My infant school teacher, Miss Osborne, was nice enough. Plump and pretty, although a little bit wimpish. One playtime, as we were all lined up ready to go into class, she was stung on the neck by a wasp and screamed so loudly that all us little children burst into tears. It didn’t help that after the initial ear piercing scream Miss Osborne ran around the playground flapping her arms in the air and crying hysterically. We were all shocked and scared and, worryingly, I don’t recall ever seeing her again after this incident. Maybe she was ashamed of causing us all trauma and was too embarrassed to face us again or maybe she died of anaphylactic shock.
Female primary school teachers in those days were either wimps or tyrants. Lots of them seemed to burst into tears for no real reason. Miss Ramsbottom, another infant teacher cried more than any of the children in her class and another tearful teacher (this time in the juniors) actually ran out of the class crying and we all had to write her a letter of apology. 'Sorry Miss for making you cry. We won't do it again'.
There were more wimps than tyrants but in my final year at Junior school we had the tyrant of all tyrants…Miss R.
Miss R was in her late sixties (or maybe even her seventies) and she was a spinster with whiskers. She would sit at her desk with her legs apart giving everyone a view of the contraptions she used as underwear and the elastic bands holding up her stockings. It looked like she had some experiment going on between her legs with pulleys and straps. The elastic bands must have caused her a great deal of discomfort which may explain her pinched expression. Miss R wore tweed skirts and lace up brown brogues. In fact she was a caricature of a scary, grumpy old teacher. She would pinch and shake us and use the ruler for any minor infraction. Miss R was a stickler for neat hand writing, saying our prayers and selling us charity stamps, that when stuck onto a card the card, when filled, would buy us a little African child that we could then name. The child (you had a choice of boy or girl) naturally remained in Africa but he/she had the good fortune to be sponsored by a 10 year old in the UK who forsake their sweets for the sake of a stamp. I only ever managed to complete one card (not because sweets were more important to me, but because my mum was on a tight budget, so tight that pennies really did need to take care of themselves) and named my little African baby ‘Adrienne’ which was my favourite name at the time.
There were a couple of male teachers who didn’t fall into either camp. On the whole the male teachers were interesting, fun and able to control, with ease, a class of thirty children. Mr C and Mr L, both big Irish men with a sense of humour and an excellent control of their tear ducts were my favourites. Primary School would be a much better place if it wasn’t dominated by women.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2009/jul/12/primary-schools-male-teachers
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Monday, 29 November 2010
'Man is remembered by his deeds'. Knute Nelson
When did the term 'do-gooder' become an insult? I imagine almost immediately if the programme 'Ian Hislop's Age of Do Gooders' is anything to go by:
http://channelhopping.onthebox.com/2010/11/29/ian-hislops-age-of-do-gooders-review-have-i-got-do-gooders-for-you/
This was a very interesting and informative programme and well worth watching.
As do-gooders go Wilberforce is a good one to start with and known to most of us because of his work to abolish slavery but how many of us outside the worlds education and medicine know about Robert Owen or Thomas Wakely. I suspect the term 'bloody do-gooder' was used to describe Owen by the women whose homes he demanded be inspected for cleanliness. But how ahead of the time was his vision for education? And Wakely? The Lancet was the blog of its day, anonymous and revealing.
http://www.infed.org/thinkers/et-owen.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Wakley
Octavia Hill would certainly fit in with the coalition government 2010. 'We have made many mistakes with our alms: eaten out the heart of the independent, bolstered up the drunkard in his indulgence, subsidised wages, discouraged thrift, assumed that many of the most ordinary wants of a working man's family must be met by our wretched and intermittent doles.'
http://www.infed.org/thinkers/octavia_hill.htm
Hill, like Owen, set up inspections of tenants housekeeping skills. It seems working class women of those times were a dirty lot, lacking the luxury of washing machines (or, in some cases, running water) vacuums, electricity, Domestos or maids. But unlike Owen Hills inspectors and rent collectors were female. These 'Hills Angels' gave advice to the women they collected rent from and, as Hislop observed, acted as early social workers.
