Here Comes the Weekend

 As a child I remember looking forwards to the weekends, but thinking back now, they weren’t the best times. Age eleven, I was miserable in my secondary school and Friday teatimes were wonderful. No school for two whole days. Saturday morning and I would will my parents to forget about my piano lesson. If it wasn’t mentioned, it didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The fated hour would be nearly upon me and I would be transported by my dad’s car to the home of the horrible man, subject of nightmares. I would sit rigid and hit the keys hard in a display of my anger. I hated every moment and each week I promised myself I would speak out and it would be my last. I never did. Sundays were bath, hair wash, Sunday School then the rest of the day would be family time. We would either be visiting or having visitors. It was always good and remained so until after tea. That was when the worry started. The sinking feeling of dreading school tomorrow, remembering the piece of unfinished homework, the maths I hadn't understood, the poem I forgot to learn by heart, the items for cookery I didn't ask for. I don't know why I looked forward to weekends at all.

In adult life, weekends offered a mix of welcome rest time after a hard week at work and being out and about socialising. A day out or sometimes a whole weekend away would be a good way to relax and enjoy something or somewhere different.

Becoming parents changed the way we planned weekends. Activities for the children were a priority even if it was just a play on the park and an ice cream. Junior football became my pet hate. I love the game, I always have, but some awful parents I encountered made my blood boil. It would upset me to witness five and six year old little lads having fun running with the ball, being seriously shouted at because they haven’t yet developed the skills some parents expected them to be born with. I would dread the times I had to take our little lad on my own. I would stand watching, keeping to myself.

Since retirement, the days are much the same and weekends disappear almost completely. We know it is Saturday when there’s a home match on and we’re in our places at Bloomfield Road. My husband is once again on the touchline at grassroots level, taking our football playing middle grandson to his matches. We’re starting to plan a few short breaks away with our caravan, but we tend to go midweek when places are quieter, so I suppose that becomes a kind of ‘weekend’ for us.

I remember Mackintosh’s Weekend, a boxed collection of mixed chocolates and posh sweets. They would be my mum’s and rarely shared. It’s the first thing I thought of when I saw the theme for this blog, so I had to mention it.

No poem today. Instead I share an excerpt of lyrics from ‘Here Comes the Weekend’, a Moody Blues song written by John Lodge,

Somewhere in the night
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can feel the heat
Of the fire in your eyes,
Burning like a naked flame,
Waiting for the ice to break,
Counting down the days,
Waiting for the weekend.
Lonely is the night.
Silence is a friend to walk with,
With no one else to talk to.
Somewhere in the heat
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can hear your voice,
Talk to me tonight.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Wonderland - My Happy Place

I’m privileged to be in my happy place in this season of Winter Wonderland and witness again the splendour of the Dumfries and Galloway countryside. An ice-cream in August by the Solway Firth seems like a million moons ago to me now. Lush green has given way to shades of copper and rust in hedgerows and woodland and every view is simply stunning. It is nature at its best.

I was nine years old when my family and I moved into our pub on south promenade. During that first summer of settling in and exploring, we went to the Pleasure Beach. Candyfloss, rock, hot-dogs, fried onions, burgers and seafood. Imagine all these strong scents mingled together and this is the all-round smell I grew up with, including beer and tobacco closer to home, but this was my first impression of the Pleasure Beach. I remember going on the Alice in Wonderland ride and being scared. It was the falling down the rabbit hole bit. Very effective nearly sixty years ago and I can’t say if any changes have been made as I haven’t returned. In those days, there was no charge to walk round the Pleasure Beach and no such thing as wristbands. Rides were paid for individually. The current way of doing things and the costs prevent me from taking my grandchildren any time soon.

Snug in a cosy lodge, outside white with frost, I’ll make the most of the rest of our stay. I’ll top up the bird-feeders every day and enjoy watching them being emptied. Red kites are fascinating and entertaining, gracefully circling, looking for prey. This unspoilt simple life is my chosen wonderland.

My Haiku

Surrounded by trees,
A cosy and peaceful lodge
Is my wonderland.

Beyond evergreens,
Rhododendrons, firs and pines,
Acres of farmland

Glisten in the frost
Of early winter morning,
Waiting for the sun

To rise above hills.
Gentle clouds streak a blue sky.
Beautiful daybreak.

Admiring red kites,
Gracefully soaring above,
A roost of hundreds

Watching and waiting
Whistling their high pitched shrill call,
Then swooping to feed.

A short drive away,
The quiet of the forest
Brings tranquillity.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Misty - Play Misty for Me

There’s something mesmerising about watching Ailsa Craig emerging from the mist. The island isn’t moving at all, but the constantly changing cloud gives the illusion of her creeping forwards. Trips to this bit of Scotland always include a visit to Ballentrae and further along, Girvan. I could stay on this stretch of the Ayrshire coast all day, in all weathers. In fog, in misty rain, in low cloud, I’m comforted to know Ailsa Craig is there, exactly where she belongs.  Eventually I’ll witness how she looks in the perfect sunset of a clear day. I don’t mind waiting, fortunately.

Music has always figured in my life. I grew up with the beat of a juke box resonating from the pub downstairs, the radio, or wireless as it used to be when we listened to the Light Programme, and my mum’s records. We would set them up together, six or eight, I can’t remember exactly, but they sat at the top, held in place until it was time to drop on to the turntable. I knew all these 45s. Before I could read I could recognise each record and decide which order we would play them from Billy Fury, Anthony Newley, Cliff Richard and many more. Tommy Steele’s Little White Bull would be put back on for Singing Time on the flip side. A favourite was Misty, Johnny Mathis.

Years pass. My mum passed, too. I have my own place, my own records and with some reluctance, I learnt to play piano in my childhood and in a strange way, an hour or two playing Chopin or Mozart can bring comfort. There’s a film out called ‘Play Misty for Me’ with Clint Eastwood. I loved it and wished my mum could have seen it, for the song and to see how well Rowdy Yates was doing.

Many more years pass. We’re into CDs – not moved into MP3s or whatever – anyway, the radio is always on keeping music in the air. There’s a box of records in the attic. I still have my mum’s 45s. Some are older than me, or pretty close, and Misty will be in there. Cherished.

Look at me
I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree
And I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud
I can’t understand,
I get misty, just holding your hand.

Walk my way,
And a thousand violins begin to play
Or it might be the sound of your hello
That music I hear,
I get misty the moment you’re near.

You can say that you’re leading me on
But it’s just what I want you to do,
Don’t you notice how hopelessly I’m lost
That’s why I’m following you.

On my own,
Would I wander through this wonderland alone
Never knowing my right foot from my left,
My hat from my glove,
I’m too misty, and too much in love.

Lyrics by Johnny Burke
Music by Errol Garner

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More