Desert Island Discs

Desert Island Discs, which is on Radio 4 these days, is another throw back to my childhood, like Mrs Dale’s Diary and Sing Something Simple when we listened to the huge, polished wood wireless in our living room. I expect it would have been broadcast on the Light Programme or the Home Service in the 1950s. 

Its first home was the BBC Forces Programme from 1942-1944. The unchanged opening theme is “By the Sleepy Lagoon” by Eric Coates, which makes me imagine bright, azure sky, warm beaches, hammocks fastened to palm trees and gentle, clear water stroking the sand. It might be appealing to some, but this is not my Desert Island.

My chosen island, St Kilda, fails to meet the criteria of ‘desert island’, so I’m breaking the rules here. Oops. I haven’t had the privilege of visiting and probably never will. I’ve been to the western edges of the Outer Hebrides from where St Kilda is still too far away and difficult to reach. 

St. Kilda, Outer Hebrides

I’ll keep her in my dreams and pretend that I’m cosy in a little cottage with a peat fire, or whatever the departed inhabitants used. A blizzard has been blasting the islands for days, even weeks, and there is no visible definition of sky to land. I love the sound of snow hitting the windows and occasional howling wind. It is calm and restful. I don’t miss the irritating noise of traffic, especially sirens at all times of day or night.

My music, and eight pieces isn’t enough, would be: ‘Honky Tonk Women’ by the Rolling Stones. I love the beginning where the rhythm is joined by other instruments one at a time until they are all playing together. ‘Music’ by John Miles because I think it’s amazing. ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty for his remarkable voice and the saxophone. ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles, the words speak for themselves. Anything from ‘The Peer Gynt Suite’ by Edvard Greig – there’s a surprise. I know I’m not allowed to take it all. While I’ve gone classical, ‘Troika’ by Sergei Prokofiev, a favourite piece, not just at Christmas. ‘Holding Back the Years’ by Simply Red, my first introduction to Mick Hucknall and it always makes me stop to listen properly. ‘Isn’t Life Strange?’ from the Moody Blues, written by John Lodge and needs no explanation.

I’m stuck on choosing luxury items and this is where I’m probably breaking rules again. Food, water, strong tea, my laptop for access to everything else? Such things work perfectly well in fantasy land. I would love this poem in a frame on my wall:

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

                                     Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Radio Four

It seemed an appropriate title for this Saturday's blog (given that there have been three other radio blogs earlier in the week). Actually I don't often listen to Radio Four these days, ditto Radio Three. I've never tuned in to Radio Two in my life and avoided 'wonderful' Radio One on principle from 1967 (when the government banned the pirates) until 1977 when punk and John Peel combined to make it worthwhile. My station of choice these days is Radio Five for its mixture of news and sports coverage and I listen to it either in the car or via my laptop computer. 

All that is far removed from the days of beautiful 'wirelesses' in wooden casings that required mains electricity and were full of glowing valves, or bakelite sets with backlit dials that had all the major radio stations marked off according to their frequencies.

vintage glamour

Our family wireless sat on the sideboard in the living-room when we were children and only our parents were allowed to turn it on or off. It was always tuned to the Home Service (precursor of Radio Four) and was our portal into a wider world in the days before our first TV set arrived. Even afterwards I preferred radio to TV and nothing made me happier as a young teenager that when I was given an old valve radio of my own for my bedroom, to listen to music from pirate radio stations Caroline and London, to radio plays, comedy programmes, panel shows and news reviews. It spoke to me. Radio - and the stations it gave access to - had the magical ability to reach outsiders and make them insiders. I loved it for that.

retro chic

I was always fascinated by the names on the dial of our family wireless, especially the continental ones: Cologne, Paris, Monte Carlo, Luxemburg, Hilversum. That latter was the starting point for today's new poem referencing an event that occurred days before I was born, when a heavy storm surge in the North Sea created tidal waves that swept over the sea defences in the Netherlands, Belgium and parts of Eastern England. The Hilversum radio station in the Netherlands broadcast possible flood warnings through the evening of January 31st but then went off-air at midnight before the degree of seriousness was fully understood, and so evacuation orders never reached the thousands of people who were about to be swept away on February 1st 1953 by the storm of the century.

