Crazes: Guilty As Charged

I am the Queen of Crazes, or the Crazy Queen, whichever you prefer.

After 73 years I finally have the answer to my crazes craze. I’m currently awaiting a diagnosis of ADHD, although I know in my head this is what I’ve been dealing with all my life. In some ways, it’s reassuring to think there’s a reason for my constant frantic activity.

However, I digress. Let’s start at the beginning. Young children often have crazes, changing like the seasons as somebody suddenly starts a new one, and everybody follows. I was no different, pleading for a hula hoop, which had to be ordered at the local toy shop, and seemed to take weeks to arrive. No Amazon deliveries in those days. 

The days following the arrival of the hoop were spent in frenzied practice in the garden (and once - only once - indoors, when I knocked an ornament off the sideboard and was told in no uncertain terms that if the hoop was found indoors again it would be snapped in two and instantly disposed of - I didn’t dare ask where). I got to be quite an expert hula hooper, shimmying it up and down my body, round my neck, arms and legs. Just recently, I found a hula hoop at a play centre and thought I’d have a go. I was shocked to discover that all skill had left me, as the hoop rapidly spun to the floor, despite my energetic gyrating, and lay there looking up at me as if to say, ‘that was nearly seventy years ago, woman, get a grip.’

Then there were marbles - excitedly played on drain covers in the street, and jacks and five stones. These all reached a peak before being replaced by the next unpredictable craze. My favourite craze around this time was, with hindsight, rather a strange one. It involved collecting small items and swapping them with friends at school. This probably sounds mundane and boring these days when eight year olds are busy applying makeup, taking selfies and snapchatting, but let me assure you this was one of the most exciting things in my life at that time.

The routine was this: the participant secured a toffee tin (usually from a Christmas stocking) before scouring the house for any small item that would (a) fit in the tin and (b) possibly be of interest to another participating child. I can remember my tin so well that I can smell the pieces of scented paper cut from one of my mum’s birthday cards. The smell was of roses, like the picture, as was popular in the 1950s. Why any child would be willing to swap some treasured item for a piece of birthday card I’ve no idea, but I do remember them being very popular. Apart from the cards there were ‘charms,’ tiny little cats and dogs and bells, worth nothing in monetary terms, but worth a fortune in terms of swap-ability; pieces of broken jewellery, little brooches, thimbles and the odd dolls’ house item. My younger brother, swept along in the excitement of this absorbing new game did cause a bit of trouble by swapping our tortoise for a German helmet, but that was swiftly remedied by mum marching down the road with the aforementioned headwear and returning home (minus helmet) to plonk the bewildered tortoise back by the hollyhocks in our garden.

But back to the original game. Day after day, we would race out at playtime with our tins rattling, bypassing the bars - where girls (dresses tucked into knickers) would be swinging and giggling - and straight to the only bit of shelter, the porch by the boys’ entrance. Like drug pushers we’d prise open our tins and allow each other to peer in. So many happy playtimes were spent in that porch, bargaining and swapping - and swapping again. My lifelong hoarding means that, after nearly seventy years, I still have two of the brooches I acquired, a tiny ‘ivory’ elephant and a cheap twisted metal bow. I only have to look at them to be back in that porch with my toffee tin.

Crazes during my teenage years revolved mainly around fashion, hair and make up. Mini skirts, hot pants, skinny ribs, all tried and tested (not very successfully - I didn’t have the legs or the neat little bust for any of these, but they were the latest craze, so who was I to argue?)

All my life I’ve had obsessional crazes. I hadn’t considered them until the last few years when I began to realise that I probably have ADHD. In no particular order these are the crazes - I like to call them hobbies - that have obsessed me over the years…

Novelty cakes (this was a business for thirteen years, but also a wild craze); appliqué; novelty cushions; craft fairs; baking for cake shops; knitting; sewing; patchwork, quilting; cross stitch; crochet; roller blading*; fimo; pottery, lino printing, walking daily; photography (between a business and a craze).

Finally, the non crazes or perhaps the life long crazes that I can’t ever see ending: I’ve loved reading, writing and drawing since the day I first opened a book and deciphered a word, then copied it onto a sheet of paper and drew a picture to illustrate it. I have diaries going back to the age of six, although the more interesting ones came later. However, the obligatory stationery to accompany these activities is another story, and cannot possibly be condensed into a few words.

I feel another blog post coming on….

Crazy by Jill Reidy

The time has come
Suspect denies all knowledge
Of any crazes
Since moving to that house
‘Not me officer, I just read,’
They don’t believe her, she looks shifty
Rules are established for those investigating
Five minutes to find evidence

Hercules Poirot, allocated the attic
Takes the steps two at a time
Crashes headfirst into huge tottering piles
Frames, all sizes, all colours
Photographic prints in wallets,
Scattered across the floorboards
Cameras, batteries, lights
photography magazines, memory cards
He battles through
Gives the half finished dolls’ house a cursory glance
Grinds underfoot the tiny figures
Waiting for prosthetics
Skids on the curtains, never hung
He turns, notes the carrier bags
Stacked high under the eaves
Peers in, sees the folded fabrics
Paper patterns, tailors chalk, cutting board
Patchwork pieces, cushion covers needing zips

Poirot sighs, calls down, descends the steps
To the landing
where Inspector Clouseau stands,
Hands gloved, plunged deep into a sack
‘More,’ he says, ‘more fabric’
Rolls his eyes
withdraws a length of cool white linen
Points to the open cupboard
Bulging with colourful ribbons and zips
‘And these,’ he sighs
More bags, patterns, knitting abandoned,
wool unravelling, needles, every size
Clouseau holds up a small frame
Catches Poirot’s eye
Any idea? Tapestry? Weaving?
Cross-stitch says Poirot with a shake of his head
And these?
Rag rugs, quilting, crochet, appliqué
Poirot rattles off dismissively

Miss Marple, ground floor, out of her depth
opens the door to the understairs cupboard
peers in
Why all the tools?
duplicates of every one
Drills, glue guns, hammers
screwdrivers, sets of spanners,
A pack of unused, now unusable, fimo Brooch pins, earring studs awaiting decoration
Reaches in
What’s this?
Knee pads, elbow pads, helmet
Miss Marple frowns
suspect is nearly as old as she is
Roller blades?!
A six, just the suspect’s size

Sherlock Holmes, alone in the gloomy garage
Spots a box
Opens it tentatively
Hardened clay
Five misshapen pots,
Small cutters and scrapers and prodders
A sheep by a wall, stones meticulously fashioned out of clay
He digs down deeper
Pulls out a square of lino
More tools, a roller, dried ink in a tub
‘Pottery and printing,’
He mutters to himself

They meet in the kitchen
Poirot, Marple, Clouseau and Holmes
Enough evidence? Asks Poirot
More than enough agrees Holmes
Get her in says Clouseau wearily

The suspect eyes the scattered bags
She has no defence
‘I didn’t realise….’ she trails off
Then in a whisper,
‘Guilty as Charged.’

