Sandie Shaw

Memories of seaside holidays are fresh in my mind.

This is usually the case on the darkest and coldest of winter nights. I may also have been the victim of the relentlessly brash or vaguely aspirational advertisements for that tailor made summer vacation where kids and their parents get on swimmingly. After all it is on a fully inclusive basis (gratuities excluded).

I grew up as part of a large family, even by baby-boomer standards, five kids under the age of 14 so the most efficient logistical approach to the main summer holidays was to stay within the UK, well more specifically  England and Scotland to explore and sample the delights of the phenomena that was the day trip to, or a longer stay at, the seaside in a bed and breakfast, under canvas or in a static caravan.

Standard family equipment for seasiding included a wind-break, mallet, travel rug, hamper, pair of ancient wood wormy candy-stripe canvas deck chairs, plenty of assorted tupperware, buckets, spades, kite and a cricket bat. For many years I was under the impression that we were Spanish by descent on the basis that the brittle weave of the wind break appeared to represent their National colours. The wind break was quite an event to get into position as by its very name it was only brought into action in a stiff breeze.The whole exercise took on the apperance of the launch of a brightly coloured fantastical hang glider to carry a whole family out of the country.  Hammering the uprights into soft sand was fairly ineffective so other methods were deployed including guy ropes, large sea-cobbles (dependant on the local geological conditions) or large cofferdam construction. My father was responsible for the physical siting of our gawdy encampment which took a lot of skill. It was essential to be within sight of the paddling zone of the beach for supervision of five children of varying swimming competency and water sense, but yet at sufficient distance, if the tide was on the turn, to give a good few hours of enjoyment before being at risk of being inundated by the rising tide. We were not alone in our quest to take the beach and by early morning on a day of reasonable British weather we soon found ourselves in a vast temporary settlement. Some posher families had small Camping-Gaz stoves for a brew-up.

The elite of the beach-set had the luxury of a small timber hut in a long ranked brightly painted terrace of similar on the nearby Promenade but still had to use the same Public Loo's as the rest of us, so no real social advantage there.

In my childhood we lived in Suffolk, within a short sweaty drive on the vinyl seats of the unventilated VW Variant Estate to the seaside. Hunstanton was frequently visited as a family or with relatives and friends. The beach faced north onto the vast tidal expanse of The Wash so on some days, although we were at the seaside, there was a chance that we would never actually see the sea apart from a slight mirage-type heat haze some two to three miles in the distance. The stranded water pools were a shallow, safe and warm place to play but became a bit minging later on in the day on account of the stagnant conditions and, I suspect, impromptu use as a childs' toilet.

I have a very strong memory on two counts from Hunstanton. The first was a large second world war amphibious DUKW or Duck which ran pleasure trips out to find the tide-line. The second was witnessing a fight between two women on the beach for the affections, I think, of the driver of the DUKW, who was after all quite a cool dude.

Nicer beaches were to be found further south along the Suffolk coast. We took a chalet one year at Overstrand near Cromer and for the first time Gran came with us. Our cousins lived in Newquay in Cornwall and we often holidayed in the area. A proper seaside experience with crashing waves, whole families in wet suits, amusements, donkey rides, cliffs and caves.

Our family then moved to Lincolnshire and the nearest seaside was the delightful Cleethorpes. The town is often the target of ridicule and I can fully understand why. Lets face it. It is not really a seaside town but on an estuary with an easterly view onto Spurn Point and two offshore, and now very rusty-red military forts.As in Hunstanton the tide went out a long way , a very long way. This did cause a few problems. If we set up our base on the narrow sandy strip beach we had to walk through alternate terrain of water pools and increasingly thick and gloopy mud in order to reach the  shallows. The tide line always had white scummy foam deposits, floating detergent bottles and a band of sawdust in suspension. Not the best conditions to attempt to wash the caked gunk off our legs. We rarely spent much time paddling close to the busy shipping lane because we knew that the return to our welcome beach towels would be very unpleasant in the accumulation of a fresh coating of mud. That was Cleethorpes.

Our family move to East Yorkshire introduced us to many new and delightful seaside experiences including a short drive to the really proper attractions of Scarborough, Robin Hoods Bay, Whitby and Staithes.

If I was asked to name my top beaches I would definitely include two in Scotland. With my own family unit we had booked a very late weeks holiday on the Isle of Skye. The beach at Tarskavaig on the west side was idyllic. A broad sweep of a bay with views  to the Cuillin Mountains and out to the ring of islands of Canna, Rum and Eigg in the pounding Atlantic breakers. It was unseasonably warm for early september. The shallow bay waters were warm and glinting in the late summer sun. A very rare combination of conditions indeed on an island where average rainfall has been documented at seven feet. Paddling with my wife and, at that time, two small daughters, we were mystified by a movement in the shallow raised ribs of sand under our feet, a tickling sensation and a flurry of the fine white grained sand. It took some time to concentrate on what was causing the minor disturbance until a small flat, flounder fish revealed itself as one of hundreds basking in the bay.

The second strong candidate for beach of a lifetime was more difficult to find. I had read about the place and was pretty certain that I could find it. At the very start of an anticipated 11 hour drive from the west coast of Scotland to our home we pulled over between the single track road and the sand dunes. Progress through the shifting sands was difficult, two steps forward and one back, but we eventually broke through the dunes and emerged onto the whitest, purest sandy beach in the world. It was deserted. It could have been an ordinary beach but it was the actual one featuring in the 1983 film Local Hero. We stood for a few moments, collecting sand unwittingly in our socks and shoes. It was a magical experience.

Beside the Sea

A trip to the coast holds a special place in the hearts of the English. I have been fortunate in living inland but yet only a comparatively short distance away from the sea in order to satisfy the urge to go and take in the sand and waves. I am not sure if the natural attraction for coastal things is to reinforce in our minds that we are an island race or to emphasise that we can feel a bit suppressed and claustrophobic in our densely populated towns and cities.

In fact proximity to the coast could apply to just about every inhabitant of these islands given the long but narrow physical characteristics of the British Isles. The Ordnance Survey, in perhaps an idle moment between surveying our ordnance, have calculated that the furthest distance that can be attained from the sea anywhere within the UK is only 70 miles. The lucky residents of Church Flatts Farm, Coton, Derbyshire when interviewed about this seemed entirely underwhelmed by the honour. Their nonchalance is very understandable in that there is unlikely to be any actual merit or commercial reward in such a designation for them.  In fact it could be quite a disincentive for any prospective purchaser given the affinity for all things coastal.

Very distant in-laws of my father's cousin from, what was the former, Czechoslovakia were well into their 60's before they  actually saw the sea for the very first time which is something very hard to comprehend when we are but a challenging bike ride away from the coast in our country.

I am very spoiled for choice in my home area when it comes to beautiful coastlines. Top ranking must go to Filey, North Yorkshire. A compact crescent shaped cliff edged bay, established Victorian Promenade, white colourwashed town houses and, to the dismay of my children when younger, no brash or noisy amusements. The thought of keeping 1p and 2p coins in your pockets and out of the needy slot machines and penny falls is infuriating for children who expect such extravagance as a natural consequence of a trip to the seaside. Unfortunately, this younger generation in associating Filey with an absence of fast food and fast living may be prejudiced in their future parenting choices for a day trip out.This matter should be brought to the immediate attention of the Town Elders and Tourist Board as a matter of concern to be addressed in the short to medium term. Disgruntled, frustrated and sad little faces are however a small price to pay for a good bracing walk along the lower Beach road, a saunter past the boat club, a sandwich based light picnic meal below the crumbling cliffs and a striking out with best foot forward through rock pools and interesting geological features to the natural promontory of Filey Brig. This strip of rock on low tide ,separates the genteel Bay from the rough and bullying North Sea. On a breezy off shore windy day there is a faint mist of spray as the aggressive ocean batters the outcrop. It is always advisable to consult the tide tables ,which are clearly displayed on the walking route, when attempting the Brig expedition as, from personal experience, failure to do so can introduce an element of panic when a hasty retreat is closely accompanied by the rapidly approaching high tide. Fortunately I have not had to call into play the services of RAF Rescue. I admit there have been some situations when inevitable Ministry of Defence budget cutbacks will have been sorely tested in airlifting a large family group off the receeding rock shelf, disgruntled and sad faced kids, pockets bulging and weighed down with small denomination coinage,amongst them. There can be lingering anti-parental feelings from unfulfilled ambitions for children to gamble even with the prospect of a free ride in a bright yellow helicopter.

On a poignant and personal note my late father's ashes were just this week spread along the waterline in Filey Bay, a place for which he had a special  affinity. I like to think and am appreciative of the fact that he will be contributing to the eco-system of the Bay in the most natural way possible.