I look forward to the rest of this series and it was good to see Hislop out of his HIGNFY seat although without the studio makeup his complexion is not a pretty sight. Heaven knows what it looks like in high definition. Last week at a friends house I had the misfortune to see Simon Cowell in all his high definition glory and it's not a pretty sight.
Before 'Do Gooders' I caught Miranda Harts sitcom 'Miranda'. I have seen the trailers for this but never managed to see it until this evening. I like Ms Hart. And I think this sitcom will grow on me. Mondays are looking good.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miranda_(TV_series)
http://channelhopping.onthebox.com/2010/11/29/ian-hislops-age-of-do-gooders-review-have-i-got-do-gooders-for-you/
This was a very interesting and informative programme and well worth watching.
As do-gooders go Wilberforce is a good one to start with and known to most of us because of his work to abolish slavery but how many of us outside the worlds education and medicine know about Robert Owen or Thomas Wakely. I suspect the term 'bloody do-gooder' was used to describe Owen by the women whose homes he demanded be inspected for cleanliness. But how ahead of the time was his vision for education? And Wakely? The Lancet was the blog of its day, anonymous and revealing.
http://www.infed.org/thinkers/et-owen.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Wakley
Octavia Hill would certainly fit in with the coalition government 2010. 'We have made many mistakes with our alms: eaten out the heart of the independent, bolstered up the drunkard in his indulgence, subsidised wages, discouraged thrift, assumed that many of the most ordinary wants of a working man's family must be met by our wretched and intermittent doles.'
http://www.infed.org/thinkers/octavia_hill.htm
Hill, like Owen, set up inspections of tenants housekeeping skills. It seems working class women of those times were a dirty lot, lacking the luxury of washing machines (or, in some cases, running water) vacuums, electricity, Domestos or maids. But unlike Owen Hills inspectors and rent collectors were female. These 'Hills Angels' gave advice to the women they collected rent from and, as Hislop observed, acted as early social workers.
I look forward to the rest of this series and it was good to see Hislop out of his HIGNFY seat although without the studio makeup his complexion is not a pretty sight. Heaven knows what it looks like in high definition. Last week at a friends house I had the misfortune to see Simon Cowell in all his high definition glory and it's not a pretty sight.
Before 'Do Gooders' I caught Miranda Harts sitcom 'Miranda'. I have seen the trailers for this but never managed to see it until this evening. I like Ms Hart. And I think this sitcom will grow on me. Mondays are looking good.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miranda_(TV_series)
Sins of the father
It must have been a very bad time for my parents, trapped in a marriage neither of them wanted, trapped into parenthood before either of them were ready for it. This was the time before the pill, before the sexual revolution and at a time when the expectation was (for the working classes at least) that you left school, got a job and got married. Once married you had babies and stayed married until one of you died and released you from the life sentence.
My parents stayed married for around 12 years. Most of those years were spend in a bubble of shouting, screaming, breaking furniture and the occasional spilling of blood, on both sides. I never saw my dad actually hit my mum but on one occasion, in a terrible argument, he threw a tin of Johnson’s baby powder at her. It hit her in the face and caused a deep gash near her one of her eyes. Pandemonium broke out as, what seemed like a torrent of blood, squirted from the wound, covering the furniture and my sister’s push chair, which had to be replaced. My mum must have run out of the flat because my next memory is of my dad on his hands and knees sobbing. Shortly afterwards my mum and I walked the short walk to St Thomas’ hospital so she could have the injury medically taken care off. This must have been around Christmas (’67) and the nurses were taking the decorations down and they gave me lots of angels and stars to play with. My mum had to wear an eye patch for weeks and then have some plastic surgery. The scar is still visible today – if you look closely enough.
The scars my husband gave me are fading too. The physical ones anyway. I have a feeling the mental ones will never fade. On the bright side they remind me of some of the lessons I had to learn. On the dark side they reiterate what my mum told me as I was growing up and that we all get what we deserve.