Hilversum, January 31st 1953

Bitter and blasted this winter onslaught

and the damp patches have revisited

my living-room wallpaper like a threat.

The gas fire pops. Another stuiver drops

and with a hot water bottle on my lap

impersonating an indolent if wobbly cat 

I fiddle with the wireless dial in hope of

a friendly voice though wind and static.

Hilversum fades in not with cheery tunes

but in grey voiced seriousness. Imagine a

cigar left to burn down as urgent news is

shared. Flooding imminent. We who live

beneath the sea have always an unspoken

fear that the waves will reclaim the land

our forefathers made with dyke and drain.

It's only just after tea and strong gales rage.

Tonight will be long, inundation threatens.

Rain rattles the window. Transmission fades...    

I'm including a musical bonus this week from the wonderful Dar Williams. Any of you who, like me, used to listen to their radio at might as teenagers should be able to relate to: Are You Out There?

Thanks for tuning in, S ;-)

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Radio - Solid State Binatone

 As a young child I was a little housewife.  Wearing an apron to keep my dress clean, I played with the toy sink unit that I could have real water in to wash my tea set. I often got wet but I didn’t mind. I had an iron and ironing board, a cooker that my dad made for me and a dolls bed, also made by Dad, for all my babies. I had lots of babies and spent my days caring for them while listening to Mrs Dale’s Diary, Womans’ Hour, The Navy Lark and everything else that came out of the huge, wooden wireless that we called The Radio. Sometimes my mum had music programmes on, like The Billy Cotton Band Show. This was where I developed my love for piano, hearing Russ Conway. Years later, living in Blackpool, my mum took me to a variety show that Russ was in. The surprise was wonderfully overwhelming. I longed to play the piano like him. A decade of lessons and lots, well, perhaps not lots, of practice – I can play, but not like him. I grew up with whatever was on the radio, Light Programme, Home Service, even the Shipping Forecast. If the radio wasn’t on, it was because my mum was playing her records. I was familiar with those, too.

A little older and I remember being really unhappy at school. Sometimes we would have family friends and extended family over on a Sunday afternoon. I wished those carefree afternoons could last forever. I would dread them leaving, knowing I was a step closer to going to bed and school in the morning. It was the same if we went visiting anyone. Travelling home in the car with Sing Something Simple on the radio gave me that awful sinking feeling. It still does, but these days I can give a nostalgic smile.

My 13th birthday, November, 1968. School wasn’t any better but I was coping. My mum had been in hospital and we were happy she was home. She was sitting up in bed, smiling and wishing me a happy birthday. She passed me my wrapped present and said, “We didn’t know what to get you, so it’s just chocolates for now.” I thanked her, more than happy with chocolates, just glad to have my mum home. She laughed as I unwrapped the gift to reveal a box containing a pocket transistor radio, with an ear-piece and a cover. It was a Solid State Binatone something or other, very like the photo. I was thrilled. Tony Blackburn became my morning hero, brightening my day, making me laugh. In later days, with my mum up and about we listened to the Top Twenty together, usually in the kitchen making tea. I would set the table and butter bread. We sang along to Lily the Pink, Blackberry Way, Bend It, Ob-La Di Ob La Da, I’m the Urban Spaceman. I’m sure these songs weren’t all in the same pop chart, but these are the ones that come to mind. Happy times. I don’t know what happened to that little transistor, but I wish I still had it.

Radio is still my main day time choice rather than a silent house. I got fed up with Radio 2 when the powers that be decided to stop playing music from the ‘50s and ‘60s. I only listen to Johnnie Walker’s Sounds of the Seventies. When Ken Bruce moved to Greatest Hits Radio, so did I

My Haiku, just to capture a moment or two,

Setting the table
List’ning to the Top Twenty,
Just Mummy and me.