Game

Constancy in an ever changing world has its merits. I am not in any way advocating that we retreat into and hide behind what we consider to be safe and comfortable because progress and change are the very driving force of the development of the human race. I mean that in life there are some things that must be reliable enough to depend upon without question. The best analogy I can come up with early on this morning is the brakes on a car. We get in ,start up and drive off without actually checking if the brakes are still physically fitted and operational. We take it as a given that they were ok the day before when they came in very useful to arrest forward movement so must be the same today. We may make allowances, mentally and in the pressure applied to the brake pedal for wear and tear or if we have a lower degree of confidence on a slippery or loose road surface. We do take things for granted in the western world. The tap will always gush forth clean and refreshing water, gas is effortlessly piped to our appliances for cooking, heating and hot water, one flush and it is no longer our problem, the supermarket shelves are always well stocked. This cosseted lifestyle is only appreciated when it is disrupted or interrupted and then everything seems to tumble and fall. There is no greater feeling of abandonment and panic in our modern lives than a dry tap, a feeling of being cold and dirty or an empty food cupboard. In the big freeze of winter 2010/11 our external water supply pipe froze up solid for a couple of days. We felt like we had returned to the ice age. There was a panic buying of bottled water. The great unwashed were in a bad mood. It took a few sessions on the driveway with a hairdryer to persuade the water to flow. The same feelings of helplessness and loss of constancy hit home just last night. The TV schedule between Christmas and New Year was rubbish. I do not know who proposed a game of Monopoly. If a motion in Parliament it would have been rejected but there was some lobbying, bribery and just plain bullying by way of persuasion. Three of us took to the floor in varying stages of discomfort, aches and pains and awkwardness. The box lid was a further reincarnation of the original Waddingtons brand but now firmly in the hands of Hasbro- the Skynet of boardgames. I seem to remember that the gift of a Monopoly game in my childhood represented one of the largest boxed presents and was coveted as such. It would appear about as big as a surfboard, reassuringly rectangular, long, broad and thin. The handling of such vast amounts of play money was a thrill. The classic London game was magical and atmospheric, especially for us Northerners, with the posh blue banded streets of Mayfair and Park Lane somehow sitting easily next to the rough Old Kent Road with no barbed wire, CCTV or private security patrols. The most evocative elements were the silver coloured playing pieces. In my memory, the dog was large enough to sit on, the top hat to wear on a social event, the battleship capable of intimidating any country with a coastline, the iron actually functional, the wheelbarrow could easily be used in the garden all summer long, the thimble was well just a thimble, the boot a residence for an old woman and a horde of children. I have intentionally missed out the 8th classic piece because on opening up the newly gifted version it was nowhere to be found. I was outraged, as were my fellow Monopolists. I felt a letter in preparation to the Hasbro Board of Management berating them over the withdrawal of the race car piece. What had possessed them to do this?. Perhaps it was a misguided comment that they did not condone gas guzzling vehicles and that all subsequent releases of the game would feature a hybrid or wholly electric car. Maybe Hasbro had fallen out with the franchisees of Formula One over merchandising rights and we, the common gaming people were being punished. I shudder to think that Hasbro are about to launch a combined silver race car and Transformer character. That would be both patronising and inappropriate for a classic family board game of such pedigree. I was fuming and just on the verge of boycotting the game when The Boy pointed out that there was in fact, a full compliment of game pieces. What use, I ask you with all sincerity, is a pair of boots? Quality Control in the Hasbro factory, wherever in the universe that may be, had gone mad. Somewhere a software programme decided that a single boot was not a computable item. The vast production line stemmed the conveyor belt for race car pieces heading for the automated packing section thus creating a huge traffic pile up in favour of a 100% increase in the supply and delivery to the pre-moulded inner lining of the Monopoly box of hob nailed boots. I am not sure if this was an isolated incident in the factory. A disgruntled employee, downsized, may have decided that the sweetest revenge would be literally to put the boot in to the Corporation. Be assured, I will be writing to Hasbro on their distant planet pointing out that the whole Monopoly experience had been irreparably tainted for our family. I emphasised the ridiculous nature of two boots by insisting on using them as my game pieces in my stunning rise to power as a landlord before a spectacular fall from grace and inevitable bankruptcy. Ironically, I was grateful to have a stout pair of footwear with which to tramp the streets in search of employment and a hot meal.

Fat Man on a Bicycle

There is a certain mystique about the stars of the sporting world. In some respects it is now just too much information to know that they have a private life but the media world are wholly obsessed with exposing and exploiting the new levels of celebrity which go hand in hand with sporting elitism.

I grew up to respect a sports star for their prowess in their chosen discipline and not for dancing skills, nocturnal or extra marital activities or fisticuffs with the paparazzi. My childhood sporting heroes were mainly footballers and I would avidly collect the small sixpence and then post decimalisation 2.5p packets of collectors cards. The earliest I recall were for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico and I did, through careful conservation of my pocket money manage to fill the complete album from the double spread of the England team, Banks, Astle, Hurst, Ball, Thompson, the Storey Moore brothers, amongst others through to the best of the National teams of Brazil, Italy and West Germany.

I clearly recall the TV series on the BBC of 'Superstars' where the main personalities of the day were pitted against each other in a sort of modern decathlon of events. The mix of stars could not be replicated today on the basis of contractural obligations, health and safety and insurance cover. Footballers were humbled regularly by athletes, boxers, judo players and motor racing drivers. The popularity amongst viewers was immense,with around 10 million at its peak, only topped by the respect earned by the season winners or best underdogs.Kevin Keegan increased his stock and standing considerably by going on to win his heat, bloodied and bruised after a bad fall in the cycle road race event.

In pursuit of my own favourite football stars I had been caught up in the collecting frenzy and progressed from the World Cup to the English First Division in the 1970-71 season. The album, half A3 in size, cost 2 shillings and sixpence or using the metric conversion table on the inside back cover as a subversive educational medium for the transition, 12.5 new pence. Teams in the top Division included Huddersfield Town and the frequently up an downers in the promotion and relegation stakes of Blackpool, Burnley,Crystal Palace, Derby, the mighty Leeds and West Ham. The drawback in successfully filling an album was the large number of swaps that were inevitably accumulated. In the hubbub of the busy school playground there was the atmosphere of a stock exchange trading floor, the hot picks being clamoured for and the less fashionable players being hawked around by increasingly desperate collectors. With the skill of a currency trader the poorer card propositions would be bundled up in an attractive selection or perhaps with the sweetener of a prized marble or the offer of a kiss from a reluctant girl friend. Perhaps the modern concept and idea for the concealment of toxic financial debt in a basket of securitised assets originated in the very same school yard bun fight.

I have never gone as far to idolise or stalk a particular personality but opportunities did arise in my later teens and early 20's to see, at close quarters, some of my heroes. I graduated from footie to cycling in the early 1980's. The English speaking riders were just starting then to muscle in on the dominant french, belgian, spanish and italian led european circuit. I was in the crowd in Nottingham in 1983 or so when the aussie Phil Anderson lapped the whole field during the Kelloggs town centre race series.Mingling in the crowds before the race were the megastars of Jan Raas and Stephen Roche. I was able to resoundly slap Sean Kelly on the back after his second place finish in Newcastle city centre in The Wincanton Classic and vowed never to wash the hand again. Johan Museeuw, the Belgian star chatted easily with an exchange student from his home country whom we were hosting at the time of the Leeds Classic event. The World Champion track rider, Hugh Porter was a regular commentator at local cycle races and when I participated I was regularly mentioned in actual name or number on the frequent occasion of my tactical withdrawals after falling off or getting shelled out of the back of the race.

This mingling, albeit indirectly with my heroes, was only topped by my meeting and short conversation with Barry Hoban. Prior to the modern day phenomena that is Mark Cavendish he had been the most successful of British riders in the Tour de France between 1965 and 1978. As a contemporary of Tom Simpson he was on the race at the time of that rider's death and out of respect Barry Hoban was allowed to win and dedicate the next stage. I was calling in at my local bikeshop when I recognised the healthy and tanned faced Hoban in conversation about purchasing trade goods with the proprietor. I was introduced as a supporter of the local cycling scene and was duly proud of this acknowledgement in the presence of such a cycling icon. I was understandably pumped up at this stage and asked for a meduim sized cycling jersey as I was planning a trip out on my racing bike at the coming weekend. Mr Hoban commented that perhaps I would be better off getting a large size . I was immediately deflated and head down scuttled away red faced, clutching a large jersey, not wanting to make a scene, or frankly, start a fight with a pensioner.