Thanks for reading……Jill Reidy

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Happenstance - It Was Meant To Be

Happenstance (noun): Chance or a chance situation especially one producing a good result.

I’ve come to the conclusion that life - mine in particular - is made up of ‘what ifs’.

What if I hadn’t written that letter? What if I hadn’t gone to that party? What if I’d been a few minutes later? What if I’d walked instead of taking the tram?

What if?
             What if?
                         What if?

                                     What if?
                                                  Things could have been so different.

A few years ago the whole family gathered to celebrate my mum’s 90th birthday. There were twenty six members of the family crammed around a long table, eating, drinking and chatting. It was a very jolly affair with speeches, cake, champagne and lots of laughter. I remember taking a moment to look around, and thinking to myself that none of us would be sitting there if my dad hadn’t become best friends with my mum’s brother.

My mum’s family had been evacuated during the war, but returned to London when mum’s brother, John, was due to start high school. He and my dad were eleven when they met during the first few weeks of term. A wicked sense of humour and a rare thirst for learning was what brought them together.

At that point my mum was nine and of no interest to an eleven year old boy. This, despite the fact that she used to hide under the table when they played Monopoly and secretly pass my dad money. According to mum, she thought her brother’s friend was ‘funny looking,’ and I think dad only stayed on the right side of her to fraudulently purchase Mayfair and win Monopoly.

Fast forward a few years and dad has called round to see John. By this time they are firm friends, spending days cycling and hiking together, going on canal holidays, discussing politics and philosophy and doing a lot of laughing. Dad is about to leave when he notices Mary hovering in the hall. She walks him to the door and watches him down the path. She sees him stop and look over his shoulder. She thinks he’s about to say something, but he turns back and opens the gate.

That night he thinks about the little nine year old who is now a rather beautiful eighteen year old, and he sits down and composes the first of many letters to this young lady, who has suddenly piqued his interest. It’s quite a formal letter. I know this because it’s now in my possession. The message is also rather hesitant, as he obviously fears rejection. There are lots of get out clauses for Mary, ‘and it will never be mentioned again.’ What he doesn’t know is that, over the years, Mary has revised her initial impression of this funny looking boy, and now thinks he’s rather handsome.

The rest, as they say, is history. They went to the cinema, they courted for two years and then they married, with John as Best Man.

my parents on their wedding day

They had three children, eight grandchildren and ten great grandchildren, and here we all were with partners and aunts, uncles and cousins, sitting around that big table, in a posh hotel nearly seventy years later.

That’s Happenstance.

Happenstance Mark ll 

1973
Hiding round the corner of the building
I’ve no intention of meeting this boy
In the coffee bar
As arranged
I’ve no interest in him,
Despite agreeing to meet him that day
Hiding, the only solution
Cowardly as it is
Crouched down
Counting off the minutes
Till I can safely go in
And he’d be gone
‘You’re here!’
He’s found me
Takes my hand,
Leads me into the coffee bar

2025
Today, in the garden
Enjoying the sun
‘You’re here,’ he says
Hands me a brew
We sip our coffees
In comfortable silence
I’m not hiding any more

                                      Jill Reidy

my own wedding day

That's happenstance too!

Thanks for reading….. Jill Reidy

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PS I Love You (no, really I do)

I love you. Three little words.

I have a bit of a love hate relationship with those three little words. And it’s not because I don’t like them or I never use them. Let me explain.

When I was growing up in the ‘50s and ‘60s, in a very close knit, nurturing family, I’m sure we all loved each other, and we knew we were loved, but, as I recall, the sentiment was very rarely verbalised. Certainly, my brothers and I would never have expressed such a feeling to each other, and even now I think I’ve only ever said it to them in jest, and they’ve done the same to me.

Mum and dad obviously loved each other. It showed in the way they spoke to each other, laughed, joked and bickered, and the way dad would put his arm around mum or place his hand on hers when sitting together. Not long before my dad died mum told me that every time she passed dad on her way out of the room he would grab her hand and give it a little squeeze. There was no doubt that was all part of their love language.

As for us children, we had hugs, kisses and cuddles galore from our mum, and only less from dad because he wasn’t always there first thing in the morning and when we went to bed. He worked long hours to provide for us, there’s love in that too. We didn’t need to question the love between us all. It was just there, an invisible, all enveloping cloud of safety and well being. Those three little words didn’t really need to be said. My generation and those before me very rarely verbalised that feeling.

My husband was the first person to actually tell me he loved me. I think I might have laughed - we were three weeks into a fledgling relationship and I certainly didn’t reciprocate. That came later and I guess we must both have been sincere because we’re still together fifty two years later.

We married and had babies. We told them often that we loved them. They grew up hearing those words and no doubt becoming immune to them, but that didn’t stop us, and like the little sponges they were, they began repeating those three little words back to us. The babies became teenagers, then adults and began to pronounce their love for people far more important at that time than their parents. We never stopped loving each other, it just wasn’t articulated so often.

I gained a son in law, two daughters in law and an ex of each too. I loved them all and they seemed to love me but the ‘I love yous’ were used sparingly. The girls, including my daughter were much more likely to tell each other, than were the males.

So where does this love hate relationship come from?

I think it started a few years ago with the use of the word, ‘hun.’ A word that, try as I might, I could not find rolling off my tongue. I knew it was a form of affection but it just didn’t sit right with me. I cringed as I heard it or saw it in print. I was nobody’s hun and nobody was mine. I was more of a ‘sweetheart/darling/matey’ kind of friend. And I’m sure that made others cringe too.

So... When the ‘I love yous’ started flying around it had a similar effect. They didn’t love me, I didn’t love them. It was just empty words to fill a gap. And those empty words were hugely overused. To me, of the boomer generation, the ‘I love yous,’ were reserved for our partners and our children, and mainly in private.

However, over time I’ve come to accept that I’m going to hear those words wherever I go, not necessarily directed at me but between teenage girls, young mothers, mums and grandmas with their children and babies. It’s what people say. Maybe it’s not always strictly true. Who am I to judge? It does no harm. I find myself articulating it to family members much more frequently these days. I love the grandchildren’s parroted responses. It gives me comfort.

I only ever told my dad I loved him once in his life. It was after a silly argument, a week before he died. I was leaving the house to return to Blackpool when I felt compelled to go back in, give him a hug and tell him I loved him. It was the last time I saw him. These days, on my way to bed, I often give his ashes a little kiss and tell him I love him. Somehow it’s easier when he can’t see me or answer back.

I have a friend who always signs off her messages, ‘Keep sprinkling that love.’ I like that. It’s an instruction, not a declaration.

I can do that.

