tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45685678028702232672024-02-21T13:38:41.875+00:00Charnwood ChroniclesCharnwood Chronicles is an online platform for writers to share stories created in - and sometimes about - the Charnwood area of Leicestershire. It's curated by Alison Mott, a writer based in Loughborough. See www.alisonmott.com.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-44410767131247552372024-02-16T18:04:00.002+00:002024-02-16T18:25:31.864+00:00Compassion (in the style of A Nail by Anon)<p>For want of compassion, proper funding was lost;<br />For want of proper funding, a doctor was lost;<br />For want of a doctor, an appointment was lost;<br />For want of an appointment, a prescription was lost;<br />For want of a prescription, medication was lost;<br />For want of medication, good health was lost;<br />For want of good health, a life was lost;<br />And all for the want of a little compassion.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Alison Mott</i></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuktpKIFIqGMtlns34R4VWH1kP2hoW0xksB_dPo2Cj2GTY647SAnejHnLlJO1gO-JIoPQftQiXOxylX8h7vb9wv3smsAjK2J9kcuyxfDwD6KPQSr5AfuTqlcB5hwOBJFHMQYpDbZ8zOKaWVHvh1-ejvRSppVhuG-NHix8m_c8YpTTbY2OLAp5EO2c7h4/s3543/hush-naidoo-jade-photography-yo01Z-9HQAw-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2362" data-original-width="3543" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuktpKIFIqGMtlns34R4VWH1kP2hoW0xksB_dPo2Cj2GTY647SAnejHnLlJO1gO-JIoPQftQiXOxylX8h7vb9wv3smsAjK2J9kcuyxfDwD6KPQSr5AfuTqlcB5hwOBJFHMQYpDbZ8zOKaWVHvh1-ejvRSppVhuG-NHix8m_c8YpTTbY2OLAp5EO2c7h4/s320/hush-naidoo-jade-photography-yo01Z-9HQAw-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@hush52?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Hush Naidoo Jade Photography</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/black-and-gray-stethoscope-yo01Z-9HQAw?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-64825141740249555472024-02-16T17:42:00.004+00:002024-02-16T18:01:00.313+00:00The Doctor, 2023 - An Ode<p>Let me to the
doctor go,<br />My pain gets
worse, ‘should not be so,<br />I will a quick
appointment make<br />by telephone, my
hands now shake!<br />Am I in luck?
It’s down to fate,<br />ten seconds past
the hour of eight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m in a queue,
I’m put on hold,<br />The minutes pass,
I’m growing old!<br />After what seems
to be an hour<br />the phone goes
dead, I have no power<br />to recover my
urgent call;<br />My patience now,
begins to pall.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">The second time,
a lady’s voice<br />intones a sort of
‘multi choice.’<br />Press button one,
or two, or three,<br />there is no
charge, the call is free;<br />We’re pleased to
tell you while you wait<br />‘Your call is valued!’;
(I’m number 8).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I’ll listen to
the choice again,<br />wrestling with
increasing pain.<br />I’m tempted now,
by option six,<br />let’s see what a
human voice can fix!<br />I’ll tell some
person all the facts -<br />Computer, you can
now relax.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Hello, and
welcome to the surgery,<br />How can I help? My
name is Marjorie.’<br />‘A doctor I would
like to see’,<br />And Marj’ is
saying, ‘Get past Me!<br />Are you calling
about yourself?’<br />(No, it’s about
an aging elf!)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">‘A few small
checks before we start;<br />have you a
problem with your Heart?<br />We ask our
patients to ‘book on line’<br />It saves you
money, and also time.<br />The doctor has a
lot to do ...<br />Did you say blood
clots in your poo?'</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><i>David Taylor, June 2023</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqnTMBMrbSD-8QzzUP7jzmOmTvNFz-6BEWeD6uXqMMppszibw74jiiLTvMZlNXux-28OHIkd72pGqTIMDxh0tZIowUcNLvu4s6tG66fSEHonaXPX6oNTDtgUDUcwykKgoU8Ky4_yt7JLmUf6cbE9D3cZ0Y3kms2wcUcss_De8LAkYLt9Lzs0J5qeERils/s5472/miryam-leon-Jdpvhn6xA0w-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqnTMBMrbSD-8QzzUP7jzmOmTvNFz-6BEWeD6uXqMMppszibw74jiiLTvMZlNXux-28OHIkd72pGqTIMDxh0tZIowUcNLvu4s6tG66fSEHonaXPX6oNTDtgUDUcwykKgoU8Ky4_yt7JLmUf6cbE9D3cZ0Y3kms2wcUcss_De8LAkYLt9Lzs0J5qeERils/s320/miryam-leon-Jdpvhn6xA0w-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@miryam_leon?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Miryam León</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/red-corded-home-phone-Jdpvhn6xA0w?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /><i><br /></i></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-47195859819915465632024-01-10T12:20:00.001+00:002024-02-21T12:25:54.016+00:00Evita, or not Evita - that is the question!<p>Anybody could see that the understudy was making a right
hash of the role of Evita, her requirement to learn and practice the words to
the main role as well as her own clearly having been bypassed.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘What <i>is</i> that strange song you keep singing?’ the
director bellowed in the interval. ‘It’s not at all what you’re supposed to
sing!’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘It’s from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,’ the girl
replied, blushing. ‘I thought if I sang it to the Evita tune, no-one would
notice the difference.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Alison Mott, 4<sup>th</sup> Jan 2024<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnfZmKpbYEz-cnbfcTR9IgwGLXFgarJCHM6U9UTd_l5agcDDaSvskxy5djE0ukyo-DHPMDncSozIDRffCyS-nhbwHiKGj3VT2CrK5lg-9T8D_9mQOddhymCm83llFFt-tdKP8YomM8gOiU7T9346njfWBhuvsV3yezmc0UGhyphenhyphenCIREdm4K0elKiX3z_LY/s4000/IMG_20240103_192618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnfZmKpbYEz-cnbfcTR9IgwGLXFgarJCHM6U9UTd_l5agcDDaSvskxy5djE0ukyo-DHPMDncSozIDRffCyS-nhbwHiKGj3VT2CrK5lg-9T8D_9mQOddhymCm83llFFt-tdKP8YomM8gOiU7T9346njfWBhuvsV3yezmc0UGhyphenhyphenCIREdm4K0elKiX3z_LY/s320/IMG_20240103_192618.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evita, staged at Curve, Leicester in January 2024 (where in fact an understudy drove 150 miles on the last weekend to cover the role and gave a fantastic performance!). Photo: A Mott</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>See an article about the real understudy saving the day <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2024/jan/07/actor-drives-150-miles-to-star-in-evita-after-lead-and-understudy-fall-ill" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-80908962952417075052024-01-04T17:23:00.005+00:002024-01-04T17:48:27.134+00:00To be, or not to be, a Viking …<div style="text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I had a go with an app, yesterday, which shows what
you would’ve looked like as a Viking. I uploaded a photo to it, taken in the
park last September, and within minutes it had popped up an image of me with
long thick plaits and deep brown un-spectacled eyes, but otherwise (in my
opinion) looking much as I once did back in my twenties.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">
Looking at it, I guess that ‘Viking Me’ would be in her twenties, too - the
prime of her life. Google tells me that 35% of women in Viking England didn't
survive beyond thirty years of age, with thirty-one to forty-year-olds
considered middle-aged and anyone over fifty classed as old. At my age – sixty
- I would probably have been dead.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">
Quite interesting, when you consider the British government now expect me to
work until I'm sixty-seven!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I ran out of blood pressure tablets on New Year's Eve, so discombobulated by
Christmas and trying to remember which day each day of the in-between week actually
was that the fact I was on the last packet escaped my notice. So I ordered a
new prescription online, and popped in to the chemist yesterday and again today
to see whether, against the odds, it had been actioned.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">
It was, ‘Nothing's come through, yet,’ yesterday, but, thankfully, a ‘Yes’
today. I've never worried about not taking them on the odd day here and there
before but hadn't felt a hundred percent on my walk into town earlier, and
after my elder brother’s heart attack a few weeks ago, have begun to worry the
medication’s more vital to keeping me alive than I'd previously assumed.