It took me a long time to get the image of my dad on his knees sobbing out of my mind. Up until that point I thought he was the strongest person in the world and I was scared by his reaction. Scared and convinced of his remorse. I knew this demonstration of remorse was important somehow and related it back to my mum, begging her to forgive him. She did. And it went a long way in making me forgive my husband when he cried and begged forgiveness for the injuries he caused me. It’s just what grown ups do isn’t it? Hurt each other and forgive each other.
I was a nightmare child. Clingy. Demanding. Petulant. I know these thing not only because this is what I have been told ‘we had to tie you in your cot because you just wouldn’t stay there’ and ‘I even had to take you to the toilet with me, you never gave me a minutes peace’ but because I can remember being clingy. I would wake up in the night and scream because I saw ghosts on the bedrooms walls, demanding that my mum held my hand until I fell asleep. I remember being in Ireland and worried that I would be left there, in that cold house, with those people who made my life hell, that my mum would return to England without me. So I used to scream and cry when she left the room. This did not make me popular.
Being popular for a child is pretty important. I was immensely relieved to hear my grandson’s teacher describe him as being a ‘valued and popular member of the class’. I did not become popular until I was in the 4th year (what is now Year 6). That was the year that I had my first proper hair cut. I can remember sitting in the hairdressers chair watching as my long lank hair was transformed with each snip into shiny, bouncy layers that framed my face – a face which now looked pretty. When I arrived at school the next day I was suddenly the most popular girl in school. All the girls said they loved my hair and, strangely, now all the boys wanted to talk to me and tease me. Prior to that ‘Feather Cut’ I had been invisible. That year also saw ‘hot pants’ become the coolest fashion item around and when I wore them on school journey I had several boys vying for my attention. A few months ago one of those boys (now a 50 year old Born Again Christian) gave me a copy of the photograph taken on that school journey. Thirty of us kids sat on the beach, dressed up in our Sunday best and there I am, hair feathered, wearing my hotpants (how I wish it was a colour photograph, they were purple Lurex) and wearing a huge smile.
My friend Kitty, who I met at secondary school later that year, says that my haircut was the reason she approached me in those first weeks at the new school. Kitty claims that she came up to me and asked me where I had gotten my hair cut. ‘Oh...my hair?’ I allegedly replied ‘it just grows this way’. Thinking about it now this wasn’t the lie Kitty thinks it was. If I had it cut before the school journey of 1971 it must have been cut in the spring of that year. So when I started secondary school in September it would have been months since the visit to the hairdressers and my hair would have grown considerably. So I was right when I said ‘it just grows this way’. I will have to remind her of this
My parents stayed married for around 12 years. Most of those years were spend in a bubble of shouting, screaming, breaking furniture and the occasional spilling of blood, on both sides. I never saw my dad actually hit my mum but on one occasion, in a terrible argument, he threw a tin of Johnson’s baby powder at her. It hit her in the face and caused a deep gash near her one of her eyes. Pandemonium broke out as, what seemed like a torrent of blood, squirted from the wound, covering the furniture and my sister’s push chair, which had to be replaced. My mum must have run out of the flat because my next memory is of my dad on his hands and knees sobbing. Shortly afterwards my mum and I walked the short walk to St Thomas’ hospital so she could have the injury medically taken care off. This must have been around Christmas (’67) and the nurses were taking the decorations down and they gave me lots of angels and stars to play with. My mum had to wear an eye patch for weeks and then have some plastic surgery. The scar is still visible today – if you look closely enough.
The scars my husband gave me are fading too. The physical ones anyway. I have a feeling the mental ones will never fade. On the bright side they remind me of some of the lessons I had to learn. On the dark side they reiterate what my mum told me as I was growing up and that we all get what we deserve.