Pirate Parrot Funny Money

I get very excited if I find bits of loose change. I do not mean that I constantly walk in a head down or stooping stance hoping to find the odd piece of coinage in public areas. Those days ended abruptly when I was fooled into trying to pick up a 50p coin which had been superglued to the pavement.My children found that very amusing and a bit pathetic. What really excites me is the touchy-feely outline and density of a lone coin or better still a loose array of coins in the pocket of my trousers, my suit jacket or a coat. There is a certain thrill about guessing the accumulated total of more than a single coin as this can mean the difference between a lunch consisting of a mars bar or a full portion of chips midway through the working day. The current sterling issue comprises small sized coins, mostly, so even initially suspected coppers pointing to a sparse chocolate luncheon could yield forth, actually, a good few pounds and, by definition a veritable feast. If a pocket-patting process is not successful then I usually strip out the car in search of monies. First, the ash-tray, followed by the central console, CD compartment and then the actual coin-tray. Default setting is that the drivers seat is slid back as far as it will go to allow the voids and crevasses to be checked. Under the foot mat can sometimes prove rewarding. There always tends to be a small amount of currency wedged in between the seat tracking rail and the handbrake mounting but if firmly esconced then I will usually leave it for another day when a knitting kneedle or chopstick are to hand. This coin search initiative (CSI) is repeated for the surrounds of the front and rear passenger seats in strict rotation. A properly thorough search does involve taking up a large area with all car doors wide open so I can be found strip-searching the car in the far corner of many supermarket car parks, in deserted lay-bys or in field gateways. To a passing vehicle this must look very strange and I am sure that my registration and description will be on some Police watch-list. This daily routine, if I have not pre-planned my working lunch, has led me to reconsider my attitude towards money. This was very aptly illustrated during the Christmas period with the confusing choice of buying and later receiving foil wrapped chocolate coins. The gold coins are very alluring in their appearance. After a period of mass production in Euro mimic form these have now returned to the old fashioned neutral designs or to the Spanish Doubloon remeniscent of high seas naval battles, treasure trove and damsels in flouncy sleeved gowns being fought for or over by alternate brigands and swashbuckling heroes. However, I find myself drawn more in favour and flavour to the silver foil covered coins now depicted as the infamous 'Pieces of Eight'. The invariably white milk chocolate is right up there in terms of a reason for my preference for silver coinage but I am also seduced by the legend behind the real 'peso de ocho reales'. This was well explained to me through the BBC radio broadcasts of 'The History of the World in 100 objects' produced in conjunction with the archives of the British Museum. Up until the discovery by the Spanish of vast reserves of silver during their conquering of Mexico and the native south american countries there was very little of that precious metal to use as a medium of trade and exchange. The production of the Pieces of Eight took place from the 1570's with the ore sourced from the Silver Mountain , or Potosi , formerly in Peru but now in Bolivia and minted there in such quantities to enable it to spread fully around the known world of the time to become a global currency. By 1600 a single coin could command an equivalent of around fifty pounds of goods and services and, remarkably was accepted just about everywhere in the world. The human cost of production was excessive so much so that with the depletion or working to death of the indigenous population a huge flow of replacement labour was sourced from the slave trade from Africa. The output from Potosi provided obvious wealth to the Spanish monarchy for extravagance as an expression of power, expansionism through military strength and importantly a very good line of credit with the money men financiers. The Spanish Empire came thus into direct competition and conflict with the other main and ambitious European powers. Amazingly the Potosi mine remains operational today. 16th and 17th century Spanish influence spread into the Pacific region and Asia and eventually the coins found their way into China with a destabilising effect on the economics of the area. Pieces of Eight have been found over-stamped by nations as their own legal tender and as far apart as Tobermoray in Scotland from an Armada wreck to Australia and over a period of some 400 years. The catalyst for the global acceptance was the volume of production, billions of coins in number, being likened to the modern day credibilty of Visa or American Express. The downside of abundant money was of course inflation and current day problems were more than evident at that time with great wealth but no goods to provide substance and sustenance when the cash coinage leaked out of the economy. An empire based on contract deeds and bills of exchange was always destined to fail regardless of the perception of great wealth. The proliferance of that chunky silver coin showed that a global economy was possible but took many more centuries to develop to a level of maturity. I hesitate, given the financial turmoils of the last 3 years or more, to use the word security in any form linked to money. Not all lessons from the past have been taken to heart. I do however remember not to leave silver foil wrapped chocolate coins in my pocket as that leads to a meltdown.

Boxing Day 2011

I have very mixed feelings about today, Boxing Day 2011. Typically for this country it is a bright, mild and breezy start. Very nice if you can sit in the sun in a sheltered spot. A bit bracing out in the open. There have been a few cars passing by the house, on the way to the Sales. Children's bikes have, it appears, taken a bit of a downturn in popularity this year as I have not seen any youngsters wobbling by on the road or pavement being chaperoned by an anxious red faced parent. I have had a lazy first few hours. A bit of a tidy up, unload and load the dishwasher, hand-wash the larger pots, put some sausages to bake in the oven for a nice buttie, spend some time with my wife and children amongst the new gifts from Christmas Day. It seems like an ordinary Boxing Day but it is in fact extraordinary because it is the first to come round since father died. We, as a family, have been through the same heart wrenching feelings before. My father in law, George was greatly missed at our Christmas table in 1995 and since then the Season has always invoked much emotion. Boxing Day has become the opportunity for a big get-together. It has passed the time test and is now a tradition which assumes precedence over all other things. This can be both good and bad as being 'one side of the family centric' there are spouses who inevitably miss out on establishing their own tradition. We all converge on the family home from as far away as America and all parts of the UK at this time. There is a full attendance of 19 on Boxing Day plus the occasional guests, so very much a full house. This takes some organisation but there is always a warm and rowdy welcome, a fire in the grate, food and drink in abundance and the ever present ingredient of the unconditional love of family. The house is nicely trimmed up with paper chains, lanterns, holly and a real tree. The seating of 19 does take some doing and the old suite, loaded well beyond capacity, is frequently re-aligned as one or more unfortunates disappear between the cushions. At the epicentre of the gathering has always been father. Usually in the kitchen when we arrive, hosting drinks and helping mother with the preparation of the food he bursts onto the scene in ginger wig and tam-o-shanter greeting the new arrivals with a mischeivous smile and laugh. We always remarked that, having been an only child, the size of the gathering must have been both joyful and a shock to father but strictly on a 99% to 1% ratio respectively. He was always the last into the room of expectant faces in readiness for the distribution of the family gifts accompanied by the cheekily irreverent high pitched hoots of "Doornald" from the assembled masses. He took up pride of place equidistant from tree and hearth seamlessly combining the operations of Santa and fire stoker. The youngest children took on the role of little helpers passing over the wrapped gifts to father. The drama of the present giving was brilliant. Father's spectacles were up and down from their forehead position as he feigned squinting and illiteracy to the amusement and frustration of his audience. As everyone's pile of gifts grew we would encourage father to open his own which remained untouched. These were reluctantly accepted and usually pushed down the side of his seat cushion to be opened later. What can you buy for the man who asked for nothing and yet had everything that he ever wanted there in the room? The toys and gadgets requiring batteries or mechanical attention were magically activated through fathers attentions, the kitchen table taking on the appearance of Santa's workshop. At the coming together of heavily laden tables for the meal I was privileged to sit at his side as he headed up the grown up's and his natural shyness and reticence to talk was forgotten in the presence of his closest family. The Boxing Day meal always gave a further insight into the life and times of a quiet and reserved man of great intelligence, knowledge and wisdom. Today will certainly be one of mixed feelings.

Out of Office Blog Message

Sorry but onelastsoul is away from the typeface. This is an automated seasonal blog.

'Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse'

Just shows that it really does work spending that little bit extra on very potent rodent bait if you have a problem.

The king's speech updated

In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.

For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.

Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.

We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.

It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.

Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.

But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.

This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.

It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.

We should all be calm and carry on at this time.

Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God. If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.

May he bless and keep us all

Bah, Humbug (Sheep noise minty boiled sweet)

It has happened. It was snowing hard in Bedford Falls. Mary Bailey had rallied round the good townsfolk and they came up with the required funds to make up the unfortunate deficit at the Savings and Loans. George Bailey looked at his small ginger hair daughter and thanked Clarence, his guardian angel to the sound of a bell tinkling on the tree.

I cried. I always cry.

The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. It takes something special to break throught the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of  biscuits, bombay mix, twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.

The unseasonably warm autumn weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weeekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.

There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the attic. I learnt again, and very fast, the art of wallpapering. It requires a three dimensional mind to successfully paper a chimney breast, an alcove with a serving hatch and a door.

I am of that generation who were only educated in one dimension. A simple task therefore took on the role of a fantastical escapade with accompanying tools of spirit level, laser measurer, secret coded pencil marks, frequent re-calculation of widths and drops, fiddly surgical precision trimming using toy scissors, gallons of border adhesive, alternate bouts of euphoria and self doubt, some seamless and cosmetic patching, a few pints of strong tea, use of the best car boot sale table top, bad language, brow mopping, quality control by squinting.

Having completed the short length of wall in something over 5 hours I then dreamt that night that the wallpaper all fell off. The dream was in fact based on a true event some years earlier. I had basked in the glory of my wife's admiration and amazement for the complete wallpapering of our bedroom. I felt it too was a job well done. The paper was easy to hang following its submersion in a water filled rectangular plastic container to activate the pre-pasted side. The four walls of the bedroom had a thin veneer of polystyrene to reduce heat loss through the old solid brick walls. The paper bonded well. The finished effect was pleasing. Unfortunately, the paper I had purchased was not in fact the pre-pasted type. It was only clinging on to the insulated lining by a wet friction effect. Over the hours of darkness the physics faltered and the morning light revealed not the night before's blue decorative hue but the stark white of the warm layer. The demoralising effect of this sharp fall from grace in the eyes of a loving spouse took many years to overcome.

There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church. The tree was carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. Two bags of logs were purchased together with some very nice, pre-washed and sorted smokeless fuel and a bag of kindling. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off. We are just about prepared.

 Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.

Gift

As an antidote to the mad clamour for festive presents here is my dream list in recalling things that have entertained me as a child. I have simply listed the items first and then the actual play-value is to be found in a subsequent jumbled up section. Any entrants for the Turner Art Prize should be aware that I thought of the following things first.

Dinner tray, with raised edge, filled with table salt.

Large sheet of brown wrapping paper.

An empty cardboard box

Brown, Olive green and flesh coloured enamel paints.

Breadcrumbs and lemon juice.

A hole in the ground.

A Pile of bricks.

The fallen bough , large, of an Elm tree.

Oddments of wood, a hammer and assorted nails.