Mixed Messages

Once, on MSN
Remember that?
Chatting to a man
About an IT problem
When my daughter popped up
All the way from the USA
I had two conversations on the go
IT man trying arrange a visit
Daughter telling me of her adventures
I thought I was an expert in multi tasking
I congratulated myself
On slipping seamlessly between messages

That was
Until I arranged for daughter to visit
next week at 3pm
And told IT man ‘I love you.’

Thanks for reading, Jill.

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Luggage, Coming And Going

Luggage and I haven’t always had the best relationship. The reasons for this are many and varied: from the single pair of dubious looking undies doing the rounds on an airport baggage carousel (yes, they were the husband’s, and yes, he did swoop down on them with all the bravado of a proud owner), to the chairs and hoover (maybe not technically luggage?) carried awkwardly on a journey involving two buses and an arduous walk in between. Then there was the large Christmas tree, balanced horizontally across my bike’s handlebars, and transported from Fleetwood to Blackpool along a promenade fortuitously clear of walkers but against wild sea spray and a hazardous and biting December wind. I’m pleased to report that all items made their way successfully home, although the tree, once meticulously decorated, was immediately knocked over quite dramatically in the course of some banned horseplay between my two young sons. Very sensibly, they hid.

When I was younger I had the strange and misguided belief that all things were possible. I suppose it was a good starting point, but sadly it was only going to end in disappointment. This belief was particularly strong where luggage was involved. There were two parts to this belief:

1. I could fit everything I wanted into one suitcase, and close the lid.

2. I could personally carry any number of cases, bags, coats, items of furniture etc if I just put in the effort.

It took a long time, and a lot of heartache, before I had to reluctantly admit defeat on both fronts. The husband was somewhat pivotal to this admission when he became obsessive about weighing my suitcase before a flight. Much to my despair, he has always travelled light, not even filling a rucksack for a trip abroad (but sneaking his toiletries into my bulging case), so my luggage was always the bone of contention: I knew I needed 7 bikinis, 4 pairs of sandals and at least 2 changes of clothes per day, whereas he insisted my case should weigh no more than the maximum amount for the minimum payment to be put in the hold. With hindsight, I should have predicted this repetitive argument when, on his first visit to London to meet my parents, he arrived, having hitched a lift down the M1, with only a toothbrush in his pocket.

I have a friend who was taken to the airport for a surprise holiday, only to find, on exiting the taxi, that the car boot was empty, her suitcases still neatly lined up on the pavement outside her house 50 miles away. Luckily, she took it very philosophically, got to her destination and had a whale of a time buying a whole new wardrobe. Unlike the husband, who, despite his ‘travelling light,’ regime, sank into the depths of despair the one time his backpack was lost between Liverpool and Tenerife. Through his insurance he was given a very small advance to replace the missing clothes. Instead of relaxing by the pool we spent the next three days wandering around cheap clothes shops and markets, where nothing was quite up to his (eBay acquired) Fat Face and Superdry shorts and t-shirts. By the time the missing luggage caught up with the us I was sick of the sight of him in the same misshapen vests and flimsy swimming trunks.

The most recent tale of lost luggage was only a few months ago - and entirely my fault. As a birthday surprise the husband had booked a pub stay for a couple of nights and planned a day out in Hebden Bridge where we were to watch a band in the evening. It all started well. We alighted the train at our destination and revelled in the warmth of a spring day as we walked through the park to the town. First stop is always a coffee, and as we entered the cafe I offered to go to the counter. It was at this point I realised I had no bag, and consequently no money, no camera, no headphones, no laptop, no phone charger, no kindle, no knitting - and none of the other paraphernalia I cart around on a daily basis.

What ensued would have made a great little film under the right circumstances. I was shocked and in a panic. My phone was the cause of the problem - I’d been engrossed in social media when the husband had called out, ‘Next stop!’ and I’d stepped off the train whilst posting to Twitter. Throughout the next 24 hours, along with the strain of the missing backpack, I had to listen to the husband repeatedly and sanctimoniously telling me that it was all my own fault. I didn’t need telling, I knew it was.

After I’d spent a good hour on the phone cancelling bank cards, trying to get through to a railway station (did you know no stations have telephones these days?) mourning the loss of my camera and lovely leather purse, I suddenly remembered that I’d been given some money for my birthday and had treated myself - at great expense - to AirTags. Excitedly, I went to the Find Me app and discovered that my keys were safely at home, my phone was in my hand and my bag and purse were worryingly separated but at least discoverable. That day, my luggage went on a big adventure. On the online app, I watched, in horror as purse and rucksack travelled randomly between railway stations. There seemed to be no plan. They didn’t appear to be heading for any particular destination, but rather, they were off on a little Spring jaunt. Back and forth they went, one moment coming to a hault in Chester, the next, apparently separated as rucksack took off on its own towards Leeds and purse was left on the station. Next time I looked, purse had caught up and they were both heading back towards Manchester.

This complicated dance went on all day. We skipped morning coffee, lunch and afternoon tea, and wandered aimlessly around the shops, stopping frequently to make phone calls to anyone who would listen, and to check the journey of the missing items. I bought a new phone charger and a lipstick to replace those that I might never see again. I spoke to a lovely man in Manchester who gave me his personal mobile number and promised he would leap onto the train when it stopped and retrieve my luggage. I was optimistic until I checked the app again, only to discover that the bag and its belongings had never reached Manchester, and was currently hurtling back towards Crewe.

The whole day was spent tracking my luggage from station to station, pausing occasionally before setting off again. I despaired of ever seeing it again. I resigned myself to the fact that somebody had picked up the bag and all its belongings and was just biding their time till they could get off the train, discover the cards had been cancelled, spend all my money, knit a bit more of my scarf, have a read on my kindle and take a few pictures with my camera.

To cut a very long story short, I collected my luggage from Blackpool North the following day. Unbelievably it was all intact. It had been found by the train guard soon after I’d abandoned it. He’d looked inside and found a business card (with my old phone number), tried to contact me, then given up and his phone had died. Eventually he made contact through my Facebook page and passed the bag onto a colleague, the guard on the Blackpool train. 

So, you see, there is sometimes a happy ending. And luggage and I are now working on our relationship, hoping to stay more closely connected in future. It’s a work in progress.

Secrets of the Family Suitcase

One of the last things I move
From the top of the wardrobe
When I clear my parents’ house
Is the suitcase

I pull it down, fight with buckles
Wrestle with the rusty zip
Open up
And inhale the memories

The Norfolk Broads where Geoff fell in
Dad shouted, mum cried
The annual week in Margate with our cousins
Sea, sand, Punch and Judy, bliss

That awful caravan, it rained non stop
Dad sent us out for matches
For some peace
Little brother born nine months later

America with old friends, Ken and Doris
Mum took Sea Legs
Fainted in the vineyard
And nearly lost her head at the casino

That trip to Kenya in their 70s
For a nephew’s wedding
Where they rode an elephant
Hid in tents, ate strange and wondrous food.