It took me a long time to get the image of my dad on his knees sobbing out of my mind. Up until that point I thought he was the strongest person in the world and I was scared by his reaction. Scared and convinced of his remorse. I knew this demonstration of remorse was important somehow and related it back to my mum, begging her to forgive him. She did. And it went a long way in making me forgive my husband when he cried and begged forgiveness for the injuries he caused me. It’s just what grown ups do isn’t it? Hurt each other and forgive each other.
I was a nightmare child. Clingy. Demanding. Petulant. I know these thing not only because this is what I have been told ‘we had to tie you in your cot because you just wouldn’t stay there’ and ‘I even had to take you to the toilet with me, you never gave me a minutes peace’ but because I can remember being clingy. I would wake up in the night and scream because I saw ghosts on the bedrooms walls, demanding that my mum held my hand until I fell asleep. I remember being in Ireland and worried that I would be left there, in that cold house, with those people who made my life hell, that my mum would return to England without me. So I used to scream and cry when she left the room. This did not make me popular.
Being popular for a child is pretty important. I was immensely relieved to hear my grandson’s teacher describe him as being a ‘valued and popular member of the class’. I did not become popular until I was in the 4th year (what is now Year 6). That was the year that I had my first proper hair cut. I can remember sitting in the hairdressers chair watching as my long lank hair was transformed with each snip into shiny, bouncy layers that framed my face – a face which now looked pretty. When I arrived at school the next day I was suddenly the most popular girl in school. All the girls said they loved my hair and, strangely, now all the boys wanted to talk to me and tease me. Prior to that ‘Feather Cut’ I had been invisible. That year also saw ‘hot pants’ become the coolest fashion item around and when I wore them on school journey I had several boys vying for my attention. A few months ago one of those boys (now a 50 year old Born Again Christian) gave me a copy of the photograph taken on that school journey. Thirty of us kids sat on the beach, dressed up in our Sunday best and there I am, hair feathered, wearing my hotpants (how I wish it was a colour photograph, they were purple Lurex) and wearing a huge smile.
My friend Kitty, who I met at secondary school later that year, says that my haircut was the reason she approached me in those first weeks at the new school. Kitty claims that she came up to me and asked me where I had gotten my hair cut. ‘Oh...my hair?’ I allegedly replied ‘it just grows this way’. Thinking about it now this wasn’t the lie Kitty thinks it was. If I had it cut before the school journey of 1971 it must have been cut in the spring of that year. So when I started secondary school in September it would have been months since the visit to the hairdressers and my hair would have grown considerably. So I was right when I said ‘it just grows this way’. I will have to remind her of this
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Domestic Bliss
‘I see Helena Bonham Carter has signed herself up for parenting classes’ I told my daughter.
‘Who’s she?’
‘You know, that posh Gothic looking actress, has a role in the Harry Potter films’
‘Oh, who does she play? Mrs Weasley?’
‘No, I can’t remember exactly who, Draco’s mum? Anyway she is a baddie in the films’
‘No, I don’t know who you mean’.
‘Yes, you do. She played a monkey in the film ‘Planet of the Apes’ and is sort of married to some director and is usually in films with Johnny Depp.’
My daughter’s ears prick up at the mention of Depp. ‘Hmmm, I think I know who you mean.’
‘Anyway she and her 'domestic partner' (wiki's words not mine) apparently live in separate houses next door to each other. Isn’t that civilised? That must be the secret of a happy 'almost marriage’. And how sensible is she to want to take parenting classes?’ I reached for the remote control and switched on the TV. A comedy sketch show was on, featuring impressionists. And who were they impersonating at that very moment? None other that Helena Bonham Carter and her husband Tim Burton!
There's more - we switched over and 'The Corpse Bride' was showing. This dark animation, directed by Burton, features the voices of Bonham and Depp.