Sonia Harold

The explanations, in no particular order;

An impromptu music stand for playing the trumpet.
A model, of dubious scale of an aircraft carrier
Diorama of the polar regions for playing with toy cars
First girlfriend
Extensive road network system and one dimensional cityscape
Building a den
Nourishing snack meeting just about one of the recommended 5-a-day
Camouflage to cover toys not yet comouflaged, making up faces of Airfix football scale figures
Replica of the Apollo 13 command module
Scene of large explosion or something that Dr Quatermass discovered.

Stripper

I was, for a time, addicted to pine furniture. I look back now, surrounded by MDF, rubberwood and ash or oak effect laminate and can hardly believe it. It started quite innocently. I had a few minutes to spare during my working day and was lured into a sleepy antique shop by the smell of caustic stripping fluid and Briwax polish. I was a fool. Of course I was going to succumb to the temptation of pine. I was, at that time, a frequent visitor to the town of Horncastle, the self professed antiques centre of the Lincolnshire Wolds. The main through street is a blur of well lit shop windows displaying collectables and ephemera, even at the regulation speed limit of 30mph. Anything and from anywhere can be easily purchased. If you know what you want then the proprietors of the town know where to source it from. The wilder or rarer the request, the more determined they are to scour the four corners of their shops for it. In a pine and antiques emporium in an old schoolhouse I saw them. Nestled in between a commode on a stand and a glass cabinet of Toby Jugs were two deep reddish hued, pitch-pine church pews. They were substantial. Obviously a pair formed from a full nave to aisle length. The pew ends were shaped and comely, the back slats neat and regimented, the seat well worn by the corduroy and tweed of the worshipful. I had to have them. As if by magic, a small bespectacled man appeared at my side and led me through a door at the rear of the shop. I found myself in his office. He wanted to know means of payment  and if I was equipped to remove the goods from the shop. I was not sure of either. Easy terms could be agreed if necessary. I handed over my debit card, frantically trying to think if the mortgage was due that day or tomorrow which would determine if I was in funds. I did not want to get into any sort of financial obligation to this man. With an electronic peep and staccato roll through of the acknowledgement slip my payment was approved.In retrospect I should have paid hard cash for a transaction that now had a permanent record in my bank statements. Fortunately, the rear parcel shelf and seats in my car could be removed and folded down. The pews were bundled out of the shop by two leather apron wearing pine strippers. I was a bit worried by the all-pervading odour of the burly men, akin to soggy sheepdog and the forecourt of a petrol station. With expertise from a lifetime of moving and pushing bulky goods, I could visualise them on door-duty at the town night-spot on thursday girls night, the pews were soon in place and the hatchback was firmly banged shut. One pew, presented to my young wife, was well received. Two pews however brought on reluctance and some hesitation. It took some time for me to persuade her that it was natural to have a nice pair. Buffed up they looked magnificent and they went well with our village house. Like a cat having affirmation for dropping a dead mouse on the carpet I was now hooked on the pine-thing. Over the next few months I must have boosted the profits of the members of the Horncastle Antiques Guild members. My next acquisition was a pine cupboard. Probably from a school or vestry. Tall, large door with authentic wooden knob. Three shelves, a bit wormy but treatable. This was followed by a magnificent table. The dealer told me it had come from the preparation room in a bakers shop. Long, low, three drawers, fully restored in all its virgin white pine, unfinished. Stout and shapely legs, strong enough to sustain the heavy works of a Master bread maker. I could imagine the updraught of fine flour after the impact of warm, pliant dough on the table top. Bloomers, Crusty Cobs, Tiger Bread, Rolls and fancies would all have assumed a part of the character of the table. In the house it fitted exactly into the chimney breast alcove in terms of depth and only slightly impeded the opening of the door from the dining room to the kitchen. We did not really have much time to savour the pine table as we were about to move house. Our purchaser dragged on and on in the process and, at the eleventh hour of signing Contracts she had the audacity to offer a lower price than that agreed. Our own plans were in tatters. We offered the table as a sweetener to the deal. We had noticed that she had lingered in the dining room during her viewings of the house, drawing her hand with unreasonable pleasure along the grain of the table top.The negotiation was swiftly completed with no more dramas. My addiction was worrying me now. In a backlash reaction I started to buy just anything that was not pine. A replica brass bell from the Titanic 1912, an enamel advertising sign for Pears soaps, a foxes head together with badly hound chewed ears, a wood burning stove, two tons of reclaimed brick-pavers, a selection of stone slabs one of which had obviously been used for practice by a monumental mason, a bundle of Look and Learn comics from the 1930's. I had to stop. The house move at some increased distance and a hefty Bridge Toll from the attractions of Horncastle served to be the antidote. Many years later and we are down to a single pew. I have a strong emotional connection to it. Notwithstanding it's beauty and provenance it also represented one of the first pieces of furniture bought in our pre-married life. I am however a realist and if our combined energy costs spiral as they did during the extreme weather of this time last year, I will have no hesitation in exploiting the chemically infused pinewood of the pew as a long and slow burning fuel on the living room coal fire.

Lots

If on a budget or just curious about what goes on I can generally recommend attendance at a public auction sale. Be strong in your intentions and keep a firm focus on what you want to buy. There are many shiny things and other distractions. Be prepared, above all, to go home with nothing if your target Lots are unattainable. Do not fall into the common trap of frustration at not being a successful bidder for the first choice Lot and then jumping in to take what is described as an unsorted box. Amongst the crested tea spoons, Wade Whimsy figures, a politically incorrect Robinsons Jam figurine playing a guitar, knitting pattern and a variety of plates and saucers there may be but a single item worth the winning bid of £1.50. Bidding at an auction is simultaneously exciting and mortifying. In setting up home I was after twin two seater settees, bankrupt stock, being offered at the local warehouse based auction house. They were in excellent condition, not remotely shop soiled or colour jaded. The first settee was easily bought, no noticeable competition. However, what better scope for mischief at a sale than  to see that someone is dead-set on making up a set or a clean sweep of Lots and contributing to the much higher price through malicious and bogus bidding. I could sense this was the case but of course the sea of faces clustered around the cavernous room were mainly those of poker faced dealers and speculators well practiced in concealment and deception. I persisted in waving my bidders number, beads of perspiration on my brow and the bridge of my nose. My self imposed maximum was approaching fast, almost twice as much as the first settee had been purchased for but at the fall of the hammer I had been successful. Unfortunately there were now three major problems. The first was that the goods had to stay in situ for the duration of the sale. The settees were, amongst the vast array of items in the sale room, part load bearing forming the base and plinth of a veritable pyramidic structure. Any attempt at a Jenga style extraction would be catastrophic. The second, worrying aspect was that the settees were also impromtu seating for the heavy legged, infirm or just casually lounging clientele of the auction rooms. Most of the current occupants, I counted a maximum of 8 large men and women, were arranged either on the actual seat cushions or with fleshy track-suit clad buttocks spilling out over the arms, counter balanced by a swinging leg or a foot resting on an adjacent sale item of furniture. In a quick and informal survey I was horrified to see that 60% of the recumbent masses were smoking and with a very carefree attitude to where the stray ash fell. The settees were, although of little immediate reassurance, carrying labels testifying to fire retardant characteristics. No doubt laudable precaution against major conflagration but little protection against a stubbed out dog-end. Add to the smoking statistics a gross weight of 120 stones for the settee squatters and I had very mixed feelings of concern for the integrity of the upholstery but was also greatly impressed by the stoutness and rigidity of the sub frames under such a dead weight. The third issue could wait a few minutes being more of a logistical nature. To go with the new living room seating I was also intrigued by the well advertised disposal of the entire contents of the executive dining room of a large and established local company. The firm were a global concern and the hospitality for sheiks and now respectable warlords would have to be of the highest calibre. The sale room preview on the morning of the auction had confirmed the worthiness of the quest for the settees. I also got a look at a dozen cardboard boxes of the finest quality Royal Doulton Ravenswood dinner services. Bright white, high glazed finished plates from main course size through to the small side plates, serving platters, tureens, gravy boats, fragile tea cups and saucers. The boxes appeared to be a good distribution of items, not quite a full compliment in each but well worth going after. A close scrutiny confirmed the quality. The plates had not been corporate branded which will have significantly reduced their attraction.The style featured a thin highly decorative silver leaf band just inside the edge. Obvious class and the pinnacle of good taste. Bidding was frantic. The first half dozen boxes went for well above my limit. There was, for the final boxed batches a very tangible cooling off in the room. I was now within my range and found myself the proud owner of the second to last box. It was not until I got home that the newly acquired executive dinner service could be studied in detail. 6 beautiful full sized plates in excellent condition, 6 side plates equally good, 5 tea cups, 3 sugar bowls, 32 saucers. Surprisingly for the level of wear and tear in a young and growing family the fine china remains largely intact although it is only really used on special occasions very much like for what it was intended under corporate entertainment protocols if a mogul or approved despot was in the area. In returning to the third problem with the settees I now had to remove these at the end of the sale and get them home. The parking lot of the auction warehouse and the surrounding industrial estate streets were awash with white or off-white coloured transit and Luton vans. Like the swarm of taxis at the end of a night out the sale room was a magnet for anyone with motorised transport to earn a few quid in removals and delivery. I asked at the payment counter if they could recommend a haulier. Before the staff could answer a figure loomed out of the shadows and offered his van and services for a flat rate of £15 for any load and distance but only if I was quick. I took this as an ill omen but then realised that he simply wanted to get in a few short runs from the sale room to cover his costs and provide a bit of profit. The settees were cleared for removal, loaded into a plain white van and then disappeared up the road with a note of my home address. In todays mistrustful society I may have unwittingly given the man a licence to clear my own house in his own van but the thought had not crossed my mind. Within a few minutes, carefully supporting the bottom of the Royal Doulton assorted box, I let him into the house and with great dexterity and consideration for the decorations he and a mate skilfully placed the two settees in their final resting place. The settees, with a faint odour of nicotine, were ideal for the room and gave very good service under the heavy duty demands of a busy family for many years.