It’s not been used for years
This case, heavy with memories
I sigh and close the lid
Put it with the pile marked ‘to go.’

Thanks for reading…….Jill

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I Did It My Way

Just recently I received a text from my oldest friend. We met at the age of eleven, sixty years ago. There’s nothing unusual about receiving a text from this friend. What was strange was that it was all about magazines, and it was right at the time that I was planning to write this blog. She listed every magazine she had ever read. It seemed a lot to me, but she was a copywriter, working in advertising for many years, and I think magazines went with the job. She asked me what magazines I’d read, and I realised, as I started to recall them that I also had quite an extensive list.

It all started with comics. My brothers read Beano and Beezer, and of course I read them after the boys, sneaking them into my bedroom when they weren’t looking. My own weekly comic was Bunty which featured, amongst other things, the Four Marys, schoolgirls who got into a new scrape each week, but miraculously managed to solve all problems and come out on top. 

Even at the age of eight I was slightly sceptical of the Marys’ abilities. My favourite page was always the back cover filled with cut out dolls and wardrobes of fancy clothes with little tabs to put them on the dolls. Many happy hours were spent with a Bunty and a pair of scissors, dressing the dolls. My twenty first century, eight year old granddaughter with her own make up bag, lipstick and hair products couldn’t be a bigger contrast to my twentieth century self.

When I was about eleven a new girls’ magazine appeared on the shelves. It was called Jackie, a popular name at the time. I remember there were three in my new high school class. I’m guessing it was named Jackie rather than Jacqueline in order to be more appealing to the young teenage market. It was exciting to wake up on a Wednesday morning and find my own Jackie Magazine on the doormat. I knew the boys wouldn’t be interested as it was mainly about fashion, make up and young love. looking back it was all very tame, but it meant a cosy half hour after school, reading from cover to cover.

Recently, I discovered a Facebook group devoted to Jackie magazine. It all started so well. I was amazed at the friendly tone within the group. Each post elicited hundreds of replies. They were always positive and supportive, praising the original poster on her views. I became quite addicted to this group and began adding my own posts and pictures. There was a craze for wedding photos from the ‘70s and ‘80s, presumably because this was the time that most of Jackie’s readers would have been getting together with their future partners. There were lots of discussion about the dresses and hairstyles, but all in good spirit. We Jackie fans had something in common. Our young teenage years been simple with no phones, laptops or computers to distract us. I suppose we were fairly immature and innocent. It was interesting to read about the weddings and to see that the majority of them had survived over forty years. I’m sure it was a higher successful percentage than the general public, those poor souls who had never read Jackie in their formative years, but what do I know?

Despite the original camaraderie one day the Jackie Facebook group exploded and disappeared. Only to rise again a few days later with new admin, new rules and a rather falsely jolly ethos. As far as I could make out this had all been caused by one unmarried or divorced (or perhaps unhappily married) group member who was sick of seeing all the ‘then and now,’ wedding pictures. Fair enough.

When I started reading Jackie I had only just learned the facts of life, which intrigued and appalled me in equal measure. The learning of these facts had come, not from a magazine, but from a rather different type of booklet. I remember the incident vividly. I was off school, in bed, poorly, and my mum was on the landing, ironing to keep me company. The conversation turned to a friend of my dad’s who was in an iron lung, due to polio. He had been in hospital for about 20 years but had recently married his physio and moved into a house with a mobile contraption which kept him breathing. Only his head - and two waxy looking arms and hands - were outside the machine He could move nothing but his facial features. Innocently I asked my mum if she thought he and his wife would like to have children. This was obviously the moment my mum had been waiting for. She dashed into her bedroom, and I heard the bedside cabinet being opened. She returned with a booklet, the cover a black and white picture of some smiling women in vest and pants, reaching up into the air. The title was ‘The Way to Healthy Womanhood’. My mum handed me the booklet, suggested I read it, and went downstairs for a cup of tea.

I flicked through the first few pages. There were several diagrams with labels, and a couple more pictures of (presumably) healthy women. It took me a while to get to the main event. I read it two or three times, with growing realisation of what it was all about. This ‘having it up,’ which was thrown about at school by some of the bolder, more streetwise children, was actually a euphemism for making babies. Wow, that meant my mum and dad had done it three times. Crikey.

My mum was great at answering questions so by the time I returned to school I thought I was quite the expert on sex (or Making Love, as ‘The way to Healthy Womanhood’ liked to call it). So when Jackie introduced a problem page I felt perfectly qualified to read and comment on these dilemmas, most of which were very mild and innocent by today’s standards. There were lots of questions on ‘heavy petting,’ (which always made me think of patting a dog); dating etiquette; whether to kiss on a first date; and not much more. Even then I remember wondering if they really merited publication.

Petticoat was my next magazine of choice. It was geared much more to older teens, and the problem pages had moved on. Heavy petting had apparently become much more common, which was news to fifteen year old me. Nevertheless, I devoured the problems, along with the fashions and make up, week after week, until I left home and went to college. I’d forgotten all about the magazine until I went up into our attic one day about twenty years ago and tripped over a large cardboard box. After the obligatory swearing, I opened the lid to see what I could blame. Inside was a huge pile of Petticoat magazines, which I vaguely remembered carting from house to house with each move, much to my husband’s annoyance. As I flicked through them I was transported back to the mid sixties and joss sticks, flowers in my hair, patchouli oil, tiny home made dresses and gladiator sandals. Life was so full of both angst and promise. By the time I discovered that box I’d got three adult children and had obviously found my own way to womanhood, healthy or not.

Postscript: I sold the Petticoat magazines on eBay for £1500 to a man in Japan, and my husband was not quite so annoyed. But that’s a story for another day.

The Way to Healthy Womanhood

The way to healthy womanhood
Or so they said in '63:
Be feminine
Be careful
Be virginal
Be sporty
But not too sporty
Beware of horse riding
And bikes
Save yourself
No risks
No leading boys on
No giving it away
No petting
No snogging
No tongues
No flirting
No undressing
No fumbling
NO SEX
And, under no circumstances……
No fun
No enjoyment
No wonder 60 years later
I never even took that first step
On The Way to Healthy Womanhood

Thanks for reading.

Jill Reidy

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Sing Something Simple

I love birdsong. For me it’s one of the most relaxing and evocative sounds, so many memories associated with it. I’m not sure that the screeching of seagulls could be classified as song but nevertheless they are birds and I presume they’re trying to communicate with each other - maybe it’s even tuneful to a seagull - so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and include them in this week’s blog.

When we moved to Blackpool in 1976 I vividly remember the first morning in our new house, being woken early by the noise of the birds circling outside. In my half asleep state I wondered why I could hear seagulls screeching, when our flat was in Leeds. It took me a few moments to remember we had actually moved near the sea.