Buttering the bread,
Laughing at Lily the Pink.
Cold meat and salad.

Sing Something Simple,
The end to Sunday tea-time.
Thoughts of dreadful school.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Most Boring Place - Sunday Afternoon, Age 6

I’ve always got something to do or something to think about.  I like to be alone with my thoughts but equally, I like to enjoy good company. There have been things I’ve had to endure that could be called boring, or made me feel extremely fed up. These would be events out of my control, not going according to plan and causing frustration.

Flying back to the UK from the USA should have been an exciting adventure. It was winter time in the early ‘80s and I was fortunate enough to be waiting in the Club Class departure lounge at New York’s JFK airport.  I was travelling alone and on a registered stand-by ticket, happy to wait, sitting on a comfy armchair by the window, watching the snow. Flights came and went. Hours passed. I had everything I needed and felt looked after, but I was tired, jet lag without the jet. I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a flight I could have taken, though I’m sure someone would come to get me. O’Hare International, Chicago, had redirected their UK flights to JFK due to heavy snow, so planes became full. By the time I was called, I was dead on my feet, but happy to get a place anywhere, on any plane that could fly me home. I had a seat in the centre block of a 747, next to a pleasant German gent who kept trying to make conversation with me. No common language between us, so we occasionally smiled at each other instead. He was going to Heathrow, then on to Frankfurt. He went to sleep. I’d finished my book, couldn’t get into the in-flight movie and probably slept a little, but I remember sitting there, annoyed with the drone of the engines and willing myself home – there was a long train journey to come next. I think I was more fed up than bored. Boring is what I’d call some winter Sunday afternoons of my childhood.

I was an only child until age seven and a half when my sister arrived, so I was used to being doted on by both sets of grandparents and any number of aunts and uncles. Nothing changed, my family was her family and she just slotted in and got passed around for a cuddle. Being a baby, she didn’t spoil whatever I was playing with. I was a well-behaved little treasure, most of the time. Our family ran pubs and in those days licensing hours meant that they were closed in the afternoons and for longer on Sundays. This was family time when we’d all get together for a meal. This is when it got boring. It started well, lots of fun and me being made a fuss of. We would all get round the table to eat, which was always good. At one set of grandparents, I would eat jelly and fruit with a small, shell-shaped spoon, sitting up straight on a high stool. At my other grandparents, homemade rice pudding which was deliciously creamy. Once, as the roast dinner was being served, I rudely remarked, “Oh no, not peas again!” I was swiftly removed by my mother, taken out of the room for a wallop on my bottom, left to cry for a bit then brought back in to apologise. I must have been having an ‘off’ day from my usual sweet little princess self. After dinner, everyone sat in the lounge and eventually fell asleep. I hated it. This was the most boring place in my world. My nanna would sit down, smoke a Park Drive, pick her knitting up and go at it frantically until she nodded off. My dad might go outside to check something on someone’s car first, but soon I would be in a room full of sleeping relatives. It seemed like ages, but probably wasn’t. I’d have a colouring book to do and one of my grandmothers didn’t mind if I turned the contents of her sideboard upside down. Sing Something Simple would come on the wireless which made it even more boring. If I hear Sing Something Simple nowadays, it fills me with happy memories of my idyllic childhood.

My poem:

Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding,
And why did we always have peas?
Apple pie or sometimes trifle,
Fond thoughts of childhood, fam’ly teas.

The nearly quiet afternoon
In the fading November light
Those all around me are sleeping
And they are such a boring sight.

Like book-ends, Nanna and Grandad,
Snooze cosily on the settee.
Grandad’s Brylcreem’d hair all messy,
Nan’s knitting slipped down on her knee.