Stand Off

It was not a fight of any thing near biblical proportions. I can just vaguely remember what caused me to lose my temper in the first place. However, fuelled with a feeling of righteous indignation I completely lost my sense of self preservation and picked a fight with the hardest kid in school. He was tough. His first name, even in the 1970's was something out of The Professionals or The Saint. It was Gerald. Whatever possessed his parents, I assumed ,in all innocence and in a non-malicious way, that he had two parents to give him the name Gerald I do not know. It was certain from his first breath in the world that he would have to be a real hard case just to live up to the name. I first came across him at senior school. He lived in a village outside the town, in fact up a narrow pot holed lane near the preserved and active windmill which stood just on the brow of the hill visible from my family house.If he had been fair haired this would have compounded my theory that he was the love child of Windy Miller. He was however, dark haired, stocky at 12 years, on the shorter size and with slighly bowed legs He was a bright lad but he did not want to be remembered for his academic acheivements over the five years of a Grammar School education. His first infamous act, which was one of many behind the fast emerging legend of Gerald was during a school football match. We were against the secondary modern in the town. Always a crunch match and even more antagonistic so soon after the 11 plus exam had broken up friendships forged over previous years at infant and junior schools. Gerald, now self titled as Ged, was the centre forward. He was very enthusiastic but also very clumsy and erratic. With hindsight he made Didier Drogba look like Rudolf Nureyev. In a swift attack up the pitch he was put through on a one to one with their goalkeeper. I was in midfield at the time and could see that Ged had no intention whatsoever of making it to the ball. Feet up and arms flailing he clattered into the goalkeeper. The match was abandoned because of a blood soaked penalty area and the sight of a badly mangled boy with broken nose being accompanied away to a teacher;s car for transport to the local casualty department. There would be recriminations over the ensuing years. There was always a bit of an atmosphere outside the bakers and confectioners which sat equidistant between the two schools as a consequence of the match. He was always the first to be picked during the lunch break footie or seasonal cricket confrontations, such was the fear he instilled in us all. I kept well clear. I was not a natural selection for his immediate peer group as I did not fit the profile. I was quiet, timid, and epitomised the well worn descriptive words of docile and placid. My uniform even into the later years of school remained original at a time when there were a number of metamorphoses amongst the wider school population. The tie got shortened by multiple looping so as to resemble a stumpy scarf. Trousers started to develop into Oxford Bags, high buttoned waistband, millions of pockets, turn-ups. Shirts hung out. Shoes became scuffed. Socks became even more daringly non-regulation.  In contrast I looked like a new arrival. Gerald also initiated the smokers club. My mother had found out about and curtailed my smoking habit at age 11 so I was further excluded from the Venn diagram of the hard kids group. The confrontation with Gerald started after a games lesson. He was messing about in the changing rooms. My things got thrown around a bit. I cracked and made my objections very clear in a way that did not include any swearing. He took this as an offer of a fight. There was no possibility of retracting my percieved challenge. We were carried along on a surge of bloodthirsty contemporaries, a bit low on blood sugar after the games period and consequently light headed and boisterous. The cries of 'fight, fight, fight' rang in my ears. The initial stand off was on the steps of our portakabin classroom. Gerald, naturally assumed the higher ground. He was quite generous in inviting me to take the first punch at him. I had never hit anyone out of anger before and was not really sure what was required. Summoning up all my courage I swung at him, not with fists, but with my trumpet case. In retrospect not the best of weapons. A bulky, black vinyl covered box, rectangular in classical proportions but not heavy enough to generate any momentum or force of impact. This weedy and ineffective opening was met with a quick rabbit punch on the bridge of my nose. Blood and tears mixed and temporarily blinded me. Ged wallowed in the accolades of his closest minions but  after they had dispersed he actually apologised and I think we left the battlefield with some mutual respect. We did not cross swords again. In fact I do not think we actually spoke a word to each other until I moved out of the area some 5 years after the standoff and short confrontation. Picking a fight with the hardest kid in the school did increase my currency slightly with my own peer group. I got into trouble with the music teacher for inappropriate use of a trumpet case.

Counsel

It is always sensible and prudent to consider good advice. Sometimes the advice is given when it is not required. In childhood this is usually the case when a grown up does not really feel that a good telling off is justified for something but Parental Protocol number 334a (minor misdemeanours not causing evident harm to humans or damage to property) nevertheless demands that a short lecture is given with the added value of a sound piece of advice. Other advice, if delivered in a certain tone of voice can be as withering and demoralising as a full scale public dressing down. A bit like a slow insidious verbal poison. The best advice in terms of content and delivery is that between a father and a son when there is no other living soul around to guage the wisdom of the comment or to add their thru'penny worth. In such circumstances it is possible for a father to show off worldly experience, perhaps very well guilded and sugar coated and even a little bit embellished over time being the version of what was imagined as happening rather than the actual chain of events.This does not lessen or cheapen the intention of the advice in any way. Some pearls of wisdom are comical only. They are good to break the respectful silence which often pervades the situation when a father and son find themselves isolated from the noisy family group and on their own in formulating a conversation. As long as the father does not start of with ' Son, back in the day'. The phrase means nothing to the younger generation. The best advice remains in your mind to be extracted as and when required. The stalwarts include ' never eat yellow snow' , ' always check the direction of the wind when going for a wee outdoors', 'If it looks too good to be true it is', 'never sleep in the subway', 'always keep a clean hankie in your pocket, ' you are judged by old people on the appearance of your shoes', 'never disturb a cat when it is eating', 'do not look for a gas leak with a lighted match', 'elder flower and hemlock are quite similar in appearance in the wild but produce a very contrasting fermented wine in terms of quality and social acceptance', 'do not, I stress, ever use screw top lids on home brewed bottled ginger beer...again', 'keep your bike tyres always at optimum pressure', ' badgers have no sense of humour', 'never drink out of a wet glass'. I have taken some liberties in the above but the majority have served me well so far. My father always gave the best,sound advice and calm counsel. For a stupid kid growing up into a hot headed youth and then into an impulsive adult the quiet consideration of my father was infuriating. Although I valued his advice my mind and course was usually, already firmly set. However, he was always right and correct in his deliberations and I accepted his opinions wholeheartedly and with no cause for complaint. Head must rule heart in matters of consumerism, finance and economics. There is plenty of other time for the heart to steer you through life. Such was the wisdom of my father that he would just let me pour out my theory, hypothesis, methodology and justification for something I was planning to do and then listen with patience as I simultaneously talked and reasoned myself out of the whole idea.This was no more evident when I returned home from school, age 15, announcing that I was going to join the army. I had been impressed by a careers lecture on a sixth form army college leading to an Officer Commission. I think I may have started to pack my belongings before coming to my senses. His prudency applied in all areas of my developing life. The first house choice, the mortgage maze, cars being a particular speciality, job and career decisions, a particularly difficult period in my professional life, matters of finance and planning. In his presence and in full respect for his experience I felt again like a small child but in the very best way possible. My often information bombarded and clouded mind, on arriving to ask advice soon cleared and everything was sure and certain going ahead. It is not possible to buy or secure this type and depth of knowledge and practical application and this does leave a very large hole in my life. I have spoken and discussed this matter with my siblings. Indeed many aquaintances of my father have, upon learning of his recent death, confirmed that, amongst many, many other characteristics, his strengths were based on a great level of knowledge, understanding and practical application that could analyse, filter, discard where required and compare all issues in order to give the best and sound advice to those otherwise floundering about in misinformation and confusion. Such an ordered and logical mind does not need to be demonstrative or attention seeking. I never saw my father in a rage and no swearing or even disrepectful words were directed at anyone even if fully justified in the eyes of others. I have unfortunately not inherited my father's best traits and often find myself in a spiral of self destruction through ranting and raving about everything and nothing in particular. At such times I just find a quiet place and reflect on what my father would have said to me. I have enough stored advice from him to get me through just about anything.