I’ve had a bit of a love hate relationship with these giant birds ever since. I do love to hear them shouting, it reminds me that I’m still in this magical place called the seaside, and I do love to photograph them, particularly in flight. However, they are the boldest, greediest, most opportunist birds I’ve ever known, fighting for discarded chips, animal carcasses and anything that looks vaguely edible. On reflection, if reincarnated as a bird, out of all of them - the dainty little bluetits, the friendly robins and the beautifully tuneful nightingales, I think I’d have to be a seagull. Loud and greedy. So I can’t really criticise them.

seaside starlings waiting to murmurate

My most lasting memory of beautiful birdsong is the day we moved into a new house when I was eleven. We were near a large park, the garden was long, the trees were tall and well established. It was quite a contrast to our previous small square of grass and mud. I walked outside and the first thing that hit me was the sound. It was a chorus of wonderful twittering and tweeting. I remember just standing there, taking it all in. For the next sixty years this was the family home. I left at seventeen to go to art college, but I returned frequently. Sitting on the low wall outside, with a brew and my thoughts, early morning, or at dusk, birdsong was always my accompaniment.

We buried my dad’s ashes in that garden, on his birthday in Spring. We’d debated whether to have some music in the background, but then forgot all about it and traipsed down to his vegetable plot with just the urn and our thoughts. We should have known the birds would be welcoming in the season. It was all the sound we needed.

When my mum, at 92, finally left that London home I felt my heart was going to break. So many memories of happy times. Some time before the move, I wandered out into the garden. I was getting the washing in but I found myself videoing the shrubs and trees, so lovingly tended to over the years. As I began to record, I heard the sweet sound of birdsong (linked here: Birdsong in my Mum's Garden ) and was transported back to that first day so many years before. I stood there whilst I’m sure I felt an arrow pierce my heart.

Sing Something Simple

I was eleven
With a burgeoning interest
In boys and makeup
Pop stars
The Beatles
And not much else
But that first day
In a new garden
Awakened something in me
It was, quite literally,
Music to my ears
I couldn’t tell you
Which birds were in the chorus that day
And which birds sang solo
There was no conductor
To keep it all in tune
No bows to the audience
No furtive glances left or right
That wasn’t necessary
Nature had done her job
I stood and listened
Heart soaring
High as the glorious song
As it rose and fell
And rose again
Pure happiness
A memory planted
And hidden deep within my heart.

Thanks for reading......Jill Reidy

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The Magic Box

The radio has been the soundtrack to my life for as long as I can remember. We weren’t really a TV kind of family - dad had returned home with one when I was 7, though it was only switched on when one of us really wanted to watch something - but we did love the radio. Actually, that’s not quite true. My mum loved the radio. It got switched on when she got up, and turned off when she went to bed. The rest of us were just used to the noise in the background. I believe it was called the Home Service, which makes me think of wartime, Dads’ Army and ration books. Radios One, Two, Three and Four didn’t appear until 1967, so the Home Service was my station of (Hobson’s) Choice. Of course, I’d heard snippets of Woman’s Hour, usually when I was off ill from school, but it was a very tame version compared to how it evolved over the next sixty years. The programmes I most enjoyed when laid in my sick bed, trying desperately to act ill enough to have another day off school, were dramas, usually broadcast in the afternoon. They were an opportunity to snuggle under the covers and let my imagination run riot.

Listen with Mother was my first actual memory of radio. I was four years old and hadn’t yet started school. I can hear the presenter’s voice now, it gives me a wonderful feeling of calm and thoughts of a much simpler life. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’ I believe that started as an ad-lib but was so popular they kept it in. I’m glad they did. I can still hear that voice now. To be honest, I don’t think my mother was sitting comfortably or listening. I think she probably had a quick whizz round the kitchen with a tub of Vim, then disappeared into another room with a cup of tea, a sigh and an opportunity for five minutes peace. From there she wouldn’t have been able to hear my elder brother answering Daphne Oxenford’s gentle questions with rude and silly comments, and laughing uncontrollably. These days, of course, a four year old would be much more likely to be playing on some electronic device than sitting quietly and listening to the radio. I’m all for technology and its progress but these children will never know the excitement of that daily oasis of stories, songs and calming voices.

I’m not sure what happened in other families at Christmas, but In the 1950s, when I was growing up, we had a stocking left at the end of the bed, stuffed with a tangerine, some chocolate coins, a couple of little inexpensive toys and possibly a bar of soap and a small selection box. The excitement was real. It was a proper nylon stocking, probably one mum had been wearing the previous day, bulging with (mostly) mysterious shapes. I can’t remember when I stopped believing in Father Christmas, but it didn’t mar the stocking experience, which signalled the start of a day of unadulterated fun, huge quantities of food and endless festivities.

However, I digress. Our main present (yes, always just one) was to be found wrapped under the Christmas tree downstairs. This particular year I was about nine, my brothers eleven and five. For the first time we all had the same present. A portable transistor radio. Our excitement knew no bounds. A whole new world was about to open up. I can still smell the navy blue plastic cover that encased the whole unit, with press studs to keep it secure. 

We inserted the batteries and tuned in. I knew what I wanted to hear. I’d been brought up with that comforting drone of background conversation for as long as I could remember. The first thing I did when I received my radio was make a little cloth cover for it, with a strap that went over my shoulder. Sixty-odd years later I can’t remember why I’ve entered a room but I remember that cloth cover vividly and with great affection : navy blue and white moquette (I guess it was a spare piece from something my mum had been making) It was a totally inappropriate fabric to use, being stiff and unyielding, and needing constant repairs, but oh how I loved that radio with its fraying cover. 

It came with me everywhere. The Archers, Woman’s Hour, Quizzes and Dramas accompanied me constantly. Every night I took the radio up to bed with me, and once my mum had gone downstairs and I heard her clattering about in the kitchen, I would slide under the covers, turn the dial and listen in with one ear, whilst the other ear was trained on the creaky stairs - and impending trouble. Once a week there was a drama - I’ve been reliably informed by my younger brother that it was the Monday Play which he also used to listen to under the covers, before trying to stay awake for ‘I’m Sorry, I’ll Read That Again’ at 10pm. 

One Monday night I was tucked up in bed, radio and earphones at the ready. The Monday play was announced. I snuggled down, ready for the next hour’s entertainment. Within 20 minutes I was so terrified that I didn’t know how I was ever going to sleep that night. I can’t remember the details of the play or even the subject matter, all I know is it was something very scary. I needed my mum but I couldn’t tell her the real reason for my terror. I turned off the radio and placed it on the bedside cabinet with the earphones. Then I shouted to mum till I heard her racing up the stairs. I’m ashamed to say I told her I’d had a nightmare - which I had, in a way. In true mum form, she tutted and sympathised, stroked my brow and tucked me in. She wasn’t daft, she probably guessed what had been going on.