Indeed, it could well be the reason I've even made it to the age of sixty, when
my Viking ancestor-esses generally didn't.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">
So I was grateful when the assistant said, ‘yes, they’re here!’, adding, ‘do
you pay for your prescriptions?’<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">
‘No,’ I beamed, ‘I'm sixty!’, the fact that I get them for free a relatively
new and pleasant experience, and still something of a surprise, given my
retirement age having been extended.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">‘My apologies,’ she said, and ‘no problem,’ I
replied cheerfully, and I left the shop with a big smile on my face. Because
while I may not look like a twenty-year-old Viking warrioress, it's good to
know I don't look like a twenty-first century old crone, yet, either!</span></div>
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i>Alison Mott</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIAJVsHCzgbic7OwEKa5Og6mJhem_gng6lRoNKU9Zjiw8nZRYErV_AVaaYVizThxkTTgi47bhVdcH3B5Mcyl_GeLiEVw-E1dJKeT5ulacro00-dFo6ukxdCBXoKgRb5-BOm36luT9nM7KaSINF3rBfuZuIgUg8DOcU9E-M_42W_bwIy1IKGJXFs0n75c/s965/IMG_20240104_005517.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="965" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIAJVsHCzgbic7OwEKa5Og6mJhem_gng6lRoNKU9Zjiw8nZRYErV_AVaaYVizThxkTTgi47bhVdcH3B5Mcyl_GeLiEVw-E1dJKeT5ulacro00-dFo6ukxdCBXoKgRb5-BOm36luT9nM7KaSINF3rBfuZuIgUg8DOcU9E-M_42W_bwIy1IKGJXFs0n75c/s320/IMG_20240104_005517.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image created by app on gagdonkey.net</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-10205594231939636832023-12-14T17:12:00.003+00:002023-12-14T17:19:46.454+00:00'To hear the angels sing'<p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">In the
annual pre-Christmas meeting in heaven God sat at the head of the table, with
the angels gathered round. It was, as you might expect, quite a big table.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘There’s
only one item on the agenda today,’ said Gabriel, Chief Angel and secretary to
the meeting, ‘and that’s what is happening to Christmas on earth these days.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘Well,’
God remarked after a moment’s reflection, ‘we have to agree it has changed
somewhat since the events in Bethlehem all those years ago. Then it was Mary,
Joseph, and the lad himself, some shepherds - representing the poor and
outcasts of the world, three wise men – showing we don’t mind the wealthy being
involved, as long as they are generous, and several animals – to show the whole
created world matters. What was happening was a quiet celebration of a
birthday.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">One of
the angels raised a hand. ‘Excuse me God, but isn’t that birthday what we see
being celebrated in churches at this time of year?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘It is,
and I have to say it is a very pleasant surprise to see them still, some two
thousand years since the first. But they are now very much a minority.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘What do
the majority do then?’ It should be said she was a very new angel and this
would be only her second Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘Some,
on the days before, celebrate with pub lunches with people from work, others,
on the night before Christmas have rather a lot to drink, and many wake up on
the day after Boxing Day unable to remember much about the previous two or
three days. Oh, and many folk, of course, don’t celebrate Christmas at all as it
is not part of their religion.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">‘Is
there anything we could do to change things?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">God
smiled rather sadly. ‘There is one thing I wondered about, given how awful
things are in parts of the world at the moment. There is a hymn written almost
two hundred years ago by a chap called E. H. Sears, an American Unitarian
parish minister, and known as, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It came
upon the midnight clear.” </i>There are two lines from the third verse I’d like
to write across earth’s sky, near to where the star shone all those years ago;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O
hush the noise, you men of strife,<br /></i><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> To
hear the angels sing.”</span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">'These
seem to me to be words the world needs to hear.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The
meeting ended and the angels quietly went to rehearse their singing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>David Parkin</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WREQevwbciblb4OQ-fCQ2bfO1bgLWOycqBGzgppRMXdGdE0pHEJyBm7MthMZCM6R7UEasvLrLwmsTKz_IgjLWCCKYdQPUu_1XqdIfNpapWiYLMbSXnZD-n4shGHQnWrHqjoeoWyO9LBOIAuUvFvWZUv9hyphenhyphenx7UX35Y3MDy8uHdm9GSShVhbHjYsSPWyE/s2577/Scan_20231214.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2577" data-original-width="1743" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WREQevwbciblb4OQ-fCQ2bfO1bgLWOycqBGzgppRMXdGdE0pHEJyBm7MthMZCM6R7UEasvLrLwmsTKz_IgjLWCCKYdQPUu_1XqdIfNpapWiYLMbSXnZD-n4shGHQnWrHqjoeoWyO9LBOIAuUvFvWZUv9hyphenhyphenx7UX35Y3MDy8uHdm9GSShVhbHjYsSPWyE/w292-h432/Scan_20231214.jpg" width="292" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image by Liz Waddell, artist</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">You can see more of her artwork at www.lizwaddell.com</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-8281436329524979452023-12-08T11:26:00.010+00:002024-02-21T11:50:12.163+00:00In a Damp December (in the style of Christina Rossetti)<div style="text-align: left;">In a damp December<br />we had had some snow,<br />I was going for a walk<br />but my friend’s dog wouldn’t go.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The skies were grey and murky,<br />the snow began to slush.<br />I went into town instead<br />to beat the Christmas rush.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Went into a café,<br /> windows full of steam.<br />Had a nice hot chocolate<br />with marshmallows and cream.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I walked under Christmas lights,<br /> not the trees I’d planned,<br />but it was still a social time<br />and I heard our town’s brass band.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />In a damp December,<br /> though we had some snow,<br />I wrapped myself up for a walk<br />and I’m glad I chose to go!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i>Alison Mott, Dec 2023</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>*In the style of Christina Rossetti's '<span class="expandableItem" face="DDG_ProximaNova, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_0, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_1, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_2, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_3, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_4, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_5, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_6, "Proxima Nova", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Segoe UI", "Nimbus Sans L", "Liberation Sans", "Open Sans", FreeSans, Arial, "sans-serif"" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14.4px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In the Bleak Midwinter', published in </span><span class="expandableItem" face="DDG_ProximaNova, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_0, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_1, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_2, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_3, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_4, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_5, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_6, "Proxima Nova", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Segoe UI", "Nimbus Sans L", "Liberation Sans", "Open Sans", FreeSans, Arial, "sans-serif"" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14.4px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">January 1872</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="expandableItem" face="DDG_ProximaNova, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_0, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_1, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_2, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_3, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_4, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_5, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_6, "Proxima Nova", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Segoe UI", "Nimbus Sans L", "Liberation Sans", "Open Sans", FreeSans, Arial, "sans-serif"" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14.4px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1Q1IFxW-SZlpWSF4THpJZo_gx1hrXFYYZDgyV0fJEbqeZ7NGImIyiE790IoAaLOnhYZvaTtfZ_YnoTTeTvfsh_8HAmn1oU_JSdud69fgE6_wf6yGA_RWEzGZAwHP3jMP1TF1qzQsmEF2i7SCTPYps1fiDIze1CPUZJERTSHOcz8aE6xZulsvLzOhtsI/s2048/Hot%20chocolate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1Q1IFxW-SZlpWSF4THpJZo_gx1hrXFYYZDgyV0fJEbqeZ7NGImIyiE790IoAaLOnhYZvaTtfZ_YnoTTeTvfsh_8HAmn1oU_JSdud69fgE6_wf6yGA_RWEzGZAwHP3jMP1TF1qzQsmEF2i7SCTPYps1fiDIze1CPUZJERTSHOcz8aE6xZulsvLzOhtsI/w203-h271/Hot%20chocolate.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><br /><span class="expandableItem" face="DDG_ProximaNova, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_0, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_1, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_2, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_3, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_4, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_5, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_6, "Proxima Nova", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Segoe UI", "Nimbus Sans L", "Liberation Sans", "Open Sans", FreeSans, Arial, "sans-serif"" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14.4px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-37550623284508910922023-11-19T12:47:00.004+00:002024-02-21T13:37:42.628+00:00Are you going to Loughborough Fair?