Head Shot

I do not come out well in a photograph. Of course the magic of the lens does have it's limitations if the source material is a bit lacking in the first place. I am often startled by the emergence of my face if, by accident, I activate the web-cam on the lap top. The shock of the image leads me to adopt various positions and poses to see what would be the best of a bad lot. I find that leering at the camera, chin slightly out does wonders to minimise the influence of the double chin but is a bit painful to hold for more than a few seconds. This may not be the best for a promotional shot but certainly better than my current on-line picture which, more than one person has hilariously likened to what they perceive as Harry Potter's dad. This is clearly ridiculous as everyone knows that James Potter was not a muggle, indeed he was of the purest ,pure blood line. The only thing I could possibly have in common with the man is the reference to perpetually untidy hair. (source; Wikipedia).Get real you people. There is a very simple explanation for the offending photo. I was at the annual company conference. It was the launch of the website. I was tired and caught off-guard. My contact lenses had affixed themselves somewhere above and behind my eyeballs and had shrivelled up. I had no spares. Fortunately, my emergency spectacles were salvaged from the glove box in the car. The rest is internet history. I have experimented with various poses with which to replace the Potter version but in  best form I then resemble Alan Titchmarsh. I cannot see it myself but I was assured by a promotions lady that if I could team up with a busty red head then she could get me appearance money as a looky-likey duo. Garden centre operators were apparently crying out for a very low budget alternative to Titch and Charlie for ceremonial openings of water gardens, tea shop, farm shop or a seasonal Santa's Grotto. As soon as a resemblance to the illustrious Alan is mooted by a member of the public or I am accosted  in the street to arrange to makeover a garden I know it is time to embark on that medical diet to lose a good few pounds. Amongst my absolutely favourite photographs is me when about age 4. The image does have obvious limitations for self promotion now but boy, am I cute. The setting is, I think, at grandparents although there are no real reference points in view. I am standing alone, right leg slightly raised in a definitely gauche position and with my right buttock just resting on a deep oval shaped wicker easy chair. Hair is slicked back, face cheeks a bit red and flustered, dickie bow however, level and true. My shirt is bright white, blue shorts, and with the fashion mistake of sandals with socks. I am grinning. The picture, having seen the family album appears to have been one of a series including my big sister and cousin. There are many photographs taken at key-school ages. This was always an expensive time for my parents when I returned home with the usual pack of proofs and various size and presentation options. There is a nice picture of me with my younger sister, about age 8. Between us and from the very gappy smiles we will have easily accounted for a full set of baby teeth.Newspaper photographers do have an eye for a good image. We hosted a Belgian girl in the 1970's. I recall she was from Namur and was going out with a footballer. The combination of being foreign, with a partial command of the English language and being quite pretty made her the biggest news event of the week which says a lot for the parochial nature of that particular town.A story for publication included a photo of me and my siblings being read to but beyond that I remember nothing. My father was a very keen amateur photographer and in his youth had all the equipment to process his own negatives and prints. Consequently we have volumes of family photos in albums and equal numbers loose and unsorted. There is a definite magic about actual photo's and I feel sorry for those whose treasured memories are retained on a hard drive and at risk from deletion, theft, hacking or that inevitable coffee spill on the laptop keyboard. By far the largest group picture I have participated in was at the Grammar School. We numbered about 400 boys and masters on the school field arrayed over progressively elevated rows. It was always going to be a difficult operation to manage. There were relief staff on duty to prevent the multiple appearance of pupils on the finished article. This could be acheived, in theory, by blagging a position at the end of the row on the margin of the focused shot and then on the opening of the slow speed shutter, peeling away and materialising at the other end. On this occasion the diligence of the staff was successful. However, one boy who will remain anonymous, Andrew Cleary, unwittingly followed the movement of the specialised camera from start to finish. It was only upon the release of the finished print that his distorted cabbage patch doll head was noticed. The embarrassed Headmaster had to offer the picture at a much reduced price. I expect that the school store room is full of rolled up prints that were shunned by disappointed parents.  I have only had one professional studio photo which was for the local paper through work. This was a black and white head shot giving me the appearance of a 1930's matinee idol. I am sitting slightly off  angle to the camera with a handsome, wistful and certainly not vague and confused look. Such a photo works wonders in disguising those characteristic red cheeks, ill fitting shirt and worn, shiny suit jacket.  I have reserved the negatives for reproduction on the front of my funeral service sheet, well understandably I do not want mourners giggling over a bespectacled wizard visage or looking around for Ms Dimmock. I can appreciate that she would be very upset but quite startlingly striking dressed in black with a veil and wellies. I would want to spare her any unnecessary distress or publicity.

Bedtime

A strong and reassuring childhood memory, reinforcing the love of parents that brought up me and my four siblings, was being firmly tucked up in bed. There had to be a routine to get us all to a stage of readiness for sleep. At our most dependant the five of us ranged in age from new born to 14 years so there were logistical considerations for use of the bathroom and the availability of sufficient hot water. We of course shared the bath water in the days when a copper cylinder had to be pre-heated for only a finite depth of bath water. This was not a problem although in the process of play and making waves the bath contents were mainly emptied onto the floor rather than via the plug hole. If afforded the relative luxury of a solo bathing I would enjoy holding on to the side hand rails and, sliding back and forth, generating a bow and tidal wave that would smack the tap end before rolling back, slapping me in the face and cascading over the side. The move to a new house with a shower cubicle was quite a culture shock. I would liken the introduction of stand up washing in a modern house to the revolution in Victorian times of the work of Thomas Crapper in proviiding a toilet that flushed. The availability of a shower must have saved an hour on the bathtime regimen although possibly using more water than the conventional bath. After all it was a new thing and we did not know what we were doing. There is a nice feeling about being clean, dry and in fresh pyjamas. If all at this stage, those of us with teeth and self-mobility, were allowed downstairs for a cup of drinking chocolate and access to the tin of  biscuits. TV between 8pm and bedtime was confined to such programmes as The Waltons on a monday followed by The Goodies, The Onedin Line or that racy Poldark on a sunday night, Alias Smith and Jones on a tuesday, Panorama (we were multi-cultured) and later in the week, That's Life and if we were good, Match of the Day on a saturday night. In a style reminiscent of the Von Trapp children we would ascend the staircase taking comfort in the sounds of our parents tidying up and washing up before getting a short time for their own thoughts after what must have seemed like very long days indeed. We were fortunate to live in a four bedroomed house, a squat neo-georgian detached being the last for some years at the end of a cul de sac before further expansion of the town punched through the hammerhead and down the hill to the main road, leaving us subsequently in the middle of a large estate. I shared a bedroom with my younger brother. The twin beds just left enough room to move around although my bed was pushed up against the radiator. We would wait for our parents to come upstairs to tuck us in. This was in the days of bedsheets and blankets so to make a bed was in itself another household task. No wonder it took all of monday for my mother to get through the washing, line drying and ironing operations. The tucking in involved parents pulling up the outer edge of the mattress and securing the bedsheets on that side before repeating the same operation on the inner side. The result was a central mattress trench, confined and cosy with a taut sheet just under chin height. This was a lovely safe, secure and warm feeling and we would slowly drift off into sleep shortly after. Our world was soon to be rocked and we would be thrown out of our comfort zone by the introduction of the continental quilt. I am not sure where my parents got to hear about this lifestyle item. It was the fashion accessory of the mid 1970's. The actual time and labour saving benefits for laundry day were massive. The old bedding was confined to the airing cupboard to appear over the coming years as a ready supply of spare linen, cleaning cloths and dust sheets. Tucking in however, was never the same. The quilt, apparently rated in density and warmth by a Tog factor, whilst cosy, just sat on top of you. It was entirely possible for a leg or arm to protrude into the cold of the night. Sometimes the quilt just slipped and feel off into the gap between the beds. This was terrible in the winter but quite acceptable on a hot and humid summer night. My parents would attempt to undertake the tucking in but it was more like a wrapping up and soon relinquished its sausage roll type grip. I do not lay blame on my parents for the continental quilt phenomena. I was, with my brothers and sisters, still loved and tended for. I saw the whole thing, much later in my life, as another example of the sacrifices of my parents to the bettering of young lives in a fast developing modern world.

Brain

Because of the inevitable decline in numbers of brain cells in direct proportion to age I have the utmost respect and admiration for those who, at a mature stage in life, make the decision to go back into some form of education.This could be under duress from employers to skill-up and offset obsolescence, a new direction following a mid-life crisis or redundancy, a complete lifestyle change or to prove a former spouse or partner wrong who said that you would never acheive anything. The decision may simply be to make up for wasting time and opportunities the first time around when there were more attractive things to be prioritised in life and living. The sense of satisfaction upon completion of something educational that has effectively been shelved for perhaps 30 or 40 years must also be tinged with a bit of regret for time lost. There is nothing wrong at all with a desire for self improvement. I was inspired by the true story of the Ashington Coal Miners from County Durham who, for an alternative pastime enrolled in painting classes in 1934. Their artwork served to supplement their wages being sold at local markets. The wider art world of the inter war period raved about the paintings resulting in a number of prestigious gallery exhibitions, on merit and not through patronising of the supposedly uncultured working classes. Rediscovered in the 1970's as typifying the genre of Workers Art this developed into a dedicated museum that opened in Ashington in 2006 for The Pitmen Painters. It is a fact that some people have little option but to start work from an early age to meet family commitments,economic and social demands and this is a tragedy in that many gifts and skills which could benefit mankind or the community are suppressed or are just not allowed to germinate and fluorish. On the other hand I have no sympathy whatsoever for those who, given an opportunity of an education and to pursue their dreams , subsequently squander it all for a bit of a laugh and a larking about.
The young brain is a sponge for the absorbtion of facts and figures and is resilient enough to adapt and learn almost anything with very little prompting or actual teaching. The mental capacity from age 3 to the late teenage years is at its maximum before being tainted , bogged down and cluttered with the useless stuff with which we are bombarded every second of the day in our adult lives. Information introduced to the young brain in its formative years sticks and holds, taking up prime position in the equivalent of our hard-drive of the mind. At a base level we were taught and still retain the building blocks of language and communication. The alphabet, times tables, The Lords Prayer, Kings and Queens of England, landmark dates in history, the Liverpool team of the 1974 season (Clemence, Lawler, Lindsay, Lloyd, Smith, Callaghan, Hughes, Hall, Toshack, Keegan, Heighway) , song lyrics and how to play a musical instrument. This latter skill and its persistence in the human psyche was more than demonstrated just two days ago. With Christmas fast approaching we were doing a bit of de-junking in the house. The Ikea cabinet, called a gruntfuttock or something swedo-mythic, fell victim and was rapidly de-engineered and destined for a landfill. Unfortunately, as a storage medium the cabinet was exceptionally voluminous. It had housed CD's, treasured and inherited vinyl records, stray ornaments, a parchment scroll, aboriginal rainstick, navigational chart from Hull to Burton upon Stather and two descant recorders together with a faint odour of dettol. I picked up one of the musical instruments and launched into a jaunty and playful tune, a classically themed Gavotte by some long dead composer. The remarkably note perfect piece moved into a slower middle section before a frantic, finger flailing finale with a flourish of aerated fine spit spray. The musical experience must have been at least 3 minutes long, or at least it had been way back in the early 1970's when I had originally learnt it for a music festival. The power of mental retention was amazing after some 38 years. The experiment was continued by my wife who, not to be outdone, took up the other, admittedly less hygienic recorder and started to play the theme from Van der Walk or 'Eyeline' as performed with orchestra on Top of the Pops. This was quickly followed by some classical Bach and not a little wheezing from her restricted and rather asthmatic chest area. I retaliated with the National Anthem. Exhausted but triumphant we fell into each others arms, laughing and crying at the same time. The Boy looked on horrified but whether for the impromptu recorder recital or our show of unbridled affection and joy I am not sure. He then left the room to check if our TV was still under warranty, fearful that any loss of mass media over Christmas would be replaced by a re-enactment of a freakish combination of the festive concerts of Glebe Road and Mersey Street junior schools, class of '74.