Monday nights were never quite the same after that. They became reading nights, same technique, under the covers but with a torch. Much safer. 

The Magic Box

Hand hovers over pocket
Feels for the small box
With the knobs and wires
It’s the box of voices
Songs
Music
The haunting melody of the Shipping Forecast
The box of magic

Fingers find the dials
Turn slowly
Until that first slight crackle
The sound that signals life
Like a strange fluttering bird
Ebbing and flowing
First soft ,then loud
It takes a while

But finally
The jolly tones
Of weatherman Jack
Informing us of snow to come
Stay safe, Keep warm
The News
In contrast
Dark and Sombre

And next
The Wednesday Play
Dial paused
Earphones in
Imagination fired
Relax
Tune in
Enjoy

Thanks for reading... Jill

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Slots And Slots Of Fun

When I was little every family outing was exciting. Trips out didn’t happen very often so it was always a great adventure. Holidays were even rarer, but there is one that has always remained in my memory.

We were in a very small, very rickety caravan in a place called Shoeburyness, apparently a suburb of Southend, which I think says it all. I was only three but I have vague memories of constant rain. They could possibly have come from being told the tale so many times, but, either way, it poured down. Non stop. I’m sure my mum and dad were at the end of their tethers and desperate to find entertainment for my brother and me. I think they might, however, have entertained themselves rather better, as my younger brother put in an appearance exactly nine months later…..

Dad was assigned the task of taking out a three year old and a five year old. Mum didn’t care where we went so long as we disappeared for at least two hours. Dad hated holidays at the best of times, and I can imagine this was probably his idea of hell. We set off for an ice cream in a warm dry cafe, but before we could find one we passed an Amusement Arcade. Geoff and I had seen enough of these places to know they involved machines, levers, money and fun. Dad was persuaded to take us in. Pennies were reluctantly placed in sticky palms, dad found a seat and Geoff and I went off, hand in hand, with our passports to heaven. I remember posting pennies into machines, without any idea of what might happen. I just enjoyed that satisfying clink as the penny hit the metal inside. It wasn’t long before we’d run out of pennies - and not a win in sight. We returned to dad, who looked longingly at his watch and felt in his pockets for more change. We spent a good hour in that arcade before the money ran out and we got bored with watching other people scooping out their winnings from below the machines.

If I remember rightly, we packed up and left the damp caravan that evening, after mum and dad had had a whispered exchanged by the greasy CampingGaz. It was a day early but I was still floating on a cloud of pennies and slots and the frantic, satisfying sound of winnings hitting the tray.

There weren’t any arcades near where we lived in north London, but there was a museum in the local park, with various strange and random items, from a stuffed fox with a bird in its mouth - which fascinated and horrified me in equal measure - to bees in a see-through hive, and wonder of wonders, an automaton of a man on a bike. To get the man cycling a coin had to be inserted into the slot at the side. Off he went, pedalling to nowhere with great enthusiasm. I became hooked. The stuffed fox took a back seat whilst the cyclist could be persuaded to pedal.

I have a friend who tells me at regular intervals that I’d make a great smoker. I think what she means is that I’ve got an addictive personality, and I have to agree with her. I’ve always been that way - if something appeals to me I’ll go all out to pursue it. Luckily I’ve never smoked or gambled; too much alcohol makes me sick and gives me such a bad hangover that it just isn’t worth it. But……I do know that I could quite easily go down any of those paths.

Whilst there wasn’t much call for slot machines near me, I started to seek out anything that would reward me for posting that coin in the slot. The underground was good. I wasn’t interested in the cigarettes, but the chewing gum machine, with it’s promise of an extra pack on the fourth turn, was always exciting - and nerve-racking when one only had the money for one turn. Chocolate in a machine was also a lure, although my pocket money never stretched that far. I spent a long time staring through the glass front, deciding whether I’d go for the Mars Bar or the Kit Kat if only I had that elusive sixpence.

When I started school, my pocket money was one penny every other day, which was a decent amount for a child in the ’50s, and bought me sweets on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The instant gratification overcame any desire to save the money and drop it into my newly acquired money box. That, I decided, was for birthday and Christmas gifts and random small amounts donated by my grandparents on their departure from the house.

the money box

So far my addictions have remained under control, but I’m always on high alert after my mum travelled to Las Vegas in her 70s and went a bit mad on the slot machines. According to dad she spent about five dollars in half an hour………..

The Money Box

The box is heavy
With a satisfying rattle
There’s a slot at the top where I drop in the penny
It lands with a clink.
When it’s empty - not often
It sounds more like a clunk
Quite different
Once for my birthday, I had a note
Ten whole shillings
I folded it like I’d seen dad do
And tried to push it in
The coins resisted, jostled against it
I never tried another note
Underneath the box the rubber stopper
Teasing me with it’s smug seal
Here are the scratches where I tried so hard
to get to the treasure
Chubby fingers wrestling with the knife
The plug slightly yielding
Then popping back annoyingly into place
I lift the box again, feel its weight
Place it carefully back on the shelf
And think about what it might buy.

Thanks for reading,      Jill Reidy

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In 1956 Mrs Reidy Wanted To Become A Hairdresser

To choose a favourite painting has been a bit of a challenge. I’ve always been creative and appreciated art but I’m afraid I’m more of a "I know what I like" sort of critic, rather than one with any expert knowledge. I’m ashamed to say that my A level art history lessons were spent messing about at the back, laughing with friends and flicking things at the teacher.

When I followed school with art college I really wasn’t much better. Lots of chatting, far too much giggling - all those marvellous paintings going right over my head….. I went into Graphic Design and didn’t take much notice of paintings for the next thirty years.

Since becoming involved in the local art scene, surrounded by arty friends and family, I've become more interested in contemporary art. I’m intrigued by the work produced, and find myself wondering what inspired it and where the ideas come from to produce the actual piece. I wouldn’t know where to start.

I’ve been moved to buy an original art work only once. It was by a local artist who was producing a series of paintings of chairs from photos sent to her. I emailed her a picture of a favourite chair, she painted it, I loved it and I bought it. So I suppose you could say that’s one of my favourite paintings.

Then there are the torn scraps of paper adorned with children’s and grandchildren’s paintings which I just can’t bear to throw away: smudges and splashes of paint, unidentifiable objects and people, but all done with purpose - I can still see those little faces, full of concentration - and often just as covered in paint as the paper.

A few weeks before I was fifty my husband told me he wanted to try out his school camera. I remember thinking it was slightly odd, as I was the photographer, he never bothered. He took a couple of close ups of my face and seemed satisfied with the results. I didn’t give it another thought until I was presented with a large framed canvas on my birthday, my own face staring back at me. 

It’s not a true likeness but it’s undoubtedly me, and made all the more special by the thought behind it and the effort that went into it. Another favourite.