<p class="MsoNormal">Are you going to Loughborough Fair?<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>Remember me to mates you see there<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Make sure you put on a waterproof coat<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>A pair of gloves, a scarf round your throat<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Forget an umbrella, however it rains<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>You’ll poke someone’s eye out, they’re sure to complain<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Go on a Wednesday when not many there<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>To avoid the crowds, that crush out the air<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Make sure you take a pocket of change<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>No high value notes that they won’t exchange<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Are you going to Loughborough Fair?<br /><i>Hot dogs, brandy snaps, candy floss<br /></i>I think I'll stay here, at home in my chair!<br /><i>Carousels, waltzers spinning across.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Alison Mott, 2nd November 2023</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLk0G6AG9HZDiNHOcapNQqv9OjgtBPNDXmC5uwrQ68eI4Hm9BVEwzdkO_fPy6heiT1nNWwroVTW2PWyDzCc-B-cc1l27x9ZIwJSd_4RcuEfjHXiuuW94T5bVzELJ25-YFKrU_DRNbsK-ETDDt4DDUvV_Ehku7Sf4Z0ZcgLheyrNJjR0BeGWSZqHuZgLk8/s4608/IMG_20211111_190544.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLk0G6AG9HZDiNHOcapNQqv9OjgtBPNDXmC5uwrQ68eI4Hm9BVEwzdkO_fPy6heiT1nNWwroVTW2PWyDzCc-B-cc1l27x9ZIwJSd_4RcuEfjHXiuuW94T5bVzELJ25-YFKrU_DRNbsK-ETDDt4DDUvV_Ehku7Sf4Z0ZcgLheyrNJjR0BeGWSZqHuZgLk8/s320/IMG_20211111_190544.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: A Mott (2021)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-46991484756249313962023-09-17T12:13:00.001+00:002024-02-21T13:34:56.349+00:00The Viking's come to Nottingham<div style="text-align: left;">Washed by the waters of the River Trent, the deck of the
longboat was wetter than it had been anywhere previously on this journey,
not from the foam-capped waves that had barraged them in the North Sea or the heavy
cold rain that had drenched them as they'd crossed the wide fjords of home. It
seemed more than a little incongruous to be bested by a muddy-brown tidal river in this new land which, so
far, wasn’t looking particularly promising.</div><div style="text-align: left;">‘Are you sure coming here was such a good idea?’ asked Olaf,
frowning at the thistle-riddled meadows stretched out on either side of them.<br />‘Not sure, no,’ said Erik, grimacing in reply. ‘But if we don't like it, we
won't stay long.’</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Alison Mott</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMdVXi4wp3zYIjblYGf-5BHZrtTZjIGNzrd4V4ygXY5njTW4wFyHeVsMb6gazjaT9u3yeWLG8Pv6PndY31fFJqPxXgNjV5nnsT56aTzJF1qorMu6fHykr0R2qEoCR_9IM4bkIPaVhBziKaagatqE_b3_g_VD-Erx2maTKvzqFwI2FImYmOxQ6ccgU-uA/s574/Trent%202023.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="574" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMdVXi4wp3zYIjblYGf-5BHZrtTZjIGNzrd4V4ygXY5njTW4wFyHeVsMb6gazjaT9u3yeWLG8Pv6PndY31fFJqPxXgNjV5nnsT56aTzJF1qorMu6fHykr0R2qEoCR_9IM4bkIPaVhBziKaagatqE_b3_g_VD-Erx2maTKvzqFwI2FImYmOxQ6ccgU-uA/s320/Trent%202023.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Trent at Barrow, Sept 2023. Photo: A Mott</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-65083908058863659752023-02-25T15:43:00.005+00:002023-02-26T15:55:25.338+00:00I should quit - or should I?<p style="text-align: left;"><i> I should quit.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>It’s going nowhere.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>It’s a useless activity.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">These were my thoughts after I joined the church mice writing group. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Or should I say that I was actually quite ambivalent about it, my husband was the dissenter. We both continued taking part, however, meeting in our church at first, then at our house, until Covid drove us to the Zoom Room where we remain in touch. </p><p style="text-align: left;">We are a group of five. Over a period of 2 years we have gained 3 members, lost 2 and kept one, and we all enjoy writing, listening to each other’s scribblings and the companionship that goes with this activity.</p><p style="text-align: left;">From reluctance, my husband progressed to be an aspiring writer, enthusiastically outpouring and submitting virtually everything he writes to our leader, all the while improving and extending his repertoire.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It is worth mentioning that our five members have 5 different styles and some of us have discovered skills that we were previously unaware of. Listening to each other is entertainment par excellence, much better than TV shows where the current trend seems to be to cram half a dozen ‘celebrities’ onto a couple of settees, where they have to out-shout, outwit, out-laugh and show off to each other until I cannot bear the racket and switch channels or switch off the telly. </p><p style="text-align: left;">No, our writing group is <i>not</i> 'going nowhere'. I have written a book! One of our group members has also written an excellent book, and I would be very pleased with myself if I could persuade my husband to follow suit.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Far from being a useless activity, writing has allowed me to examine, process and deal with aspects of my life that needed closure.</p><p style="text-align: left;">So no, I am not going to quit!</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Jean Taylor</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippZfYYavuNDcVvxp-94RuBoQ5uupRw0qQBMfVn6NmFMmQnK--EySNXLtWqx4C_220CUrOq7mhiFwfYu49CZ3NR56nhdL7q4_6QTA7uzeXCyUN1uqpMQSmFfap74PrWJiPhBb_qe1hwbWUFUDVXp1pkKwopCmHcErifFr8mWnsdL6O4QzVdzUoztad/s4000/IMG_20221202_114124%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippZfYYavuNDcVvxp-94RuBoQ5uupRw0qQBMfVn6NmFMmQnK--EySNXLtWqx4C_220CUrOq7mhiFwfYu49CZ3NR56nhdL7q4_6QTA7uzeXCyUN1uqpMQSmFfap74PrWJiPhBb_qe1hwbWUFUDVXp1pkKwopCmHcErifFr8mWnsdL6O4QzVdzUoztad/w195-h260/IMG_20221202_114124%20(1).jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Alison Mott</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-34130817419325368102023-02-18T15:32:00.003+00:002023-02-26T15:57:40.157+00:00The positives - and otherwise - of lockdown<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Unprecedented</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11pt;">– perhaps the most used word of 2020/21.<br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">The Covid 19 news each day spewed out figures and statistics of the daily deaths, dying and hospitalised. Clarification of the rules on what we could and could not do were delivered by Boris and his ‘experts’ on the evening news.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">TV images showed packed hospital wards. Students unable to leave their rooms appeared at their flat windows with placards spelling out ‘HELP’. People were filmed walking their dogs in the open space of the peak district. Here they were socially distanced in the fresh air, the conditions being encouraged, but were ridiculed and fined for unnecessary travel.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">We washed our hands until they were sore along to two recitals of “Happy Birthday to you.” We used antibacterial sprays, if you could buy any, on our door handles, shopping bags and anything exposed to the outside.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">For me as a retiree, lockdown was actually no hardship. The daily dog walk was not restricted and allowed to continue as long as I did not speak to anyone else, or at least only from shouting distance. </p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Prior to covid, reduced mobility had correspondingly restricted our social life. It now consisted mainly of a ‘run out’ in the car. Such trips are enhanced by a stop off at a quaint café or one of the many garden centre facilities designed to serve coffee and cake to the inflated grey population and separate us from our valuable silver pounds. </p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Never, historically, has there been such a top-heavy population - created by the explosion of babies at the end of the second world war, of which I am one such baby boomer. N<span style="font-size: 11pt;">ice as these trips are, it inevitably adds another type of pound to what used to be a waistline.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">So ... I joined Weight Watchers online. This proved to be the ideal portion control. Our diet could only consist of what had been the planned weekly meals on the shopping list. Shopping was limited to the one day where pensioners had exclusive priority for the first couple of hours of the working day. Only one person could shop. As I no longer drive I could not accompany my husband, and thus unable to toss biscuits, cake, or other desirables into the moving trolley.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Tuesdays suddenly became exciting as weighing day. Entering the loss each week was shown with a running total and provided a focus as the weeks mounted. At waking, I leapt out of bed (I wish) to jump on the scales before even a sip of tea had passed my lips and wearing as little as possible - not an image to behold.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">As the weeks rolled by, I could envisage myself leaving the confines of these four walls a few stones lighter, wearing summer dresses that had not seen the light of day for many a year. A chrysalis emerging as a butterfly. Thanks to lockdown this almost became a reality if that is a little rose coloured.