Has my auntie just stopped breathing?
Uncle Bill has started snoring.
I’m looking for something to do.
Flipping Sundays are so boring!

Sing Something Simple has come on,
It’s time for us to go, hooray!
They’ll all wake up for opening time,
Running pubs is our family way.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Music - Saved by the Music

“If music be the food of love, play on…” Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare.

 

Lots of us have an ‘Our Song’ or a piece of music which is meaningful and special, above and beyond all others. I find it uplifting when something significant comes on the radio and transports me back in time. If that particular time was happy, it’s nice to re-live that fond memory. If it belongs to a dark time, it’s good to reflect on how we coped and what changed. Challenges and experiences make us who we are.

I love music. I grew up with Sing Something Simple on Sundays long before the contents of the pub juke-box became important to me. My mother listened to the wireless Light Programme or played records, so I was effectively drip-fed her favourites. Tommy Steele’s Little White Bull, Acker Bilk’s Stranger on the Shore, Anthony Newley, Billy Fury, Neil Sedaka, Dusty Springfield, Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Elvis, and of course Russ Conway, amongst others. This was before The Beatles. She was young and trendy, my mum. I still have her record collection and just looking at them brings back childhood memories. There are lots of Russ Conway, singles and a couple of LPs. I don’t know if they were called albums in the 1950s. I think I’ve mentioned before that Russ Conway was responsible for me longing to learn to play the piano. I wanted to lift the lid on the old upright in the concert room and make music come out of it, not the out of tune honky tonk sound that someone knocked out of it on a Saturday night. What a blessing a juke-box was in later years.

I had years of classical training but I do not have musical talent. Occasionally I play on our electric piano, a cast off from a very talented nephew with a music degree. Our son can play piano, keyboard, guitar and bass, all perfectly well by ear. He’s amazing at that. Our daughter has a beautiful singing voice.

The first album I bought was The Rolling Stones, Through the Past, Darkly. The second was The Moody Blues, A Question of Balance followed quickly by In Search of the Lost Chord as I discovered there was MBs stuff I needed to catch up with.

The pub juke-box and The Moody Blues was and is the soundtrack to my life, as it constantly grows. No juke-box now, but the radio is always on, or a CD, YouTube or MP3. Music will always surround me, in any form.

When I was fortunate to meet Moody Blues bassist, singer, song-writer, John Lodge, I took the opportunity to tell him how glad I was that he had included ‘Saved by the Music’ in his solo tour. It is a song that means so much.

Hymns have their place amongst my favourites. As a child I was more than happy to sing in church. As an adult, I enjoyed teaching my Sunday School class new songs or hymns. It was a small group but they were enthusiastic and we had lots of fun.

 

When I started to write this poem, it seemed to grow legs and run off taking with it all the thoughts that were buzzing round my head. As a result, it is more personal than I intended, but what it is, is me.

 

 

My Music

 Music, my music, my loud surround sound,

I smiled and sang as my nemesis frowned.

Her eyes swept my room, not an inch unexplored,

But for now, my feelings were carefully stored.

I’m with The Moodies In Search of the Lost Chord.

 

I made that room spotlessly clean and sparkly

While the Stones carried on, Through the Past, Darkly;

Then busied myself with the next task to hand

And wasted no effort to understand

Her jealous resentment or what might be planned.

 

I’d given up wond’ring what she even means

As I sewed fabric flowers on my old jeans.

And Stevie belted out For Once in my Life

And I join in fully, like he knows my strife.

We could have slashed the atmosphere with a knife.

 

All I was saying was Give Peace a Chance.

I’m off at the weekend to spend time in France,

Away from that border-line aggression

When she hits the drinks in rapid succession

Attempting to cover her sick obsession.

 

Music, my music, my means of survival

And sanity, with her hasty arrival.

Bad mem’ries and nightmares, too much have amassed,

But those times are now long since gone, in the past,

And I’m Saved by the Music, myself, at last.

 

PMW 2019

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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