Judgement Day

Northern Man: at last a blog theme about which I have some in-depth knowledge. And am willing to share it. Chew it over at length with two individual close analyses and my own photos.

But first an overall view of the subjects. To begin, a quote taken from my book when I write it ….

‘It is a well-known fact that a Northern woman desiring matrimony to a good sort must look for a Southern man.’

You can’t say fairer than that.

Where is North exactly? Well it’s where the bad weather comes from. Where the men are harder, less easy going.

As everywhere is either North or South of somewhere else, apart perhaps from the poles, and as geography isn’t my specialist subject, for the purpose of this blog North or The North as the inhabitants like to call it, will be the North of England. Lancashire, Cumbria, Yorkshire and Newcastle which lies in an uncharted grey area between Yorkshire and Scotland.

Northern men in abundance are confined to these English areas. Visitors and tourists will find them everywhere, no need for binoculars. The keen spotter will notice their peculiar characteristics. The traditional clothing, cloth cap, braces made of string, wellington boots no matter what the weather. Clutching a sack in which a pair of ferrets can clearly be seen moving. A dog, either whippet or collie next to him. He won’t look happy. It will be raining on him even if the ground around is dry. As he passes sheep will raise their heads as if strangely attracted; it is the smell.

So, what literary heart-throb is the Northern woman able to turn to for consolation?

Isn't that scowl pure Ted Hughes?

Heathcliff and Mr Rochester. Dear God! Every Northern man rolled into two. One uncouth and feral, spending his time on moors. The other a superior two-timer.

Heathcliff: brusque and surly, a conversational nightmare. Clears off for years thinking the woman will still be waiting. False wooer, wife abuser, constantly thinking of another woman, fitful temper, dark lord, badly furnished home. Tyrant.

Rochester: advertising in the paper for young women, dressing up as a Romany female, dishonest about his marital status, devious, inclined to bad-temper, petulant, throwing a wobbly in church – holy premises – making the vicar and Jane run across land, and up to the attic. Then wrestling with his wife in front of the guests.

Is it any wonder that Jane runs off and Kathy marries another?

I do realise that I may have given up any chance of entering into the Holy Estate with a Northern man but that is a sacrifice an investigative writer has to make.

Mr Rochester and Jane

The Northern Man

A flat cap if sunny a sou’wester when wet,
long woolly scarf knotted under his chin.
Holding a whippet on the end of a lead.
Covered in pigeon fluff from standing in loft.
Pushing a bike. Moaning about Southerners
and wimmen who he swears he’ll never understand.
Funny ideas about who does the housework,
cooks the meals, lights the fires, chops the wood.
Sheep shedding and dipping, avoiding favourites,
he knows each ewe by name. Clutching his money.
A penchant for rhubarb and black pudding.
Trousers held up by string. Constantly scowling.
Priding himself on his blunt tongue. Striding
across God’s own county, wherever that is.

Woe betide them, of course, if they marry a Blackpool woman!

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.

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Out To Grass

I flick through the retirement home pages: Twilight House, Sunset Days, Dunhopin’, Road’s End, Rest Easy, Nearly Home. It’s hard to choose. There are none I feel drawn to.

I know I’m lucky to be able to choose. What did our forebears have, the rude forefathers of the hamlet, who had to work until they died? Staying alive in old age wasn’t so easy for them. If lucky they could perhaps rely on a son, or daughter, supporting them providing a home and food. But could they ever retire? Almshouse much better than workhouse but less available and often means tested by occupation, character, gender.

My great grandfather George was a drummer in the British Army, which would probably mean he’d be unvalued now. He marched and drummed his way round many a foreign campaign. It was how he earned his bread. He was a professional in the Army but when your marching days around inhospitable foreign climes are over there isn’t, or wasn’t, a lot of call for drummers back home in England.