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Another positive of the time were the classes organised to keep us occupied. Zoom classes and quizzes meant we did not have to get dressed or made-up to visit. Our hair grew to lengths previously not seen with grey roots for some of us, also never so clearly defined. It did not seem to matter too much as we had nowhere to go. The car only moved once a week and everyone else was in the same boat.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">From my laptop on the kitchen table, I could access all manner of classes that provided projects to keep me busy for the entire week. </p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Although it seemed that the situation would never end, it gradually tailed away. Life returned to normal-ish and the businesses that had suffered so badly for almost two years needed their customers back.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">By the end of the pandemic, I found we had actually missed the cappuccinos’ too, along with the people watching, human interaction and browsing around the shops. Being separated from family was tortuous. Video calls could not replace this. A new great granddaughter who was 3 months old before we could hold her had been born into a world with just the two faces of her parents.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">For a time, we scanned 2D barcodes at each venue with our mobile phones, hoping not to get pinged about a contact with the ‘<i>infection</i>.’ The greatest fear was of unknown contact and innocently passing covid onto our loved ones. Screens or pods appeared to separate us from the next table. We used disposable cutlery, food served in take-away boxes rather than plates.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Eventually, the heat of the epidemic subsided. Unfortunately, so did the diet. No more getting on the scales as I did not want to see the evidence. Favourite dresses are again moth-balled in the section of wardrobe designated to the ‘<i>too small</i>.’</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">Oh well, we know what to do if there is a repeat and it can no longer be excused as unprecedented.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;"><br /><i>Carolyn Wheatley</i></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ymaRHtAA7IwbH-jn8IV7mt4XacjTsVOWT_GBFpcovzIgCDyaCIK0pnFgnaZiKLHSvlyv0U8AfbG_KVNmNGHwoiyO1viyGtLzcg7BPqYnG80D_kevAgeHz8MU2YAMZEe5ZrtQrcYu7WuR5n298KhqGnPP8Cf5BTodcEF_Zcu3VIxFhiOlr8rQSgki/s5271/bruno-W3IXtchd1pE-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5271" data-original-width="3519" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ymaRHtAA7IwbH-jn8IV7mt4XacjTsVOWT_GBFpcovzIgCDyaCIK0pnFgnaZiKLHSvlyv0U8AfbG_KVNmNGHwoiyO1viyGtLzcg7BPqYnG80D_kevAgeHz8MU2YAMZEe5ZrtQrcYu7WuR5n298KhqGnPP8Cf5BTodcEF_Zcu3VIxFhiOlr8rQSgki/s320/bruno-W3IXtchd1pE-unsplash.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@brunocervera?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">BRUNO</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/lockdown-covid?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-63054486323972064272023-01-29T13:09:00.011+00:002023-01-29T13:31:42.716+00:00Sunday Dinner 1974<div style="text-align: left;">Tyne Brand steak and mushroom pie filling – tinned – and woe
betide Mum if she'd bought steak and kidney by mistake as I detested steak and
kidney to the point of retching. Loved steak and mushroom, though, though the
mushrooms were so unplentiful, finding one in your pie-slice was as lucky as finding
the king in a <a href="https://normandygiteholidays.com/galette-des-rois/">Galette
des Rois</a> or the sixpence in a Christmas pudding.<br /> <o:p> <br /></o:p>We weren’t royalty for the day if we found one, however. I’d
like to say that role went to Dad, it being his name and what have you, but he
spent much of his precious time off work cleaning our red-brick council house
and walking the legs off us children to get us out of Mum’s way, which I can
hardly imagine Prince Phillip having to do on a Sunday.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>Two tins of pie filling, not one. With a household of eight of
us, half of them active, hungry males, Mum made <i>two</i> pies on a Sunday,
though as I got older – 11 or 12 - I took on the job. ‘You’re rather a messy
cook, aren’t you?’ Mum once said, surveying the light dusting of flour all around
the kitchen, but she always praised my ‘lovely’ pastry. Said it had a light
touch her own didn't have, though I'm pretty sure she just said that to trick
me into cooking.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>Thick, plain flour pastry, edges pressed with a fork and brushed
over with milk, not egg, each pie decorated with a couple of pastry leaves we’d
all hope would be part of our slice. A stab of the knife through the crust to let the air out – hitting
the bottom of the enamel pie dish with a clink – and then cooked in the gas
oven on high.<br /> <o:p> <br /></o:p>Then served up with roast potatoes, crisped edges caught to
the point of burning and cooked in lard which dripped out as liquid as you bit into
them. Mashed spuds – Dad’s job to mash them within an inch of their lives - and
for me (since finding a boiled caterpillar on my dinner), no cabbage and just Co-op
tinned peas or carrots alone.<br /> <o:p> <br /></o:p>Topped with the Yorkie puds of my father’s childhood and not
the London batters of my mother’s, liberally covered in thick Bisto gravy, ‘one
slice or two?’ the longstanding joke my brother reprised at Mum’s funeral.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>And no sign of the Daddy’s tomato sauce bottle – ‘Not on a Sunday!’,
our dad had declared, which was a shame as it was delicious mixed into the
mash.<br /> <o:p> <br /></o:p>I wouldn’t taste a roast beef Sunday dinner till almost an
adult, and even then I ate it elsewhere. But I loved those childhood Sunday
dinners, and homemade short crust pastry remains the thing I miss most about
my enforced gluten free life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Alison Mott</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4SO-eVx4WDEMfr0L33bX6NoiTHtznRktUumHKFXhRzrmwb7wy5j_UkKmAA5f2Z_90vdg_XoiprggWxd1cHpsXNqyysmVGFZCcmhl100spPFU2N2JSqad6tey6g8Xk0oQyGGmBxLbKQJVlOxuATK0SPgp17ESGtEtCg6TO-NdBy1fmGneEndY846o/s519/Tyne%20Brand%20tins.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="519" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4SO-eVx4WDEMfr0L33bX6NoiTHtznRktUumHKFXhRzrmwb7wy5j_UkKmAA5f2Z_90vdg_XoiprggWxd1cHpsXNqyysmVGFZCcmhl100spPFU2N2JSqad6tey6g8Xk0oQyGGmBxLbKQJVlOxuATK0SPgp17ESGtEtCg6TO-NdBy1fmGneEndY846o/w275-h175/Tyne%20Brand%20tins.png" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Image in the public domain on Youtube <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mut5SDhU0pQ">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-9729601433334340962023-01-13T16:58:00.006+00:002023-01-13T16:58:46.813+00:00Seasonally Affected<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I
wish that I could hibernate.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I
wish I could wrap myself in thick blankets<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">or
better still cocoon in the high-tog sleeping<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">bag
from last summer’s festival<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">watch
black and white movies on TV</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Showboat
or Carousel, Singing in the Rain<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">or
even It's a Wonderful Life, though<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I
only watched it three weeks ago at Christmas<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">wrapped
in aforementioned sleeping bag<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">with
fairy lights twinkling around the room.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
don't want to be a grown up or even human <br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">to
be honest, don't want to get out of bed<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">or
dress, drive to work in the rain, come back<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">immediately
again to pick up everything I forgot<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">the
first time. Don't want to make decisions</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">answer
questions respond to emails. Don't want <br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">to
work full stop - prefer the idea of hiding<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">here
where no one can see me, a return to those<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">COVID
days when we were told to stay in, make do<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and
mend - a privileged existence I know, not</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">one
required to keep things ticking over <br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">whilst
the rest of us hid. Not an existence to<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">return
to forever but just for a while, just<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">for
these cold January days and a little way<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">into
Feb, whilst the sun still has its face</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">turned
away and its power diluted whenever<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">it
does decide to shine. Until the first green shoots<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">appear
on the hawthorne bush by the front window<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and
looking out one day I see them open quickly<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">phthalo
green against the dark wood of its thorns.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I would
unzip the sleeping bag. <i>Then</i> I would<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">step
from it, stretch tall towards the ceiling<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">yawn
