Reading - I Love Books

 

This is a favourite poem by Julia Donaldson,

I opened a book and in I strode
Now nobody can find me.
I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,
My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,
I’ve swallowed the magic potion.
I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king
And dived in a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends.
I shared their tears and laughter
And followed their road with its bumps and bends
To the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came.
The cloak can no longer hide me.
My chair and my house are just the same,
But I have a book inside me.

                                           Julia Donaldson

I spent yesterday afternoon reading a book, an actual book with paper pages. I found a quiet corner, made myself comfortable and escaped into a gentle Josephine Cox. She could weave a good yarn and I found this one to be an excellent page turner. I’m often reading, but this was a bit different. I was out of the comforts of home to the clinical, basic décor of a hospital waiting area. My husband was having a procedure and needed a responsible adult to take him home and stay with him afterwards. That’s me, then. In sickness and in health. With him safely delivered to the appropriate department, I wandered off to find some lunch. I’m very familiar with our hospital, but new bits keep being added and I was thrown off course for a few minutes, until I recognised something. I’d gone the wrong way, so about turn, and quickly found where I wanted to be. Soon, fed and watered, I was back in the correct waiting room, ready to read for hours on end, which I did.

A few people came and went, though it seemed to be a quiet department. Patients had a minder to accompany them, sitting in pairs. Conversation was whispered. Occasionally, a phone rang at reception or a mobile phone trilled. I seemed to be the only person reading. Most people had their phone out. A sign of the times, I suppose. I like to do a quick ‘Wordscape’ or remind myself of something I’ve forgotten on Google. Of course, they could be reading on their phones. I have Kindle on mine. It’s not the same as turning real pages. I miss that. I soon stopped people-watching and continued with Josephine’s novel.

Before Covid restrictions put an end to it, waiting rooms everywhere had a pile of well-thumbed magazines spilling off a table. I would fish out the most interesting problem pages in Woman’s Own. It was better than getting called into an appointment mid-way through an absorbing read of a riveting article, disturbed from and never to return.

I’ve always been a bookworm. As soon as I learnt to read, and I was a keen pupil, I was off into wherever stories could take me. I would get into trouble many times for continuing to read in bed after ‘lights out’, sometimes with a torch under the covers, which really angered my mother. She would threaten to take my book away, but she never did.

As a volunteer at primary school, I’ve enjoyed listening to children read aloud and praising them for an excellent effort. Now, based in the library I’m happy to help them to choose a book and give encouragement to read for themselves. I used to tell my own children that if they can read, they can do anything. Here’s a quote from Ricky Gervais, in his support of keeping public libraries open,

“I had no money growing up. My dad was a labourer and my mum did everything to make ends meet. Men worked hard. Women worked miracles. But education was free. As was the local library. I knew books were my passport to a better life.”

I agree, and Roald Dahl must have thought along the same lines. His ‘Matilda’ is terrific.

By the way, all went well at the hospital. We were there for hours, but those hours of waiting gave me a perfect opportunity to enjoy reading without feeling guilty that the kitchen floor needs mopping.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Yarn - A Lifetime of Knitting

If you know me well enough, you will know that I spend a lot of my time knitting and crocheting.  I love to spend a relaxing evening with a lap full of wool and I’m constantly making baby clothes and things for my grandchildren.

My hobby goes back to when I was a little girl, fascinated by my grandmother who was always knitting, and my mother who, at that time was knitting for the unborn baby that became my little sister. Between them, they taught me. One of them would start me off by ‘casting on’ about twelve stitches then I would knit rows. At the age of seven and a half I was successful at making a plain scarf for a doll. It was a mystery how I always ended up with more stitches than I’d started with, but it didn’t matter, and the holes that sometimes appeared for no reason didn’t matter either. I loved helping my mum with her little matinee coats. She did the ‘purl’ rows and let me do the ‘knit’ rows and being involved in getting things ready for the baby was the best thing ever.

My skills improved as I grew up. In my early teens I wanted to learn to crochet.  Twiggy looked fabulous in a crocheted mini dress with a chain belt. I could make that. Carnaby Street eat your heart out. My Nanna spent hours teaching me. I studied her hand movements intently as she slowly took me step by tiny step. ‘Yarn round the hook once, then through, yarn round the hook twice then through once then once again and do the same in every loop.’ Yes, I followed and understood, I could take it from there, so off I went. A short time later, I would be handing her back a tangled mess of wool. She would tut and I would be holding back tears of frustration.  I never mastered crochet in the grandmother’s lifetime and Twiggy was soon wearing cotton summer dresses with a zip up the front. I had one of those.

I managed to crochet a bedspread when I was about twenty-two. I was living alone and trying to make my flat a home. No television, but there was some great radio drama in the evenings. I had a crochet pattern and lots of determination. It took ages. I still have it, after many years of thinking it was lost, and I’m sure my grandmother would be proud. Both my grandmothers and my mother left me a legacy of life skills.

My husband and I have been staying at our favourite getaway in Dumfries and Galloway recently.  On the way, we usually stop at Castle Douglas for a bite to eat and to stock up with groceries. I take advantage of a gander round one of my favourite shops, Outback Yarns craft shop and always come out with something.  I have a massive collection of various wools and yarns at home, but there’s always room for more. I still have a stash I brought home from the Hebrides last year.

 

I found this poem. I remembered holding out my arms for my mum to wind wool, and it made me smile.

 

She'd bring to me a skein of wool
And beg me to hold out my hands;
so on my pipe I cease to pull
And watch her twine the shining strands
Into a ball so snug and neat,
Perchance a pair of socks to knit
To comfort my unworthy feet,
Or pullover my girth to fit.

As to the winding I would sway,
A poem in my head would sing,
And I would watch in dreamy way
The bright yarn swiftly slendering.
The best I liked were coloured strands
I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . .
Two active and two passive hands,
So busy wining shining wool.

Alas! Two of those hands are cold,
And in these days of wrath and wrong,
I am so wearyful and old,
I wonder if I've lived too long.
So in my loneliness I sit
And dream of sweet domestic rule . . .
When gentle women used to knit,
And men were happy winding wool.

Robert William Service (1874-1958)

 

The bedspread, when I found it again last year.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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