Upon leaving the army after twenty years, in 1879, on the grounds of poor health, a kindly army doctor did him a good turn. He described him as a ‘broken-down old soldier,’ although he was only thirty-eight. It got George an army pension. He returned to civilian life and in his forties married and fathered six daughters. Not quite so broken down as the army thought. His wife kept house, raised the children and ran a terrace shop. Smart George. She was over twenty years younger and died three years before him. Poor Alice.

On January 1st 1909 people of seventy or over were paid an old age pension by the Government as long as they were of good character. A song from that time expresses one man’s thanks to the man responsible. I don't know who sang it but it was possibly written by F W Mormon...

David Lloyd George

What Lloyd George Gives Me
Well I’d walk from here to Skipton
Ten miles of lonely lane
If I could see him face to face
And thank him for his pain

‘Cause he took me out of Work-house
And he gave me a life that’s free
Five shillings a week for cheating death
Is what Lloyd George gives me

Well he gives me light and firing
And flour to bake my bread
And tea to mash with every meal
And sup until I’m dead

And I’ve nowt to do but thank him
And make a cross with pen
Five shillings a week for nowt but that
Why he’s the best of men...

There are another nine verses which he really shouldn’t have bothered writing but now he is out of the Work-house with time on his hands he felt he might as well.

An old soldier, who had charged at Balaclava with the Light Brigade, was Trooper Job Allwood, a Leamington lad. He had enrolled in Birmingham in 1853 with the 13th Light Dragoons (later the 13th Hussars). Despite having two horses shot from under him at Balaclava he was one of the few who survived and went on to serve in the India Mutiny. Although regarded by his fellow men as a hero then, his name would no doubt now be being erased from the war memorial. Upon leaving the army his only reward was a small allowance from the Balaclava Fund which was funded by public subscription. He died in 1903, aged 68, too early to have received a pension from the state. Would he have appreciated his funeral with full military honours, the expensive bouquets?

Nearly forty years after Tennyson’s poem immortalising the bravery, following suicidal orders of the cavalry at Balaclava, Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem titled, 'The Last Of the Light Brigade'.

Kipling was ashamed of the way the old (retired) soldiers were treated, The poem speaks of the harsh condition they endured once their service days were over: famine, lack of shelter, unemployment, disability, painful and lonely deaths. Job was lucky; Leamington didn’t treat him too unkindly. He had a very small house, made a living, had a wife but it was nothing compared to the gratitude they showed him in death.

Old Mares
If I was a horse they’d put me down, shoot me.
Have fun being photographed with my carcass.
No chance for me of being used for breeding.
An old mare is useless for reproduction.
My only worth to be pulped for pet food.
Not being a horse the possibilities are endless.
I can run for US President. Take up Tai Kwondo.
Learn Japanese. Gain a degree in upholstery.
Long distance, cross country running. Marathons.
Whittling, whiskey mixing, ballroom dancing in wellies
Write poetry. Go on televised quiz shows.
Give my occupation when asked, as retirement.
‘And how do you fill your time?’
‘Never been busier,’ I proudly reply. Listing my
attainments. ‘I don’t know what I did before.’
That earns me a pat on the back, unprompted applause.

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.

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Coming In, Going Out, Kept There

Definitely 'Kept There'

Yes, women and housemaids did go down on their knees to scrub the doorstep; streets were dirtier in the old days, boots were stamped on the step to knock off dust, shoe-scrapers to remove debris, and what would your neighbour say about a dirty doorstep? Women had their pride. Steps still do need to be cleaned, especially the well photographed; does Carrie do number 10? Or Ursula the EU building when visitors are expected such as the vaccine delivery man? Skirts hitched up, a pail of hot soapy water, scrubbing brush and pumice in hand.

But two things mostly come to my mind: the image of Old Mother Riley and the dreadful words of a strict Victorian father throwing his errant daughter outside, ‘Go, and never darken this doorstep again.’

His cruel words aimed at daughters who have raised his displeasure by such things as falling in love with the wrong man; consider Elizabeth Barrett (how much, well more than my father) or the truly repugnant unmarried pregnant offspring.