long and loud and hungrily and<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">tiptoe
out like a waking bear heading<br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">for
the woods.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Alison Mott</i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoHxfoebbMUXWPACGtijRP1FEnCXeZkogQpumfC674hhBOZGkLQa8pz-yjINUEfuEknoQGt-_zzUNtQgLQKz92_9Aj6eNBO_yv34FvplSd-QteEbAqNWK2HzPWtQozhI0u7UcT7inqKhQJKcnbMHMSa99-yTSZ7nPljR1fFLphM1pZ8HfCa7E29US4/s3934/rehina-sultanova-0Ymt53tBapQ-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3934" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoHxfoebbMUXWPACGtijRP1FEnCXeZkogQpumfC674hhBOZGkLQa8pz-yjINUEfuEknoQGt-_zzUNtQgLQKz92_9Aj6eNBO_yv34FvplSd-QteEbAqNWK2HzPWtQozhI0u7UcT7inqKhQJKcnbMHMSa99-yTSZ7nPljR1fFLphM1pZ8HfCa7E29US4/s320/rehina-sultanova-0Ymt53tBapQ-unsplash.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@regsultik?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Rehina Sultanova</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/0Ymt53tBapQ?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-18649029361293358912023-01-07T12:49:00.008+00:002023-03-03T12:56:36.937+00:00The Battle of Hastings - a bonus!<p>1066 The <st1:city w:st="on">Battle</st1:city> of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hastings.<br />A regular ‘schoolboy go to’ favourite battle.<br />One in the eye for Harold, I remember.<br />1066 ‘odds on favourite’ as a pin number for<br />p</st1:place></st1:city>eople with limited imagination!</p><p><br /></p><p><i>David Taylor</i></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyBEPAM5pZCvoAfOpNL6BKD9cN3l8yJTEJ4-QsnDcMf-kheqm1g_ru-aNOy4Bixrur8xxD8HDfCzivaDz2iZwZcvlEu3xQlX3cNYzu8kA4wdeE24Gjf7G94nt7zrSyfO0hnYUJvsBI3xyaAuHZjpXW8hPlYXu_OkhDzAxmP2mErcI_AvzllYU2WHq/s450/the_death_of_harold_bayeaux_square_450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="450" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyBEPAM5pZCvoAfOpNL6BKD9cN3l8yJTEJ4-QsnDcMf-kheqm1g_ru-aNOy4Bixrur8xxD8HDfCzivaDz2iZwZcvlEu3xQlX3cNYzu8kA4wdeE24Gjf7G94nt7zrSyfO0hnYUJvsBI3xyaAuHZjpXW8hPlYXu_OkhDzAxmP2mErcI_AvzllYU2WHq/s320/the_death_of_harold_bayeaux_square_450.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The death of Harold as depicted on the Bayeaux Tapestry. Image in the public domain on history.org.uk </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-41281805243611274532023-01-05T12:57:00.001+00:002023-03-03T13:08:26.374+00:00Happy Again?<p>Once again we have been through the Christmas 2022 season
and returned to what passes for normality.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Having gained another layer of dust the tree and its
decorations, have been banished into the loft.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like most people I find that shopping for food after
Christmas (we all have to face it) is a bit of a ‘pain in the neck.’ At home, little bits of ‘this and that’ are still lurking in
the fridge, and strange post-festive concoctions are becoming the order of the
day.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I suppose that we must be thankful to Mr Pattak for his
exotic range of curry sauces, enabling us to dispose of the turkey remnants
with some degree of dignity.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also feel sure that
half a pork pie was also in the fridge, but as yet, I have been unable to find
it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The big question is surely 'what has found its way into the
deep freezer and is just waiting to be discovered, sometime around mid June?'<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even worse, it might turn up again at Christmas 2023!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happy New Year!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>David Taylor</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRy3YqvuTMiykHcaCiP5Z573Ob_a3dcGyXj8w2OEEejqeWE5SjiJk9S0ABFFkFsAhZPDlMlpKmLDwNT_bTQucNvgxqIGKbF8KkeqvtQEtLWo_YGcGIZjt5_La8Obtxml3h2FBU9p2fu90jMnAUYFLT0XDS7y7gy8cHGoK-uxCAIz-A6vUhhfxE4zc/s7952/claudio-schwarz-cgcteFH-azk-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5304" data-original-width="7952" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRy3YqvuTMiykHcaCiP5Z573Ob_a3dcGyXj8w2OEEejqeWE5SjiJk9S0ABFFkFsAhZPDlMlpKmLDwNT_bTQucNvgxqIGKbF8KkeqvtQEtLWo_YGcGIZjt5_La8Obtxml3h2FBU9p2fu90jMnAUYFLT0XDS7y7gy8cHGoK-uxCAIz-A6vUhhfxE4zc/s320/claudio-schwarz-cgcteFH-azk-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@purzlbaum?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Claudio Schwarz</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/turkey-food?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-42713456064934609522022-12-23T16:35:00.001+00:002023-01-13T16:39:53.237+00:00While Shepherds washed their frocks by night ...<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I
was dressed in a completely inappropriate shade of pink - not the proper colour
for a shepherd, but when I gave my mother the note from my infant teacher
asking parents to support the class’s production of the Nativity by providing
costumes for their child, Mum had looked at the overflowing basket of dirty
laundry, calculated the time it would take to pull out the twin tub and run
through a couple of batches of washing then get it dry before tomorrow’s dress
rehearsal (it already being teatime and a week since the teacher had given me
the letter), she’d decided a ‘make do with what you have to hand’ approach was
the only way to go.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Which
is why, next day, I stood by the manger with my fellow shepherds in a bright
pink breast cancer awareness t-shirt - inside out to hide the lettering – and a Guinness beer towel clasped on my head with a bungee cord from dad’s tool box.
Classic.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>AM</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03TvRRDoJ_1syTxSIcSTP4PvZGdfWtWxVGz2iMFOzI2Yb5Wh3Oi1YPcHWZ480qHuKGea1itHQTyURenrxDMesXz_EwgJ9wSaKfkUxm53PCSuWtKKirN0iYRVlGp4xWqe670o6mXqMh3to7itVAZFtMGBl7Nc4Rtomzh42ChOmCRGUgU-QDauPjTvi/s3032/nick-fewings-SBlDOTa7za0-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2021" data-original-width="3032" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03TvRRDoJ_1syTxSIcSTP4PvZGdfWtWxVGz2iMFOzI2Yb5Wh3Oi1YPcHWZ480qHuKGea1itHQTyURenrxDMesXz_EwgJ9wSaKfkUxm53PCSuWtKKirN0iYRVlGp4xWqe670o6mXqMh3to7itVAZFtMGBl7Nc4Rtomzh42ChOmCRGUgU-QDauPjTvi/s320/nick-fewings-SBlDOTa7za0-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jannerboy62?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Nick Fewings</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/nativity-scene?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></span></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-45461747764872797852022-12-20T14:34:00.002+00:002022-12-20T20:12:11.176+00:00A Hospital Christmas Day<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Christmas day at Glenfield Hospital was a day that no nurse
without young children would ever mind working. Those on the rota for the
morning shift had previously worked the late shift on Christmas Eve. Sister
Chalk had produced NHS funds so that each patient had a gift to open on
Christmas morning and these would be placed at the end of each bed by the night
staff.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It was 1985 and I had been tasked with buying the
inexpensive gifts with a Christmas card and wrapping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Ward was Female Surgical. A great
believer in the power of the bath, I purchased bottles of bath gel and talc in
various flavours. These would be used on Christmas morning for a deep soothing
bubble or bed-bath for each patient in every six-bed bay. The old adage that
the busiest nurses are the ones with a liberal dusting of talc on their shoes,
is, in my opinion, a true one, mine were always peppered with talcum powder. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A warm comforting soak later, patients emerged from the
bathroom, many on a mobile hoist, trailing an aroma of Lavender, Lily of the
Valley, Rose or Coconut as they were held aloft and transported back to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Day staff arrived for duty by 6.45 am having finished at 10 pm
the previous evening. Morning report was given just before the night staff left
at 7 am. For Christmas day many nurses sported fancy-dress, arriving on the
Ward as Fairies, Elves, and a Christmas Tree to name but a few. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By mid-morning, patients gleamed, shiny faces, hair washed
and brushed, the Ward pristine with bedside flowers neatly arranged. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At 11 am, the Surgeon arrived sporting full costume and
make-up as a clown. Not an image you would want to conjure up if you were lying
prone on a trolley, pre-op. His two children attended and ran between the beds
collecting Quality Street, Thorntons, Ferrero Roche and any sweet treat the
patients had unwrapped from brightly decorated Robin, Holly/Ivy or rotund Father
Christmas wrapping paper. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Mr. Wann - who could notoriously replace a hip joint in less
than 30 minutes - always bought his six children who could enthusiastically
devour three courses in next to no time and still have room for more chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As you can imagine, the arrival at 12 o’clock of the golden
brown, steaming turkey roused a round of applause from its weak and sickly
audience. The bird was carved meticulously at the steady hands of the eminent
Surgeon. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After lunch, a group of local children came in to sing
carols. Even the poorly patients mouthed the words, the odd tear trickling down
a cheek at the memory of Christmases past. For these souls, who had been too sick
for discharge, the dread of staying in hospital for Christmas may have been transformed
into a happy experience, a day packed with surprises and events served with
generosity and goodwill. It was perhaps more about the spectacle than the deed.
