Spontaneity

T and I were walking her dog (Billy) in the park today and I happened to mention that this week’s blog was to be on ‘Spontaneity’. She looked at me with a slight look of incredulity and exclaimed “Spontaneity. You are writing about Spontaneity?!”

I was more than slightly aggrieved and that was before I noticed that even Billy was guffawing.

I told her, after explaining calmly that spontaneity was a part of my routine, that I was thinking about doing something on haiku but wasn’t keen and when she had recovered she reminded me of a story I’d told her a few years ago. This is it.

the Gaiety Coffee Bar, Butlin's, Pwllheli, 1970

In the summer of 1970 I had worked as a Plain Clothes Security Officer at Butlins in Pwllheli. During that time I had met my first proper girlfriend, Millie (Irmeli), a Finnish girl who was spending her summer working as chamber maid to get some money and better her English. It was an emotional parting and we kept writing to each other over the following months and looking forward to seeing each other again. She was going to work at Butlins again but didn’t know when or where and I was going to take the summer off by signing on the dole, as I was then at college, and travel to wherever she was posted.

So, it was in June 1971 and end of exams at Wolverhampton Poly so we had decided to have a party to celebrate. Our house was near the college so plenty turned up and it wasn’t until about 7 am that we kicked the last ones out. At which point the post arrived with a card from Millie. It said:

‘In Ayr. Where are you?'

At this point it should be noted that faded tie-dye jeans were in. Desert boots were in. Long hair and beard was in. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I can’t remember the rest or what bag I took. I do remember the jolt of electricity I got when I read the card and chucked whatever was around in it and headed off for Scotland immediately.

Hitching was so normal then that I must have got up to around Gretna without anything noticeable happening because it was there that to my surprise a Rolls Royce stopped and offered me a lift. 

It turned out the driver was the head of a major international company and it was the first time he had been back to his home territory since he was a boy. It was quite moving as he pointed out hills and lochs where he had played as a boy. He was kind enough to drop me at the Ayr Butlins camp. But by this time the place was closed and I was lucky enough to find its stables and managed to get some intermittent sleep.

Ayr Butlin's stables

In the morning I went to the main gate and asked for Millie. Minutes later we had an emotional reunion. Even more emotional when she told me that she and the other Finnish students were being moved to Pwllheli right then.

She turned back into the camp and the next thing was that I was waving to her as she passed in a coach. She had got a window seat and tears were flowing. I kept on waving until the coach disappeared and then sat down on the side of the road as I realised that I was going to have to follow.

But that was fine. It was wonderful. Young and in love.

I could have written another article on the journey to North Wales that I seem to remember involving sleeping under the Menai Bridge and a milk lorry getting me the last few miles to the gates of the Butlins camp where I knew all the holes in the fences due to the previous year.

map of Butlin's, Pwllheli

I was looking for a particular poem to end this and as I couldn’t find a suitable one in my main files I looked in my paper based ‘Useless’ one and gave a gasp of surprise at finding the one below written when it says it was but I don’t remember writing it. Lesson: Never chuck stuff.

Dole Q (Summer 1971)

Sitting in the dole queue
I’m waiting for my name
Staring at the dark brown floor
Seeing through the same.
A cigarette sub sails
Under a spit wet sea
Rising to an occasion
Which is more than
Can be said for me,
Feet seem to walk this water
Well, it’s a point of view,
Stepping on stony glances
Or merely another shoe.
Somewhere in the distance
Lies a promised hand
So I’ll be off tomorrow
Towards another land.
A number is called
A number are bald
But many more are younger.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Lolita - 'thank heaven for little girls...'

Nobody has even suggested that this is an easy topic for a blog. There are so many current issues with child exploitation in the news.  It seems that most days, there are items about child sex abuse, grooming gangs or sex slavery. This is my country and I am right to be appalled. Unfortunately I have to say that although I am shocked at the frequency and number of these dreadful crimes - they are nothing new. I was first aware of the sexual exploitation of under-aged girls in Blackpool in the early 1970's. It was illegal then too.

Although the age of consent was sixteen in the 1970's there was still an innocence about under age sex. Our parents were unaware that through the coffee bar culture, school girls and older men came into un-chaperoned contact. Men in expensive cars often waited outside school gates for young, nubile girls. We knew who they were: Men who liked 'schoolies'.  The large influx of draft-dogging Italians in seaside towns in the 1970s added to the problem. Italian mommas kept tight reign on their daughters. British girls were the obvious choice for a charming, handsome, foreigner or a man whose faith encouraged him to exploit easier options.  I don't recall any prosecutions or news items.

When I was younger, I loved to watch musicals. My love of dance and romantic nature was nurtured by a father and Grandmother who were both very musical. I always wanted to dance with a boy, like Fred did with Ginger. I knew the words to every song in every musical by the time I was 6. Dad bought L.P's. My favourite film was Gigi.

Hang on a moment! Gigi was a film with a strange theme. A handsome man visits Gigi's mother regularly ... a character who is never seen ...but we are led to believe that she is an opera singer. The man then starts to be interested in Gigi, who is blossoming into a beautiful young woman. She tempts him, he succumbs, then he rejects her a 'just one of those things'. My favourite song from the show, 'Thank Heaven for Little Girls' sung by the ageing Maurice Chevalier was blatantly extolling their appeal to older men. Five years later, I would have recognised the character as someone my older sister would refer to as a 'dirty old man.'

With a reasonably long career in dance, I have met many men who willingly exploit young girls. I know women whose careers have stalled simply because they wouldn't sleep with a particular promoter. I was fortunate enough to lack the looks but to have both the talent and the brains to steer clear of them. I could tell some tales and spill a few beans. Often the young women involved were only too willing to dress up, daub on the make up and lead men on. There is no justification for under aged sexual exploitation. When my daughter was growing up, I had no illusions - I was a young girl once ...

The Gentleman

You were twenty-two and everything I dreamed,

Tall, dark and handsome,
In your uniform:
Charm and sophistication,
Bursting from the seams.

I was thirteen, articulate and agile,

Much older than my years
In my uniform:
Blossoming into woman-hood,
Brazenly, flirting with my eyes.

And when unexpectedly alone,

I called you - and you came to me,
Misreading my intentions:
Protective like a brother,
I wanted you as lover.

I didn’t feel the slightest shame,

I longed for your embrace,
I would have ruined your career,
And possibly my life
but you would not have been to blame.

An officer and gentleman,

You resisted my advances,
Put me firmly in my place,
It broke my heart when I saw anger
Sweep across your gentle face.

I waited all my teenage years

Ached for your return,
If you had said you wanted me
I would abandon everything,
I would have sailed the seven seas.

You were my very first love,  

I’ll always hold you in my heart,
I wait. I dream. I long for you,
If you should ever feel the same,
I haven’t changed my name.

Thanks for reading.  Adele

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