A book I can recommend about disgruntled unforgiving fathers which I have had close to my person since childhood, is Maggie’s Message written by Emma Leslie published around 1920. It tells the story of little Maggie whose mother’s actions have angered Grandpapa in the past; marrying the wrong guy. Mama has died but has left Maggie with a message to deliver to her grandfather. The child finds this difficult but eventually succeeds. It is both sad and heart-warming as well as instructional as to how to mend family rifts and make your granddad feel a right swine.

Maggie's Message

For the fallen women no longer able to conceal their pregnancies stepping across doorsteps for the last time there is a poem by Thomas Hardy which may be of some comfort, it is The Ruined Maid in which Hardy tells us that being ruined does have its compensations. Fans, feathers, fine clothes and a five bedroom house.

As to Old Mother Riley, washerwoman and icon of Lancashire/Irish femininity, sitting on her doorstep, legs akimbo, usually in despair. As a child I discovered her and loved her character. Are they now on Netflix?

Old Mother Riley

A sort of early Mrs Brown and forerunner of Danny La Rue, ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep.’ Created and played by Arthur Lucan , he/she was a star on stage and screen; music hall, pantomime, film and as a comic strip in Film Fun. He was a double act with his wife Kitty, who apparently in private was very disparaging of him, who played the part of his sweet daughter, Kitty. Quite why I associate her so strongly with steps I don’t know. Perhaps because she was also a charwomen and, like Carrie and Ursula, spent a great part of her time scrubbing them.

The Humorous Scrubber
a humorous scrubber
long skirts and shawl
on her knees
with rolled sleeves
skeletal frame
bony elbows and all
with a little black hat
white hair escaping
a poor Irish mother
scrubbing the step
charring for others
taking in washing
an undomesticated lady
carving doorsteps
in the kitchen
to feed daughter Kitty
always in trouble
throwing up her hands
in despair
shrill and hysterical
then drying her eyes
on her pinny
comforted by Kitty
slapstick her forte
pathos her charm
downtrodden woman
turned heroine

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.

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Once In A Blue Moon

What does once mean? For the characters in the children’s book Once in a Blue Moon, who were all gargoyles from a university college, apart from Doctor Theophilus, who was a very old tortoise, it meant a holiday. Written by Margaret Gibbs, published in 1948, it was a pocket money buy from a money-raising fair. It tells the story of several gargoyles including Lion, Angel and Podger, who on the occasion of a blue moon could leave their water spouts. Luckily this happens during the time the book is written otherwise things would have been very dull. They take a boat and travel along the river, encountering adventures such as meeting swans. Their individual personalities come out; serene, helpful, kind, grumpy, happy and over-anxious. Along for the ride is the ancient venerable and very wise tortoise who usually resided on the college green.

It was wonderful and I know I still have it and I know where, but how to get at it. There is a small room which was sold to me as a fifth bedroom, it never is, unless you sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor, no decent size bed would ever fit in there. But useful for storage, several trunks, standing on top of each other and in more than one of these, books. And one of those books is Once in a Blue Moon.

On the web ‘Once’ is a site which describes itself as a quality dating site for singles. Tough luck if you’re married. But why the name Once? What does it mean? A single application? A single introduction? Maybe, if we interpret ‘once’ as, ‘on one occasion or at one time only.’ Or, perhaps, once round the block to see how you like it. That seems to indicate there could be several trial runs between a first date with one person and lasting attachment with another.

"Once more" would seem to be a paradox.

"Once, twice, three times a lady, And I love you."

What does that mean if she had been only once a lady would he not have loved her? It smacks of Princess and the Pea.

Once may also refer to something that happened in the past. "We had one once." " Once was enough." Substitute I for the we and it could well refer to marriage.

Family experience has meant two crying children standing  before me with one pleading, “I only did it once. I only pinched her once.” As if once was negligible, not worth making a fuss about and she should be let off for previous good behaviour.