Patients, whether pre or post op, do not tend to have a large appetite.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At 2 pm the visitors arrived. More gifts, maybe a Poinsettia
or Cyclamen in a fancy pot with a ribbon, more smellies, perhaps a fancy nightdress
– what else do you buy the mainly elderly hospital patient who has to later transport
the gift home at the end of their stay? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Gratitude of the relatives was mostly shown in the form of
chocolate or biscuits. These would be devoured mostly by the ‘Lates’ who would
work until 9 pm. The morning shift ended at 3 pm and many nurses, me included,
returned home to cook dinner and open presents with family.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The patients’ day had started abruptly at 6 am when the
bright fluorescent light tubes sprung into life. The thrills of the day would
eventually take their toll on the varying degrees of serious illness. Fatigue
was aided further by an optional measure of sherry or whisky from the Drug
Trolley at lunch and dinner. Full bellies and the additional alcoholic infusion
found most resort to the land of nod long before the night shift arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Good-night and God bless, for its Boxing Day tomorrow and we
can do most of it again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CW</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjip4XEoOePsjoI3uigpmoJo0_FE5BonJ6m0KHON4O46rqK5hgXmw3G6maUvOfxocoX-ffPrgYT6_e5JdGSTUCPNiKCiU2h2LgsfFxWMLyIszvt75-8erWuJ1vAnPfND-xf25-lg0kv_NUNMbnQbS1MAs8BkEXo5R0IGIe2IxQkq1RviQCojxAaF8tm/s3081/Scan_20221220.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3081" data-original-width="1863" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjip4XEoOePsjoI3uigpmoJo0_FE5BonJ6m0KHON4O46rqK5hgXmw3G6maUvOfxocoX-ffPrgYT6_e5JdGSTUCPNiKCiU2h2LgsfFxWMLyIszvt75-8erWuJ1vAnPfND-xf25-lg0kv_NUNMbnQbS1MAs8BkEXo5R0IGIe2IxQkq1RviQCojxAaF8tm/w229-h380/Scan_20221220.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Lorena Lees</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-59215992343227980782022-12-20T12:05:00.000+00:002022-12-20T12:05:56.671+00:00A National Coal Board Christmas ‘do’<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">When
I worked at one of the National Coal Board offices in </span><st1:place style="font-size: 14pt;" w:st="on">Nottinghamshire</st1:place><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">, the Christmas ‘do’ was talked about long
before and long after we actually enjoyed it. There was much speculation about
it; where would it be?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">What
would be on the menu? What would the ladies be wearing? More importantly, who
would be getting off with who?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">In
the early days we waited for the bosses to let the departments know if we would
finish work at lunch time. The sensible ones, and those who had respect for (or
fear of) their marital status would go home then, or stay for the buffet which
the tea lady had spent the morning preparing, then disappear. The rest of us
would aim to get as much booze down us as we could. This was all paid for out
of the N.C.B Recreation fund. The DJ – usually one of the Geologists - put on
the music (vinyl ruled in the seventies) and we would be dancing in the
corridors or the large reception area, or watching out for those of our
workmates who were heading for dark places.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">Around
3:30 pm when it was getting dark, those of us who were more or less compos
mentis would be comparing notes on who we hadn’t seen for a while and forming
plans to track down the absentees. Melanie was on the door, listing those who
left the building and whether they left singly, in pairs, or separately with a
view to being a pair imminently.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">The
Drawing Office revealed at least three couples who were getting to know each other
better. If any of the bosses had left, their offices were up for grabs (or
whatever else you could manage), but the star of the show was the stationery
cupboard. It was small enough for 2 people to squeeze in and it had the
advantage of a lock and key. Savvy staff would have secreted the key in their
pocket on arrival that morning and we all knew that it would be found when we
had all left.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">I
was a good girl. I limited myself to snogging one of the Geologists who was
fit, but married, for as long as I could keep him busy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14pt;">After
the ‘do’ - around 6 pm - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the tea lady
who doubled as the cleaner came to clear up. She was met by little piles of
vomit, empty bottles and half-full glasses, crumbs everywhere, and on
attempting to hoover the Drawing Office, a couple fast asleep under a drawing
board alongside their underwear, that they were not wearing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She
must have complained to the management because after that it was decided that
the event would be held in the local pub!</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><i>JT</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_o-wcgRWfQCII976nI5EDRWdGMFT6tr_q2avLlafnupM96tt_58kMhAHourDvltSYZpn_zD2MPAdaMjT4ymy6bPxJ_MDtj1MenaUfZ7B2yrtorwgR95pra9uCWDJnZwb3188HHvR_hO5R-XhQJbhXojfZauNeXjdOTtSywX1R2efzU5bMx30nnQS/s5276/dorine-allali-FBP-RKiiR1I-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5276" data-original-width="3517" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_o-wcgRWfQCII976nI5EDRWdGMFT6tr_q2avLlafnupM96tt_58kMhAHourDvltSYZpn_zD2MPAdaMjT4ymy6bPxJ_MDtj1MenaUfZ7B2yrtorwgR95pra9uCWDJnZwb3188HHvR_hO5R-XhQJbhXojfZauNeXjdOTtSywX1R2efzU5bMx30nnQS/s320/dorine-allali-FBP-RKiiR1I-unsplash.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/es/@welcome_home?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Dorine Allali</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/christmas-party?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /><i><br /></i></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-22116004394886817582022-12-18T14:21:00.014+00:002022-12-19T19:27:29.310+00:00An Argument Against the Christmas Do<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Christmas is a dangerous time of year to have a social
gathering with work colleagues – I’d say ‘enjoy’ but does anyone really enjoy
them? There's so much potential for things to go wrong and none of the
options are good.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For a start, it’s dark and cold and (largely)
cheerless and by rights and the laws of nature, you should stay home in the warm,
hibernating in a huddle with loved ones, safe and cosy and only moving to throw
a log on the fire or get up and pee. But do you do that? Do you heck.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead, you agree to the implausible suggestion of fun
and team-bonding offered by a Christmas social gathering – which you’re too
overworked and stressed to squeeze into a busy working week anyway, having also
to squeeze in the tasks that need doing before the place closes for Christmas and
also card-writing and present-buying in your lunch hours and evenings.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">But you grasp the opportunity nevertheless, in Christmas
jumpers or a sparkly tube dress, figgy pudding earrings and flashing reindeer antlers
on your head, stuck on a table beside the disco speakers and chewing cardboard
turkey and tinned brussels whilst laughing at cracker jokes with colleagues you
can’t stand the sight of for 235 working days of the year but are now pretending
you’re best buddies with.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Alcohol’s flowing and inhibition’s flying out the window
on Christmas angels’ wings, and you’ve forgotten that whatever you say will be all round the
factory by next Monday lunchtime. You’re spilling deepest darkest secrets that
even your best friend from childhood doesn’t know – that your husband’s a
tight-fisted arsehole you shouldn’t have married, that the temporary lad in Packing
has a thing for you and you meet him Tuesday evenings in a pub the other
side of Leicester where nobody knows you and his pregnant girlfriend with the
brother just over from Sicily won’t get to hear about it; that you borrowed a
bit of money from the petty cash tin to pay for this dress and will have to
sneak it back on Monday before Bob in Accounting finds out.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s always the same. They say the divide between this
world and the next weakens on Christmas Eve and spirits leak through, but the
leaking happens well before then at the work’s Christmas do. And if you’re not
careful, you’ll end the night snogging the face off the forklift driver from
Outerwear in the back room of the Three Crowns, and after clocking-off time on Christmas
Eve the ghosts of Christmas past and present will have emptied their desk in
the office and kicked your future into touch.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">So, Merry Christmas, one and all!</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>AM</i></span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDeyvr_WSYIOsLzNSifXgQDm2Q3eQEKqjhlBp7oYxX6VzPwhH62Q3XBnoEw0mcRSmjKJn6XksoXqMGh4zVWJl9iGRufrHBTBittNnuAIocKt-e-c3IEhXmpdktjsNFdWQU0wSKut96rsc0MpzQw-tsGdTOmfTeN31aJR3Ze1cAPm-YOCdcnTle38k/s933/IMG_2625.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDeyvr_WSYIOsLzNSifXgQDm2Q3eQEKqjhlBp7oYxX6VzPwhH62Q3XBnoEw0mcRSmjKJn6XksoXqMGh4zVWJl9iGRufrHBTBittNnuAIocKt-e-c3IEhXmpdktjsNFdWQU0wSKut96rsc0MpzQw-tsGdTOmfTeN31aJR3Ze1cAPm-YOCdcnTle38k/s320/IMG_2625.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-368901516319887792022-11-15T07:17:00.006+00:002022-11-15T07:29:05.841+00:00The Harvest Surprise - or not<p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">The day started just like every
other at Braunstone Frith Junior School. Seated, cross legged on the oak
polished floor, the hymns had been sung, the prayers chanted parrot fashion.
Eyes mostly closed, hands held together before us. Mr. Hopkins, the headmaster,
walked onto the stage signalling that we should all remain seated for his
announcement.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Bring an item of food from home
tomorrow, children, for the poor in our Society.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Collections were far from rare at
school, though we had no idea who these poor people were. They must have
been <i>really</i> poor because there were kids in class with
cardboard covering the holes in their shoes, the laces a length of frayed
string. Another promotion saw us buy photos from a book. Pretty little
faces stared back at us as we totally believed that our thruppence would help
this child directly. We were encouraged to set up a stall of old toys to aid
the PDSA and the mistreated poor animals. Our toys amounted to very few and
were hardly fit to pass on.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Most families from the council
estate were struggling themselves. Mum paid five shillings a week to the
milkman from one 1<sup>st</sup> January to the next, for a Christmas
hamper. A week before the holiday our hamper was accepted with great
excitement.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The milkman’s float buckled at
the axles with the weight of Christmas fayre for most people on the estate. The
electric float rumbled along even slower than usual, probably a good thing as
the milkman got a tot of alcohol at each grateful house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Apart from the cockerel,
vegetables and mum’s mince pies, the box kept the family fed over
Yuletide. Shops were closed for at least three days, five if a weekend was
included.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">There was little variance from
year to year. The menu for hundreds of neighbours were tins of Oak Ham, Libby’s
apricots or orange segments, a Fray Bentos meat pie, Pink Salmon, Ideal
evaporated milk. Jars contained Lemon Curd, Mustard Piccalilli and Branston
Pickle. A small pack of Scottish Shortbread rarely made it to Christmas eve. A
small Christmas cake and a plum pudding were barely family size.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">One thing that never changed was
a box of five blancmange powders. We all hated blancmange. High on a shelf in
the pantry sat the box until … October, and the harvest festival.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Veronica Smith’s dad baked all
the bread for his family. Her contribution gained her a crowd of children as
she carried a large crusty wheatsheaf portrayed in bread form. As she trod the
path to school, the aroma of warm, freshly baked bread followed in her wake,
torturous for those of us who’d had no breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Our headmaster and all teachers
would marvel at the contribution. There was no point in my getting jealous. Had
the masterpiece been created in our house, it would not have made it out of the
front door without the crusty protrusions being picked, pulled or nibbled off.