That friday feeling

It was a late friday afternoon. I had an appointment to do a house survey. The address was a forewarning for an ominously large sounding property, The Old Manor Farmhouse. I had been denied the luxury of any prior research on the scale of the job due to the usual afterthought of a prospective purchaser,telephoning that very day, ready to sign up ,that a survey was now urgently required hence the criteria that it must be inspected, like yesterday. I had allowed up to two hours for the job but on turning into a long driveway and seeing the imposing mass of the house I knew that more like two to three hours minimum was required. I regretted not buying at least a Mars Bar from the last available village shop to sustain me until, evidently, a very late tea-time back home.  It was in the latter part of august so at least  there was no panicky feeling about losing natural light. In fact, I could have done with sunglasses for the glare from the bright white colourwashed render which covered the south and west sunlit elevations. In typical consideration of security I found the front door key, as indicated by the Estate Agents, under a brick near the bootscraper block. I hoped that the key access was imposed because of a very recent vacating by previous owner/occupiers who again, hopefully, had given the house a thorough emptying and cleaning. This was not the case. The untidy external condition did not bode well for what I would find internally. It hinted at abandonment or being surplus to the requirements of a farmer on moving to, perhaps, The New Manor Farmhouse. I spent a good proportion of the first hour inspecting the roof, multiple chimney stacks, rainwater system, walls, trying to identify if there was any form of a damp proof course, assessing if a mouse could get through the airbricks and with glee, poking my fingers through the paintwork disguising a lot of soft timber in the window and door frames. Tracing the route of drains led to an open stagant ditch so room  for improvement there.I found a long stick as a precaution against the attentions of yet more rodents as I entered the very ramshackle outbuildings which had seen much better and watertight days. The interior of the house was in the same category. I kept to the edge of most of the rooms to benefit from the support of the few sound floor joists left beneath very undulating carpets. The plasterwork had largely lost its hold onto the walls and ceilings leaving large exposed areas of underlying brick or willow latts. Traces of former grandeur could just be seen under gawdy 1970's paintwork or where what will have been substantial panelled internal doors had been flush boarded over. Kitchen and bathroom fittings will have not been out of place in the Hygena or Ideal Standard museums or in a skip. The first floor bedrooms continued with the authentic retro-chic decor under acres of firmly stuck down polystyrene tiles. Surprisingly there were no signs of water leaking through from above and checking my notes attributed this to clear indications of the main roof having been recently renewed in a sympathetic clay tile although already green and mossy to the surface. I clambered up into the loft. This was the final stage of my inspection. I was now firmly in that friday afternoon frame of mind which made it very tempting to rush and deviate from my usual meticulous regime of looking and writing down in an inspection system for properties devised and perfected over 20 years. On the one hand the loft was murky, even with my best torch at play across the rafters and into the dark corners. In direct competiton was the thought of having to drive home caked in dust and cobwebs. Conscience and laziness fought it out in my mind. In reasonable compromise I crawled up to the chimney breast which dominated the mid section of the roofspace and shone the light behind. That way I will have seen all parts of the loft area. My conscience had won through.The beam of light caught something and I stared aghast. Nestled at the base of the rafters, under the lowest slope of the roof was a bright, almost fluorescent blob. It was the size of a duvet cover, scrunched up ready to be bundled into a washing machine. Almost high viz orange in colour, organic and palpably moving. A beautiful growth of fruiting and virile dry rot. Around the main body of the growth was a fine reddish dust. The thing was certainly very recent but also at its most active stage sending out rusty-red spores to populate and, if left unchecked, decimate the structural elements of the roof which, frankly, following recent works had until then been the most promising part of the house. I gloated a bit on my resistance to sloth. The many photographs I then took of the seething mass would serve to compound the fear and suspicion of the house buying public of the little understood but devastingly efficient work of fungus in a confined space. I marvelled at the natural beauty of the thing as I left it to its work in the humid atmosphere of the roof eaves. My client would be impressed by my thoroughness but mortified by the estimates for what would be required to rid his prospective residence of the unwelcome visitor.

Sand

Picture a sandy beach anywhere in the world. A relaxing scene of softly lapping waves, drifting and leisurely bathers, a few paddling at the edge, rows of neat sun beds, shaded under bright and gawdy coloured canopies or authentic coconut palms, beachfront concessions for that chilled soft drink or something a bit more sophisticated and alcoholic. Bronzed and beautiful people, stretched out in sun worship or chilled out with a book or magazine. Then you see the English family, fully clothed, any exposed skin very red in colour and undertaking a full scale excavation and civil engineering project to build a replica of Windsor Castle in sand, complete with small paper Union Jack and Royal Standard Flags that they carefully packed and brought with them. We have all perpetuated the very English activity of digging in sand wherever we may find it. Think back to your own childhood days and the presence of a sand-pit or sand box in just about every back garden. Of course, without a plywood or polythene cover this play facility rapidly deteriorated into a very large community litter tray for the local cat population but then we were more resilient to infectious and debilitating illness in those days. Unfortunately the sand pit went through a high tech phase from which it never recovered. This consisted of mainly shell or turtle shaped moulded plastic, with a cat deterrent lid, and clean and sterilised play sand. This combination ruined the engineering capabilities of sand as far as young children were concerned. The demise of the sandpit is illustrated by a foray onto Google Earth over any UK suburban area. Once the proving ground for sand based architecture, such a satellite study today reveals the very common phenomena of small black circles in back gardens. This contrasts sharply with, say, an equivalent residential area in the warmer parts of the US where there is the bright blue rectangle of an outdoor swimming pool. The circular images are a consequence of the very clever marketing of trampolines as a combined play, leisure and fitness item. I am not sure if they were given away free with a Nintendo Wii or similar given their significant numbers. However, I have never seen one in actual use. Give the youngsters of today some credit in that just jumping up and down or attempting, at great risk of injury or death, a somersault is no way to wile away the hours. There must however be a very English genetic trait that demands that sand be dug wherever it may be. I was watching a very interesting TV programme last week about a return to the Stalag Luft prison camp from where the actual Great Escape took place. The Allied internees were of course duty bound to try to break out and much ingenuity and inspired improvisation was applied to that purpose. I hope I am not being disrepectful to either the prisoners or their captors but for some reason the authorities felt it necessary to a) locate the camp in a sandy area and b) spread extra sand over the site to make it easier to spot spoil and waste produced by tunnelling. Talk about providing subliminal encouragement to dig. There is a considerable difference across the world in the quality and suitability of beach sand to keep us English happy and content in a deep hole, amongst sea-water filled canals and rivulets, or in the shadow of an almost full size sculpture of the Tower of London, a wildly imagininative collection of stout ramparts and fortifications or an attempt at Hogwarts. The much admired beaches at Anse Lazio in the Seychelles, Ka'anapali in Hawaii, Coronado in California and Cas Aboo in Curacao may have the climate, ambience and sheer beauty elements but frankly, these would all fail the sand elasticity test conducted by filling a small brightly coloured plastic bucket using the colour matched spade, tamping it down and then upending the whole contents in search of that perfect sand castle. Our first proper continental holiday involving flying was to the Greek Island of Kefalonia. We had read the book and seen the Hollywood movie of Captain Corelli and were enthralled by the dramatic landscape of the island on which the story had unfolded. We were not disappointed and indeed most of our exploration of the island in a small Hyundai Atoz was done with clenched hands on the steering wheel because of the many sheer drops and limited barrier provision below the roads carved out of the steep hillsides. We had saved a visit to Myrtos Beach until the latter part of out ten day holiday. The beach, one of the most photographed on the planet is a crescent shaped strip at the base of impenetrable cliffs, onto deep, clear and treacherous waters and with a tortuously winding roadway down. The best viewpoint was from a dusty lay-bay, again with no protection against plummeting over the edge.This only strengthened our resolve to put our feelings of self preservation aside and get down there. I cannot remember the descent which is understandable amongst those who are exposed to extreme trauma in certain situations. We got to the sweeping beach in late afternoon, the inland sweltering heat tempered by a coastal breeze. In the Corelli movie the beach is the setting for a raucous party, some toplessness of the female kind is shown, (available on Total Film, 1 hour 37 minutes and 20 seconds in). We were not all interested in re-enacting the scene. We were there for a higher purpose. What better way to celebrate our first overseas holiday than to build something on the best beach we had ever been to outside the UK. A few seconds later we were back in the car hurtling up the cliff road. We were a very disappointed and devastated family. I was already composing a letter of complaint to the tour company.We had found, on close hot footed investigation that Myrtos Beach was a traversty. The whole bright white and promising strip was in fact made up of small sun bleached pebbles.