“I will say this only once"... A funny line in a television programme, or an unapproachable teacher, you daren’t ask for an explanation, daren’t tell you didn’t understand?

My Grandmother, born in 1891, a Victorian schoolchild, learnt by heart at the age of seven a poem; It began, ‘I once had a sweet little doll, dears,’ and came from The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. She was never likely to forget it as she repeated it endlessly, first to her own children then to me and others in between. It doesn’t actually have a title, the strange fairy just launches into it.

Minnie Dibdin Spooner

Oh dear! I’ve just thought of another, applicable to me. "Don’t eat them all at once." I always remember that one too late. Once they’re gone they’re gone.

Once More
Once bitten twice shy. Why once? Being shy is no defence.
Though twice, or more, might reinforce your response.
Being shy doesn’t mean you can’t, won’t, be bitten again.
Take care you are not sleeping with a vampire, those bite
marks aren’t accidental. Unmeant. Immediately repented.
Shyness, my dears, is not armour plating.

Once I had a secret love. Really! Just the one? Conservative
are you? Why one? Why not two? Everyone else has.
As long as you keep your mouth shut who’s to know?
No harm done, unless you talk in your sleep, or, worse,
to every passing cloud, the insubstantial gossipers, who
spread with the wind your infidelity.

Once is never enough. You can say that again. But it would
help to know to what you are referring. With me when a child
it was a story. Once upon a time I wanted to be never-ending.
Once there were three pigs, bears, a wolf and a girl.
Again! An incentive to learn to read. Timeless. Unforgettable.
And what a brilliant opening.

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.

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Accept The Inevitable, Duck

Expensive vanity or a benefit to the nation? Staying seventeen into your seventies, a bikini figure with a sixty inch bust in your mid-eighties? A wrinkle free beautiful face, perfect features, turning heads at ninety.?

Cosmetic, not medical corrective surgery, necessary, remedial, but cosmetic ranging from a removed freckle to a complete re-assembly. An exercise in illusion, delusion. And sometimes regret.

One day, a few years ago, like the Ramsbottoms, seeking further amusement, in their case they paid and went into Blackpool Zoo, I went to the Art Gallery. The Walker. I spent some time there, luckily not eaten by lions, writing pieces: prose and poetry, giving voices and backstories to some of the paintings. One involved cosmetic botox.

Pin-Up 1963 for Francis Bacon by Sam Walsh

I’ve filled up. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to have botox. Look at my face. Look me in the eye, the left one, and tell me honestly what you think. I know, a dreadful mistake. I’ve covered it with Golden Syrup Pancake make-up to try and disguise it. But it hasn’t worked.

‘Just have a bit of work done, Sweetie. I’ll pay.’ It was his idea. It was Lucian who persuaded me. The sweet-talking swine. I was his pin-up but now I’m pun-up no more. Now he’s seeing someone else. He won’t even look at me. I said, Lucian you are the one who wanted me to have Botox, said I’d look better, more desirable, with filler. He said, ‘Yes but I didn’t mean there.’

Perhaps this explains the rift.

Is hair dye an intervention, cosmetic but not surgical, similar to nail polish, temporary, whereas the artificial boobs are designed to be permanent? Remove them and what fills the space?

Generally I’m against it but I do think the Queen should have had Charles’ ears pinned back. As a child he must have suffered and the remedy was simple. Not perhaps the Queen’s decision; a piece of firm foot-placing, stamping, by the Duke of Edinburgh, with his rigid views on real men. A real man would want to do what was in his son’s best interest.

And who doesn’t weep over the tragedy of Brigitte Bardot those sex kitten looks a short-lived fantasy turned to early decay with unpleasant unexpected bagging in the facial and neck area? No matter how kind-hearted to animals she is don’t we look away from her sagging fleshy face, this sign of mortal decay? Aren’t we gratefully, if begrudgingly, admiring of women like Zsa Zsa, Joan and Mae who go under the knife to maintain our illusion,. Or is that look just as grotesque? Is the only answer to die young like Marilyn and Diana? I won’t mention Kay Burley’s face looking as tight as a cat’s bum, it’s just the beautiful Ophelia is displaying hers at the moment.

