for fear of sobbing. I think I held it too long. I tried to calm down and breathe gently, but instead I let out a loud, massive snort.

     The noise seemed to echo round the circular building. I heard mutterings from the opposite side of the chamber. The lady next to me, who was the mother of the best man, turned herself right round to stare at me, nose nearly touching mine. I think she whispered her concern.  My husband was on my other side, but I don’t remember him speaking. My horrified daughter, a few seats along, was mouthing ‘God, Mum, was that you?’

     There was far too much laughter about it, later on. Bursting into tears might have been less embarrassing.

     Anyway, there it is, from the source, before anyone says ‘You’ll never guess what Nanna did…’

 

   Here is Desiderata, as true for today as ever,

 

 

Desiderata

 Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

By Max Ehrmann © 1927

 

Thanks for reading, take care and stay safe, Pam x

    

 

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My magic

My magic (a moment in my life) Colin Daives

I love magic, have done since my very earliest memory. I actually wanted to be a magician, even tried practising for our in front of a mirror. Desperately trying to palm a card, holding the nine of diamonds in my fingers while concealing it from the audience and keeping my hand looking natural.

I would watch Paul Daniels with wonder. He maybe a bit of a Barclay, but his close order magic is something to behold. The same can be said of Jerry Sadowitz. Not only did he have to ‘offend everyone’ Scotsman years before Frankie Boyle said “Oscar Pistorius sounds like a Harry Potter sell to grow someone’s legs back,” but he was, and still is, one of the finest close quarter slight of hand trickers I have ever seen.

I never got close to these giant of the UK magic industry. I thought my love for the craft and my desire to conjure would never join. That my shot of creating wonder in the hearts and minds of an audience would never happen. And I was only twelve years old.

Then something happened, I wrote a story. This was not that unusual for me at the time, amongst my peers I was know doing such thing on a regular basis however, this story was different in three ways.

Firstly it was part of a challenge. This was the early 1983, we had all watched the Horizon programme about effects of nuclear strike; we had all read Raymond Briggs ‘When the Wind blows’; we all heard the speeches from Thatcher and Regan; we were all scared.

My friend, Anthony Hamlin, suggested we write stories about nuclear war. This seemed like a great idea, and during the next free writing session we both put pen to paper and scribbled out a tale of destruction. So this was the first time I wrote based on a theme someone other than the school had suggested.

Secondly was the teacher reactions. Pete Cartlidge was our form teacher and for some reason he loved my story, so much so that he put it forward to be read out at assembly. This was high accolade indeed. Then something strange happened, the headmaster My Nunn called for the story so he could have a read. This was unusual, but off it went. The following day the news came back that he thought it was ‘too strong’ for assembly and it was withdraw, banned.

I found this utterly strange, Anthony on the other hand found it utterly hilarious. Weeks past and the story drifted from our thoughts until Mr Nunn had to go away on school business and Mr Cartlidge, being the deputy head, put the my story back on the table. I questioned this decision which got the response “when the cat’s away...” So his was the first thing I wrote that caused controversy.

Thirdly was the performance. I stood on the stage in front of the entire junior school, some three hundred and sixty children aged eight to twelve and twelve teachers. I read the piece which included the lines “I remember the cloud, looking like a mushroom. So beautiful yet so destructive.” and as the protagonist contemplated taking his own life (which was one of the rules of the story challenge) “no one to live for, but so many people to die for”

As I finished reading I was met but a stunned silence, you feel the emotions in the room. I could see one of the teachers crying. Another teacher began to clap which started a chain reaction across the room with some of the children cheering. Mr Cartlidge smiled at me as I left the stage. It was the first time I had written something that had proved an emotion response. It was the day I realised I could effect people with my writing, the day I learned to true meaning of magic, the magic of words.

This was quite a profound thing. It would be years before I realised the true deeper meaning of this event. But now I’m here, writing children’s books, poems and blogs. Conjuring up entire worlds of fanciful images. All to try and create a wonder in the eyes, hearts and minds of an audience.

I still love magic, and even though I can figure out how a lot of tricks are done, I don’t care. The skill is in the mechanics, the entertainment is in the performance, the presentation. The rules of a good magic trick are the same as a good story. To quote the film ‘The Prestige’

“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called ‘The Pledge’. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called ‘The Turn’. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call ‘The Prestige’.”

Not all stories need a twist, they just need to leave the audience with an open mouth full of wonder and overflowing ideas on how you just got there. That could just be a description. I may not work for everybody, but for those you managed to connect with, well that’s magic.

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