An ear of corn here, another there. Mum’s Christmas fruit cake had been baked
late September. By the end of half term, the square cake was a very rough
roundish shape after a week with both parents at work and three hungry girls at
home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">On arrival at school I was able
to leave the crowd behind as I approached the donation desk to deposit my
contribution discreetly at the back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">History is said to repeat itself.
As a young mother, I too paid the milkman a weekly amount to fill our Christmas
menu.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Each October, my daughter too
turned up at Harvest Festival with the offering of Blancmange powder for some
poor person’s tea, but at least she did not have to compete with Veronica
Smith.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhauV41A27MsKGOA7RxTuMmS_R5WHVAhig2jBm3lFz5bwWKGBLOu0pkPQEcmciDJ33ZYDkEoBK7F3R4QJFmQp8gbLIBfrudBmPiicW0955YWdhupMj-FaFzNKENN1iIlvMMT_jT_p_zwzvm5Ag4Nb2YpSXhzFv1ixfuFf8koYqnI2dyvO04UNOPT5/s5053/belper-unitarians-iNKbh2p-_JQ-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3369" data-original-width="5053" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbhauV41A27MsKGOA7RxTuMmS_R5WHVAhig2jBm3lFz5bwWKGBLOu0pkPQEcmciDJ33ZYDkEoBK7F3R4QJFmQp8gbLIBfrudBmPiicW0955YWdhupMj-FaFzNKENN1iIlvMMT_jT_p_zwzvm5Ag4Nb2YpSXhzFv1ixfuFf8koYqnI2dyvO04UNOPT5/s320/belper-unitarians-iNKbh2p-_JQ-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@belperunitarians?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Belper Unitarians</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/harvest-festival-church?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: 8pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Carolyn Wheatley</i></span></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-12437877716019374462022-10-03T11:22:00.001+00:002022-10-03T11:22:21.953+00:00Small Vices and Addictions<p>Some vices are so small that when asked to remember them I
had to take some moments to recall and reflect.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I developed a taste for something called ‘Victory V
Lozenges’ when I was about twelve years of age. Packets of these ‘sweets’ were
easily obtained from the local paper shop, and small enough so as not to put
bulges in your school blazer pockets.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mother had, for some strange reason, a strong dislike for
this liquorice product and tried hard to stop my consumption of the same.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hiding places for the forbidden product became a problem
when mum found mine inside my pillowcase. Happily the stash under the old
flower pot in the shed remained intact until the late spring. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In winter, odd lozenges could be placed in the deep pockets
of my gabardine Macintosh and in the summer the good old ‘sun hat’ provided
transport and cover. I feel sure that, in those days, I actually got more
pleasure out of hiding my addiction than I did from eating the forbidden thing!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Do today’s parents still impose the same sort of restriction
on their ‘young hopefuls’ and do our children still adopt similar sorts of
addictions?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I feel sure that many parents would be quite happy if their
child only indulged in some similar product. Today they face the horrors of
what is available on street corners, not to mention the internet and wretched
social media.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>David Taylor<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT3Gs7Q5ji8WLz7WhuTgeO6-Ezw_ML0iNpuAa4c_fJJFXPQVBu4hPJPxwpb8fEyLw4uCSfmIhwZXlO1coN0vsAcVBOaMImRwLgCUqhoas9zir0X4XIM184xvZWUsn3sAu923Yi9pf_l42apxuKdJOVasaOOZwnfGjjRg_2L-qohzQafPEoZ-ujfFM8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT3Gs7Q5ji8WLz7WhuTgeO6-Ezw_ML0iNpuAa4c_fJJFXPQVBu4hPJPxwpb8fEyLw4uCSfmIhwZXlO1coN0vsAcVBOaMImRwLgCUqhoas9zir0X4XIM184xvZWUsn3sAu923Yi9pf_l42apxuKdJOVasaOOZwnfGjjRg_2L-qohzQafPEoZ-ujfFM8=w132-h200" width="132" /></a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Image available in the public realm on Pinterest <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a0/b4/8d/a0b48dcb4d57fffc496d68e8cdccdeea.jpg" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></div><i><br /><br /></i><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-89576298463860452092022-10-03T10:03:00.003+00:002022-10-03T10:18:40.332+00:00A secret vice held close<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">My downfall has not been gambling, smoking tobacco or pot, and alcohol is
only consumed socially, in moderation. So, what is my secret vice?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I am afraid the answer has to be <i>food. </i>I was born with
a healthy appetite and was hungry most of my childhood. From birth I was always
a “good little eater” according to my parents. If anyone in our family of five
left anything on their plate, the cry would go out, “Give it to the Biggun,”
(often shortened to “Big”) or sometimes “dustbin guts.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">My appetite was famously discussed and laughed about with relatives and
friends alike. Being applauded for something gave me a reputation to
upkeep. My dinner plate, along with that of my two sisters, was always
emptied and wiped clean with a piece of white sliced mopping up the last of the
gravy. Luckily for me, my sister did not like meat. I was not keen on Brussel
sprouts. This mutual swap found us agreeing, at least once a day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Food rationing was still a feature when I was born in 1947. I am told
that family members all donated their sweet ration to me, the first
child/grandchild/great grandchild. So, you see, it was really not my fault that
I have such a sweet tooth!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">‘Big’ - by name - reflected age, not size. All the kids I remember were
thin, like me. The reason being our constant energy use. We played at every
opportunity. Skipping with half a dozen girls over a washing line, taking turns
to rotate the rope from opposite sides of the street, or in the school
playground. The road was little used on the council estate where very few owned
a car and the milk and bread floats crawled along at walking pace.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The pavement outside our house had a permanently chalked Hopscotch grid,
re-etched after rainfall. We could whip a top to spin and jump into the air as
it was lashed up and down the road. If we were not throwing double or
triple balls at the brick side of the house, we were ‘tissing up’ (doing
handstands) and could walk down the wall into a backbend to walk, crab like.
Rollerskates were the only form of transport unless you were lucky enough to
have a bike.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We walked to and from school twice a day, and constantly ran errands. My
school friends lived two miles away. The walk was often in vain if they were
not home. That being the case, one turned around and walked back to call for
someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It is fair to say that our constant movement found us strong and without
a spare ounce of fat.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The post war drive on child health helped us to thrive. Free milk at
school, cod liver oil (ugh) and wonderful school dinners, all provided
insulation from the bitter cold winters. Our clothing was barely adequate.
Skirts or short trousers for the boys, ankle socks that became soaked when deep
snow overflowed into wellies.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We wore socks on our hands that were soaked after a few snowballs had
been thrown. I envied the children whose mothers had sewn gloves to elastic and
threaded them through coat sleeves so they were never lost. I was also
seriously jealous of girls who wore a liberty bodice. These girls were usually
an ‘only child’ among my friends.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Each house had one open fire, if you were lucky. Less fortunate
neighbours would follow the coal lorries, picking up dropped lumps of coal as
the driver hitched the cwt bag onto his back whilst also negotiating kerb and
steps into the back yard coal shed of the recipient.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">During summer the long hours spent in the sunshine never resulted in
sunburn. Back then, sunscreen was unheard of.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">These activities now just a happy memory, my vice is denied the continuous
energy burn. Fuel in, is mostly left in situ. The excess now gathers around the
abdomen and thighs and join me on the sofa to watch the TV. How I envy people
who can open a pack of toffees or boiled sweets and eat only one. Am I the only
one to eat all five chocolate biscuits in a pack when two or three was ample,
in order to destroy the evidence?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps nowadays my vice is not such a close kept secret?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 11.75pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><i>Carolyn Wheatley</i></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-7343305203688034082022-09-01T15:31:00.013+00:002022-10-03T15:40:04.031+00:00The Village Awakes<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The village slowly beings
to shake off its slumber and come to life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The mothers are the
first to stir, leaving the warmth of straw-mattressed beds to hitch up night
clothes and squat over porcelain nightjars, emptying their bladders. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Shivering in the dawn
chill they lace coarse woollen dresses over petticoats and descend to the kitchen
to coax the fire into life, pushing a heavy blackened kettle across it. Next come
their husbands, tumble-haired and granite-faced, accepting the bowl of steaming
gruel held out to them and eating in flinty silence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">They’re joined at
intervals by children, ranging in size and wakefulness, alert and chatty to sleepy
and yawning, called to the hearthside by the aroma of simmering pottage and the
voice of their mothers, prompting them downstairs to prepare for the day ahead.