However, after a lot of thought, I think my all time favourite painting, now 66 years old and hanging on the wall in my front room is one entitled, ‘In 1956 Mrs Reidy Wanted to Become a Hairdresser……’

Painted at the age of four, I remember it vividly: the sight and smell of those solid paint blocks, the way they felt heavy in my hand, how the brush scraped against the paper as it dried, the paper itself, thin and easily ripped. I worked with a concentration that was subsequently lacking as a reckless teen.

In 1956 Mrs Reidy Wanted to Become a Hairdresser

The subject was, ‘What I want to be when I grow up.’
We didn’t have canvases, palettes or multiple colours
Nor a large jug of brushes, every size
No model to gaze on
No smock or beret

Just…..

Dad's shirt cut off at the sleeves and
Mrs Gorvin, our teacher, on a low chair
Sides spilling over, flesh pink bloomers peeping out
from voluminous skirt hem
Talking slowly and clearly
Important instructions for painting
(Although I’m sure she’d never done any)
Don't make a mess, use ALL the colours
Wash out paintbrush in between!
I listened impatiently,
Eyes darting to the fresh white paper laid out on the desk
I knew what I wanted to paint

I worked at an easel twice my height
Peter Hipkin on his masterpiece the other side
Cheap Paper secured with one large bulldog clip
Paints in solid blocks,
Water in a jar, transforming as the
one thick, unwieldy brush swirled blue and red and yellow
till it merged into a muddy brown
And then, stroke by stroke, there I was, my future secured, 

a hairdresser complete with high heels and rollers in my hair

Tools and equipment very poor
But a four year old’s imagination? Oh so rich.
And that was surely more than enough?

Thanks for reading...... Jill Reidy

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Blue And Other Hues

So that’s Monday and Friday; January, March, April and August; John, Michael, David and Sonny.
All blue, though different hues. And in case you think I’ve totally cracked, let me explain.

My name is Jill Reidy and I’m a synaesthete.
There, I’ve said it.

If you’re not sure what synaesthesia means, here’s a simple definition. ‘a condition in which someone experiences things through their senses in an unusual way, for example by experiencing a colour as a sound, or a number as a position in space: A person with synaesthesia may, more rarely, taste sounds, names or colours.’ It’s as though one’s senses have got muddled and gone into overdrive, overlapping with each other until the edges become blurred.

In my case I have colour/grapheme and spacial sequence synaesthesia. Hence the blue days, months and names above. I also have Ordinal Linguistic Personification, which means I assign personalities to inanimate objects. Plus some more obscure synaesthetic tendencies, but I’ll save that for another day.

Apart from the days, months and people’s names, ordinary nouns also have colours. Some are obvious, of course. The word, ‘cheese’ flashes up yellow; ‘sea’ is blue; ‘paper’ white. However, words like ‘dress,’ ‘shoes,’ ‘door.’ where the actual object could be any colour, stick to just the one in my head. So dress is always red, shoes are grey and door is mustard yellow. When I’ve been quizzed on this, I sometimes find it difficult to think of the colour. I know it’s there but it’s a bit like a dream or a distant memory, where I’m trying to clutch at the rapidly fading thoughts. However, I can’t think of a time when Saturday wasn’t white, and Tuesday a short fat rectangle of rusty orange.

Up until about twenty years ago I assumed everybody thought like me, and saw things as I did. It was all I’ve ever known so I never even gave it a thought. However all that changed the day I was listening to R4s Home Truths with John (blue) Peel, one Saturday (white) afternoon. The programme was always interesting, with the host investigating unusual and obscure things. I was only vaguely listening as I busied myself round the kitchen, but my ears pricked up as I heard him mention associating words with colour. ‘So what?’ I thought, ‘everybody does that.‘ It turned out that not everybody does do that. In fact, it all seemed to be quite puzzling to those without the condition.

Wait. How can you think about next week if you don’t see the days in front of you? How can you talk about Wednesday if you don’t visualise the shiny orange triangle as I do? How can you know what you’re doing on Sunday if it’s not projected onto that plain black rectangle? I honestly can’t get my head around seeing nothing.

You see, my week not only has colours and shapes but also textures. I couldn’t quite convey in the diagram, but Friday has a bobbly texture. I’m not sure what it’s called but it’s the same fabric as some coats in the 1950s. And, as I’ve already mentioned, Wednesday is shiny. Thursday is a thin, straggly pink. In fact Thursday’s whole personality is slightly pathetic.

I wondered if it was something to do with being creative, but I couldn’t find any real evidence for this. Synaesthesia seems to be pretty random. Half my family and friends can describe in great detail the layout of their virtual calendars, the colours of the months or the shapes of days, whilst the other half simply stare and shake their heads in complete puzzlement.

Having now confirmed every reader’s suspicion that this writer has finally cracked and lost the plot, I think I’ll just leave it there. I’d love to hear from anybody who can relate to any of this. But please don’t tell me that Saturday’s red and Friday’s green, when we all know they’re white and bobbly navy blue.

Blue and Other Hues

Write about blue they said
That’s this week’s topic
I started off all right
But it went a bit haywire
When I felt I had to give the other colours
Equal exposure
That’s the Ordinal Linguistic Personification
Raising its ugly head
Because of course
There’s jealousy between those days
It’s like my shoes
Some are friendly, some not so
I do try to be fair
And bend over backwards at times
To treat them equally
But Grey Boots will never redeem themselves now
Not since their first outing
When I went right off them
And couldn’t look as I took them off
Red Docs are a different matter
No side to them.

But I digress
Back to blue
That’s Monday and Friday
January, March, April and August
John, Michael, David and Sonny
All blue
Oh and the sea
And the sky, of course
But it might surprise you to know
That D and T - and a few more letters
Then handbag, photo, tube
Book and ruler
All share this wondrous hue
It’s never ending
This synaesthesia situation
Best go with it.

I’ll see you on the shiny orange triangle,
Get it on your calendar
The friendly Red Docs will bring me….

Thanks for reading……..Jill

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Life Cycle of a Love Bite

Staggering, I know, but I’m no expert on modern sexual practices - in fact, I’m not sure I ever was - but I do know a love bite when I see one. And, having given it some thought, and done my own rudimentary research (sneaking looks at young teens’ necks as I pass) I come to the conclusion that they’re a bit of a no-no these days.

How wrong can you be? Confidently, I messaged the family on the communal WhatsApp, asking whether love bites are currently in fashion. I should have known I wouldn’t get a sensible answer. The first to respond was my husband, with, ‘Yes, I get loads.’ I ignored that, deciding that (a) I’d never seen any on him and (b) good luck to anybody who ventures near enough to hoover his neck. Other replies were equally silly (I’m not naming names as they all now have responsible jobs). Eventually, my teacher son said he spots love bites on some of the teens in his classes (no chance to cover up in PE). His response is always to ask if they’ve been hit by low flying golf balls. He thinks they'll be amused. I don’t need to describe the looks they give him in response. My PC daughter backed up the theory that, in her experience, love bites are really only for young teen lovers.