Myself? There’s nothing I want to change, lose or gain. Not I hasten to add that I have anything that couldn’t be improved. A new set of teeth? Yes, as long as they’re not too expensive. It’s all come with me this far it might as well come to the grave. And I’m lucky that my family genes haven’t taken me down Brigitte’s route. My attitude slightly different to this woman. Desperately trying everything except a good surgeon.

The evil queen

Old Queens
The old queen constantly looks in the mirror,
her reflection abhorrent, it nevertheless
demands her attention, inspection.
How far has the corruption spread?
Hideous, fascination commanding
those once bright eyes to view
the decomposing time-ravaged features
of her once beautiful face.
Her loss makes her more frightful.
Haggard, jealous, spiteful, ruthless,
tormented. Relentlessly she searches
for a sacrifice, an offering, a bribe;
unmercifully she tears off the butterfly’s wings,
guts the puppy, sheds the kid’s blood.
Offers up a prayer.
Her face doesn’t change.

Thanks for reading, Jeanie Buckingham

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A Fantasy Dinner Party

A little while ago an online book group to which I belong asked the question: If you could go on a date with a writer, who would it be and what would you do? Not being slow to come forward, I nominated two. Both poets.

Taking tea, in Twickenham, at a little gate-leg table, in front of a fire, in a book-lined sitting room with Alexander Pope.... Or, in bed with John Donne. I didn’t mind which. Of course, I would have to be careful that I didn’t end up in bed with Alex and pouring a cuppa for John.

When the prompt came on Lancashire Dead Good Poets to write a poem about a fantasy dinner party I didn’t at first see it, having a week previously adopted a cat. The beautiful Ophelia, known as Fifi. My time was taken up with entertaining her. I really hadn’t given any thought to giving a dinner party.

However, a guest list immediately came to mind.

Mystery Guests

My fantasy dinner party
would be filled with phantoms
helping to solve a mystery or two.
Jack the Ripper would sit next to Jesus.
Tutankhamun with Edgar Allan Poe.
Shakespeare, Bacon, the dark lady,
let's sort it out once and for all.
Adam and Eve. Noah. Houdini.
The crew of the Marie Celeste.
Designers of the pyramids,
the architects of Stonehenge.
As women are under-represented,
Emily Dickinson and Old Mother Shipton
will be welcome to come and tell us
exactly what the dash they meant.
And You, the mystery man in my life,
of course, my phantom,
there's a place for you.

(JB 2021)

I  might need a gavel to keep order, make sure they don’t all speak at once.

The catering could be a problem. Ten is the max round my dining table and then only if you sit knee to knee; so we would have to eat in relays. And I am not sure of any dietary requirements so, perhaps, best if they brought their own.

I have drawn up an individual menu, the alternative’s bangers and mash.

The Menu
Jack the Ripper: raw steak, liver, kidneys.
Tutankhamun: oatmeal porridge, granary bread.
Adam and Eve: apple tart with syrup of figs
Noah: fish.
Jesus: a fish finger butty.
The crew of the Marie Celeste:
pickled herrings, lime and cucumber.
Edgar Allan Poe: hamburgers and fries
Shakespeare, Bacon, the dark lady:
crows’ feet and swans’ necks.
Houdini: a jacket potato.
Emily Dickinson:
corn - on - the - cob - with - a - saucer - of - butter.
Old Mother Shipton: used to cave dwelling,
bat soup, rock salt and dripping.
The ancient Egyptians and stone-age men are tricky,
best stick to jam sandwiches and salad.
My friend: custard creams and black coffee.
Myself: lavender cake and rose-water jelly.

(JB 2021)  

Afterwards if there’s time we’ll play Charades.

Thanks for reading, Jeanie.

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