Young girls, miniatures of their mothers, tie on aprons and smooth down caps,
take over the slicing of bread doorsteps or the shovelling of food into infant
mouths. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Brothers pull heavy
nailed boots over thick socks, take oilcloth-wrapped sandwiches from their
sisters’ hands and clatter from the houses, their young voices shattering the
frosty morning air. They join the throng heading for the pithead, and so the
morning begins. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The streets return
again to semi-quiet, to become the domain of the women and infants until the
work of the day is done.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Alison Mott</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This snatch of writing was first created at a session of the Informals Writing group in March 2016. It was </span><span style="font-size: 18px;">prompted</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> by a memory my mother-in-law had shared of watching her grandfather prepare for a day's work at the pit in West Hallam, Derbyshire, in the 1950s (but I gave it a historical twist).</span></span></i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-764994757927325292022-08-29T10:33:00.001+00:002022-10-03T10:19:11.610+00:00Twelve Days of Christmas<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">The vortex of interminable depression and hopelessness had me in its grip. Day
after day the depths of blackness increased. My eyes were dead, my mind seized
up, thoughts whirling round unformed, I was incapable of any action however
small and necessary. Communication impossible. The ward staff were watching my
every move as I was looking for a way out.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">One morning a bright,
cheerful voice rang out at the reception desk. A lady, not in uniform, was
talking about Christmas. My heart sank several feet lower but I couldn’t avoid
hearing that there was to be a competition for the best decorated ward, themed
on Christmas, which was 4 weeks away.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">Over the next
few days a tiny spark began to ignite the part of my brain where the fire had
died. I began to create images in my head which morphed into doodles on scraps
of paper. A couple of the ward staff noticed my sudden new interest and
commented on my drawing. Finally I was asked what I was drawing and who was it for.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s the Twelve Days of Christmas,” I said<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">“That would be
a great idea for decorating the ward,” was the reply<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">“Well, it’s too
much for me to do,” was my excuse.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">The staff
started to talk to us all about getting involved and brought paper, paint, brushes
and even scissors. They even brought in books with pictures to copy, and by the
end of the week there was a small group of patients getting out of bed and
gathering round me, some observing, some drawing, painting and cutting out.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: inherit;">I became aware
of my skills and those of my fellow patients. Conversations began and I was
able to encourage some of them to discover those skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t all plain sailing, The lords
leaping, pipers piping and ladies dancing were not quite as I had envisaged,
and some days, I would tear up or paint over my work<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or cry over it and make the paint blurry. But
the results were generally quite pleasing and the efforts we made seemed to
make us all feel better. Three weeks later, the Twelve Days of Christmas was up
on the walls starting at the reception desk with the partridge in a pear tree, and a
cheer went up when we won the competition.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JT</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMu2WiycpxZv8IuvNu4Qp4pV_5i5RLLhA4TI1jDdYWA2n9snaHj3VZCJnlRQRn5uL--1NTTfBfZhatSIeTismucfM5Pl3GIqiQLZmLB2zbtJAJKxpzPXjvC-5KmOfFFi3mAf43wH77QPNzsW5JajboOlaW7s3Dn4u_EcYt1v5vc1wC3cHmBZP2aist/s931/Christmas%20candle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="698" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMu2WiycpxZv8IuvNu4Qp4pV_5i5RLLhA4TI1jDdYWA2n9snaHj3VZCJnlRQRn5uL--1NTTfBfZhatSIeTismucfM5Pl3GIqiQLZmLB2zbtJAJKxpzPXjvC-5KmOfFFi3mAf43wH77QPNzsW5JajboOlaW7s3Dn4u_EcYt1v5vc1wC3cHmBZP2aist/s320/Christmas%20candle.jpg" width="240" /></a></i></div><i><br /><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"><br /></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -27pt; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-26321346925849345672022-08-25T12:56:00.002+00:002022-10-03T13:17:00.067+00:00Making Things<p>I enjoyed making things when I was a child, but because we
were short of money - a large gaggle of children squeezed into our council-owned
home and too many outgoings squeezed from Dad’s factory wage - there was little
money spare to indulge that enjoyment. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so the things I created were largely made from materials
other people had thrown away: home-made newspapers hand-drawn on the backs of
computer paper rescued from bins when Mum was cleaning at the Uni; pine trees
and Christmas angels made from the cardboard cone-interiors of knitting yarn from
the hosiery factory a neighbour worked in and dolls clothes from scraps of
fabric rescued by another neighbour who was a machinist in a garment factory.
Then there was the Sindy furniture made from shoe boxes and cereal packets, and
acorn people with pins for arms and legs who slept in button-fronted matchbox beds.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We were creative children, resourceful, and what we didn’t
have to hand we used a workaround to do without. No paints or glue guns or
staplers or craft scissors for us, but a sharp knife is excellent for slicing
folded paper, flour and water a doable adhesive when there's no wallpaper paste
to be had, and a needle and thread an adequate substitute when neither of these
are available. And there was that time Mum was given some pinking shears, in the
brief sewing phase of her motherhood, though they blunted surprisingly quickly
when used to cut up cardboard and couldn’t be guaranteed to’ve been put back in
a place you’d easily find them again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nothing much in our house was discarded (except, in the end,
for our father, though someone else would go on to make use of him), and there
were old things we managed to turn into something useful with our unique brand
of talent and skill. The stepdad was a difficult workaround, though, as was the
heap of aggro that came with him from Mum bringing him home for repurposing in
the first place.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It explains why I became a hoarder myself, though, with a
tendency to hold on to things long after I should let some of them go.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>AM</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEWYKcpNEk4iPI1PSkFBTCV8PLroQHuOZNpKGvrxzdP9lHie3o8cgc8bSzarty0MsGQP_Wnkshq1UmFi8g8IlzwjeTSZU1m9BXI5ikS4JYltlKW6Lmt_dxBRoIkNcOabWUpaWjR8BfFenR6J8T3PC2F0qsqNhyXVfV07U8bFyfghbHI_M1K-jEghx/s1241/Craft%20kit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="1241" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEWYKcpNEk4iPI1PSkFBTCV8PLroQHuOZNpKGvrxzdP9lHie3o8cgc8bSzarty0MsGQP_Wnkshq1UmFi8g8IlzwjeTSZU1m9BXI5ikS4JYltlKW6Lmt_dxBRoIkNcOabWUpaWjR8BfFenR6J8T3PC2F0qsqNhyXVfV07U8bFyfghbHI_M1K-jEghx/w291-h218/Craft%20kit.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4568567802870223267.post-66053990846076719752022-06-04T18:10:00.004+00:002022-06-04T18:17:39.665+00:00A Platinum Poem<p>by John Béchamel (the Saucy Poet)</p><p><br /></p><p>Blessed Elizabeth, with patience she waits,<br />Her Reign much accomplished, her strength now abates,<br />Her public adoring flood into the Mall,<br />Our nation restoring, our thanks to the Gal’</p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US">David Taylor<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZX0brIJPtydI_1jhzBk8iGINlgwa2tbWNV1AJDf1KSjJ97bSnaYM_jqZuX_3T6sHjHTMANP2lZ6LW7Z3KKdScTU0ukNIR1lpuNFqhe5hogJMWiXQN2XrRhRDbqU8G22RsTMyv_F0Irou74tnYiWjhsJFR9VH8gN5CegFwy_lN6XPUSIi3VJJ3okx/s4608/IMG_20220602_131018.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZX0brIJPtydI_1jhzBk8iGINlgwa2tbWNV1AJDf1KSjJ97bSnaYM_jqZuX_3T6sHjHTMANP2lZ6LW7Z3KKdScTU0ukNIR1lpuNFqhe5hogJMWiXQN2XrRhRDbqU8G22RsTMyv_F0Irou74tnYiWjhsJFR9VH8gN5CegFwy_lN6XPUSIi3VJJ3okx/s320/IMG_20220602_131018.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of 'Dancing Queenie' by A Mott</td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i><p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0