I’m guessing it was the same in my day. If my memory serves me right, I think I only ever received one. I was about fourteen and it was a pretty traumatic experience. I’d just been enjoying a good old teenage snog in the back row of the cinema, when his lips abruptly pulled away from mine and latched onto my tender young neck. If I hadn’t been so shocked I’d have screamed and run out. As it was, I was rooted to the seat. However, the physical pain was nothing to the mental worry when I finally managed to extricate myself and slink off to the toilet to look in the mirror. I knew my new neck decoration wouldn’t go down too well with my - albeit pretty liberal - parents.

I ditched the boyfriend, and for the next few days, polo neck jumpers, huge collars, and chiffon scarves soon became very popular in our house. What I lost in fashion credibility, I gained in peace of mind. The bruising gradually changed from red to purple, to yellow and green. I cursed that boy. The angry mark was taking a long time to completely disappear, and the scarves were become claustrophobic.

I thought I’d got away with it till I was emerging from the shower one day, wrapped in a dressing gown, hair up in a towel, about to scoot across the landing to the safety of my bedroom. Dad was coming up the stairs, his eyes just about level with my neck. I recall his double-take as I threw myself into the bedroom and slammed shut the door. I sat on the bed, dreading the expected knock. I heard the toilet flush, then dad descend the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief and pulled on a polo neck.

That evening, as I said my good nights, dad looked up from his paper. ‘You’d better check your bed,’ he said. Puzzled, I stared at him. ‘I think you might have bed bugs.’ Pointedly, he rubbed the side of his neck, and a grin spread across his face, ‘They can give nasty bites.’ I was horrified, and probably blushed a deeper shade of red than even the original love bite.
‘Night, love,’ he said, returning to his paper.
‘Night, dad,’ I managed, ‘Errr, I wouldn’t mention bed bugs to mum, she’ll only worry.’ xxx


Life Cycle of a Love Bite

It’s not on the curriculum
Life cycle of a love bite
I do my own study
inspecting my neck
at regular intervals
I’m hoping its life is short
and painless
Always fascinated
by form and colour
each night I squint
at its reflection
directing the spotlight
at its epicentre
as a scientist might look
through a microscope
at slides of mysterious things
To start, its shape is random
its colour, angry red
mirroring my mood
Slowly, shape and shades
morph and fade
Purple, green, orange, yellow
All colours that I love
but best displayed elsewhere
Day 6, the life cycle of a love bite
is coming to an end

One last lingering look
before the scarves are ditched

Thanks for reading.......Jill

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10.30 Coffee Time, A Very Simple Pleasure

When my dad reached his three score years and ten he must have decided that he might not have many years left, and wrote an essay on the things that gave him pleasure in life.  I can’t remember all the details but I do know I wasn’t really surprised by any of his choices.  Family, food, coffee, maths, chess, books, nature, cars, crosswords, and - the word I skimmed past very quickly - sex.  

My dad loved food - any food.  Although my mum tried to keep him under control he could frequently be found in the kitchen eating chunks of cheese on thickly buttered bread (Camembert a particular favourite - the smellier the better) As my mum had no sense of smell it was left to the rest of us to complain loudly as we entered the house and were confronted by a strong cheesy stench.  Eventually, the Camembert was double wrapped in foil and clingfilm and banished to the lean-to. 

As it happened, my dad had another twenty three years to enjoy those simple pleasures, and enjoy them he did. Every night at 9 o’clock my mum and dad would each have a Cornetto.  If I was staying, and refused one, he would tell me how delicious it was.  Boxes of chocolates couldn’t be left out if dad was in the room.  He had been diagnosed as diabetic, but never took it as seriously as he should have.  Biscuits and cakes disappeared mysteriously with nobody knowing a thing about it. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t nagged him when I was there.  I was concerned for his health, but maybe he’d got it right: his enjoyment outweighed any risk. 

Seafood and, in particular, lobsters, became a firm favourite.  He found that Lidl sold them and asked for a constant supply, panicking if he ran out.  I can still see him with a knife and hammer, cracking the shells, his mouth watering at the prospect of the meal ahead.  Although lobsters were a bit of an extravagance, not all his simple pleasures were expensive.  Most cost nothing at all.  Trips to the library were frequent and regular.  He enjoyed a wide range of genres, from whodunnits and biographies to intellectual books on philosophy and religion.  

My dad was a life long learner, who had missed out on a university education due to his family's lack of finances, and his father's desire to have his son join him in his one man optical business.  Dad would have been an ideal university student, but sadly it wasn’t to be.  Instead, he continued to educate himself, enrolling for Open University courses and thriving on discussion and debate. Most subjects interested him, but particularly philosophy, religion (he was an atheist), and maths.  He would sit at the computer for hours, reading and composing emails to his fellow students.  I think this was dad’s way of validating himself.  He would never admit it but I’m sure his lack of university education was a huge regret to him, especially as his best friend, my mum’s brother, John, was sent off to get his degree (my grandma working three jobs to pay for it) and then follow it with lecturing for many years at Kings College London.

Although I am no intellectual, I can relate to many of dad’s simple pleasures.  I love reading, and guess that came from growing up in a houseful of books, with both parents being avid readers. Food goes without saying, and I also love to learn - but not such intensive and deep subjects as those that consumed my dad.  One thing we had in common was a morning coffee.  It’s not just the drinking of it, it’s the whole ritual of boiling the kettle, heating the cafetière, grinding the beans, making the coffee, heating the milk…….It’s a very special pleasure, and one that I still love.  As the smell of the coffee hits me I think of my dad.

The night before Spamhead suddenly died (yes, that was his nickname for obvious food related reasons), my brother phoned to speak to my mum.  In the background dad called out proudly, “I finished the Telegraph crossword by 10 this morning, and I’m just cooking sausages!”  That summed him up in one sentence. It makes me very happy to think he was still enjoying his simple pleasures right up to the end.

10.30 Coffee Time

Scoop beans

Rich and black

With oily sheen

Pour into hopper

Grind fine 

Savour smell

Freshly ground Continental 

Two large spoons full 

Into heated cafetière

Water boiled

Wait a second

Tip kettle

Gently pour 

Into pot

Stare dreamily 

Through rising steam 

Sniff in sniff in 

Full force of brewing coffee

Lid on

Careful, don’t plunge yet

Meanwhile

Choose favourite mug

Just for coffee 

Not for tea

Pour in milk 

Heat thirty seconds 

Dream of treat to come 

Five minutes

Time to plunge!  

Inhale smell

Coffee brewed

Pour slowly slowly 

Onto milk in mug

Watch as bubbles rise

Let cool for seconds

Before that first delicious sip...

10.30 Coffee Time 

Thanks for reading.......Jill

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