Full of beans

The proliferation of coffee shops has changed the whole streetscene and shopping experience in UK towns and cities.

Go back just 20 years and the choices available to get a cuppa were either 1)of the 'Copper Kettle' type mixing white lace edged table cloths and antiques/objects of art,2) the archetypal transport cafe or greasy spoon and 3) a restaurant area of a Department Store. Such places were semi-formal even amongst overall or dungaree clad lorry drivers and tradespersons. There was a certain etiquette for each. Copper kettlers were usually of a mature type and disposition, smartly dressed and perpetuating the rituals and social standing of drinking tea rather than coffee. A visit was an event. Transport Caffers were vocational when it came to the partaking of refreshments. Get in and out quick and with any tea stains being worn as a badge of honour and pride amongst the industrious. The Department Stores catered for high levels of footfalls with rapid service and fairly bleak surroundings which did not encourage lingering over the food and drink on offer.

Tea was dominant as the drink of the masses. Coffee was regarded with suspicion as if an alien beverage, a more exotic choice only really becoming accepted if seen to be the norm when Brits holidayed abroad or assumed it's mystique as potrayed on TV and in the movies. There has been a massive cultural shift in the attitude towards coffee drinking. From being regarded as an after meal feature or a matter of foreplay as in 'did you want to come in for a coffee' it is now a throwaway comfort item or if carried around in a paper cup, an advertisement that you can multi-task, work and play at the same time.

Coffee shops have also developed and attached themselves to other aspects of consumerism. I am not that keen on the blending of Costa Coffee and Waterstones Bookshops. There is trouble brewing in combining internet cafes and furtive coffee drinkers. Emphasising community and charity is a Corporate directive for many of the large chains. There are of course merits in promoting Fairtrade products and Charitable endeavours but a tediousness in putting up childrens pictures, exchanging paperback books and dumping used coffee grounds on budding gardeners. Whatever the style and attraction of the many coffee shops there is obviously a role that they perform, filling a gap in some lives.

Me and the boy have started to attend regularly at St Arbucks. For many years we have drifted about between similar places but have not been able to settle or feel at peace in our surroundings. It has been a difficult process with much soul searching about being in the right place and amongst like minded people. We do like the informal service which comes with a friendly welcome and smile. The atmosphere is very cosmopolitan and you do get a real cross section of the population which adds to the interest. This is in direct contrast to a few similar places that we have tried. We are now on familiar terms with the thursday afternoon barrista's so much so that I was allowed the facility of a credit when the card reader broke down. They trusted me and even the sunday staff whom I had never met treated me as a long lost friend when I called by to pay the debt.

The main outlets and franchises are gearing up for a larger presence in the High Streets and shopping malls. Buying a coffee and a pastry may have become the new form of self pampering in an otherwise depressed and recessionary economy. Perhaps the coffee shops will become the speakeasy's of our modern age and from the comfort of sofa's and high stools we will rally forth, cups and insulated cup holders in hands to storm the citadel, or just get something choccy and cinnamon to go...

Lonesome Pine

I am sorry to inform that my self righteous and rather smug blog of 28.11.11 has returned to bite me. I was, at that time self congratulatory on my single handed salvation of a Christmas Tree which had served the family very well for the last two festive periods. I was getting ready to go down the garden to dig it up to take its place on the front balcony of our house. I initially found it to be not at its best. It's most recent position had been intended to shelter it from the summer sun. In my wisdom this was in the shadow of a stubborn buddleia tree which has show great resilience after its annual and rather harsh pruning back to an ugly stump. Each growing season and the butterfly magnet gets larger and more lush. However, it's rapid and dense growth totally overwhelmed the small pine tree.I can assure you that it is not deceased but just a bit poorly. I have tried to envisage the equivalent human stage and age in order to understand the physical processes at play. The helpful lady at the garden centre from where the tree came from in 2009 had expressed surprise at its survival even with a healthy root-ball. Therefore, I contend that a tree of 3 years old is equivalent to the old biblical life expectancy of three score years and ten. The current appearance and symptons of the pine tree are consistent with just old age. The brownish stem ends and foliage are as grey hair. Fresh growths, tufty and uncontrollable are the flyaway wispy nostril hairs of a loved older relative. The dry boughs are like the wrinkles of experience. The tendency to move in a strong wind on a weakened root structure equates to being a bit wobbly on arthritic limbs. The bare upper branches akin to premature baldness.The slight warping of the trunk is the curvature of a tired and burdened soul. I found myself talking in a loud and pronounced voice to inform the tree of what was going to happen over Christmas. I proposed to leave the tree amongst it's current familiar surroundings although in a better position away from the light and rain grasping buddleia. I would make the occasional visit to ensure that the food and moisture from re-planting was getting through. I could provide a few baubles and a bit of tinsel to give some cheer over the season. Above all, it was a Christmas off duty and a time to recuperate for the next year. I can see the tree from the house and it will participate in our festivities in its own quiet way.

Eleven Plus

A Private Tutor, coaching, study aids, after-hours classes, coercion and bribery. This is very much a normal course of action for parents today on behalf of their offspring when encountering an important stage in their educational progress. The mad scramble to get children into the better perceived State schools has involved deception and lies, subterfuge and trickery, false witness ,flattery by imitation and, again, the twin partners of persuasion-coercion and bribery. In our area, given the prospect of their junior school children progressing to a large inner-city comprehensive school, there was a mass demand to purchase houses, for those in the privileged position to do so, in the catchment area for what was regarded as a more genteel and suburban school although the phrase, "the lesser of two evils" does come to mind. Consequently, house prices in the selected area commanded a £10,000 premium above their comparable neighbours. The modern phenomema of social engineering is perpertuated. How different a situation in my own experience in or around April 1974. I attended a small junior school in a very sleepy, one through road market town. A Board School from the 1930's with classrooms off an open verandah arranged in a 'U' shape around a courtyard garden with flagpole. A frequent accident that befell teachers and pupils was inflicted by a hastily outward opened classroom door onto the walkway directly into the path and face of the unfortunate person, usually a child running (WALK, DON'T RUN,YOU  BOY). The school was a feeder for the two upper schools in the town, the Boys Grammar School and a new Secondary Modern Co-Ed. This designation from the age of 11 served to split the youngsters of the town into perceived high flyers destined for University and great things and then the rest, manual workers, cannon fodder and no-hopers. Of course, there was great prestige in attending the Grammar School. The newest intake still had to wear short trousers and the stirring school song, Latin phrased was sung at a very formal daily assembly under the eagle-eye scrutiny of gowned masters. The school was founded in 1669. The school also had around 40 boarders in a large dormitory house. Old Boys were prominent in the Sciences, Arts and academia. The Co-Ed secondary was in contrast bright, brash, well resourced and a truer reflection of real life but nevertheless a poorly perceived option.
The allocation of the placings for the two establishments was through the 11 Plus examination. Perhaps I had not heard of it in class or had been completely oblivious to any letters to be taken home, parental briefings or any mention of it by my own parents. I arrived at school one morning to find the classroom desks arranged individually in regimented rows rather than their usual bunching together in two's and three's. I still did not comprehend the importance of the day for my ongoing education and beyond. Up to that point school had been something that I was obliged to do to prevent my parents from being sent to prison. The exam paper consisted of a lot of multiple choice questions and problem solving which I recall as being similar to the riddle based conundrum of the fox, chicken and something else and a river crossing, eating habits, natural succession, etc, etc. Refining and defining your destiny in the short space of a 2 hour exam cannot be right but it is still natural selection and not social engineering. The results came out some time in the June of that year. I had passed, probably on the narrowest margin. The devisive nature of the process was made clear to me immediately when I rang my best mate, Stuart McGill. His mum answered the phone and my initial relief and euphoria was devastated by the news that he had not passed. Her cold and genuinely spiteful words to the effect that I was assured to get in because of my background and situation still leaves a sour taste to this day. Me and Stu remained friends even though his mum continued to shun me if I called around for him. Those who passed were feted by parents with bikes, cash or other gifts. I had not asked for or expected anything but did get a portable transistor radio. Result. The summer before the ascension to the Grammar School went quickly by and before long I was being dragged round the outfitters for the regulation uniform and accoutrements. New satchel, tin of geometry equipment, pack of pencils and pens followed. I was nervous about a larger school and the expectations imposed by tradition and discipline after a carefree existence up to that time. The following 5 years until we moved away were, in retrospect, and on the whole, averaged out, probably the most interesting and character forming period of my younger life.