There’s even more – later that evening deciding what to watch we came across ‘Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street’ the musical, starring, yes you’ve guessed it, Helen Bonham Carter and Johnny Depp (whose singing voice is obviously modelled on David Bowie’s, during Bowie’s ‘Anthony Newly’ stage of course). The film is directed by….Tim Burton. Spooky!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helena_Bonham_Carter
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweeney_Todd:_The_Demon_Barber_of_Fleet_Street_(2007_film)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corpse_Bride
http://www.showbizspy.com/article/219016/helena-bonham-carter-admits-she-needs-parenting-classes-to-help-her-become-a-better-mom.html
They are certainly an unusual couple. Three years ago Helena, in an interview with Playboy magazine said the following:
The household of Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter is outfitted for Christmas – just not in the traditional manner.
"He (Burton) decorates it with dead babies and slime balls and things," Carter, 41, tells Playboy magazine in its January issue, about trimming the tree with boyfriend (of six years) Burton, 49. "It looks lovely and glittery from afar, and then as you get closer, you realize it's rather gory."
Lest anyone get the wrong idea, Carter, who stars with Johnny Depp in Burton's new movie musical Sweeney Todd, says, "We're not that dark. What I love about Tim is that he retains a certain innocence and a childlike quality. He sort of forgot to grow up. I think I've definitely forgotten to grow up, which is great."
Carter, who in 2003 gave birth to the couple's son Billy Ray – and is expecting their second child later this month – adds with a laugh, "At some point, [Billy] will probably want parents. He'll have to look elsewhere."Of their life at home life, where she and Burton share separate, yet attached, houses, Carter says: "Mine looks like Beatrix Potter. ... He has dead Oompa-Loompas around and multicolored fiberglass alien lamps. But then he has some nice red-button sofas from Sleepy Hollow. So it's a funny and good mix."
A newspaper had to print an apology earlier this year for saying the family lived in three connecting, but separate, houses. Burton in one, Carter in another and the children and their nanny in a third. The writer of the piece described this arrangement as 'chilling'. Certainly I would agree that three houses in which to house one small family is a bit extreme but if you can afford two connecting houses that sounds like heaven. Both Burton and Carter have their own tastes on interior design and both value their own 'space'.
'We haven't got a passageway [connecting the two homes] - we've just got a room ...between the two. And to me it makes complete sense: if you've got some money, and you can afford it, why not have your own space? It really is a great idea. You never have to compromise emotionally or feel invaded....I'm surprised when people find it weird, to be honest. It's not even that separate, really - it just looks like a quite big, strange house. And there's a sense of choice about things - you see each other when you want to.'
I am not sure what she means by 'compromise emotionally' and that by having your own space means never having to do it. If only it was that simple.
It seems Carter was very upset by the allegation that the children were housed in a 'unit' with just a nanny, and felt this painted her as a bad mother. Maybe this had something to do with her decision to take parenting classes. Or maybe Billy and Nell have reached the stage were they want grown ups as parents.
As a parent said to me this week, talking about his Autistic son, 'N is my teacher. I take my lead from him'.
‘Who’s she?’
‘You know, that posh Gothic looking actress, has a role in the Harry Potter films’
‘Oh, who does she play? Mrs Weasley?’
‘No, I can’t remember exactly who, Draco’s mum? Anyway she is a baddie in the films’
‘No, I don’t know who you mean’.
‘Yes, you do. She played a monkey in the film ‘Planet of the Apes’ and is sort of married to some director and is usually in films with Johnny Depp.’
My daughter’s ears prick up at the mention of Depp. ‘Hmmm, I think I know who you mean.’
‘Anyway she and her 'domestic partner' (wiki's words not mine) apparently live in separate houses next door to each other. Isn’t that civilised? That must be the secret of a happy 'almost marriage’. And how sensible is she to want to take parenting classes?’ I reached for the remote control and switched on the TV. A comedy sketch show was on, featuring impressionists. And who were they impersonating at that very moment? None other that Helena Bonham Carter and her husband Tim Burton!
There's more - we switched over and 'The Corpse Bride' was showing. This dark animation, directed by Burton, features the voices of Bonham and Depp.
There’s even more – later that evening deciding what to watch we came across ‘Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street’ the musical, starring, yes you’ve guessed it, Helen Bonham Carter and Johnny Depp (whose singing voice is obviously modelled on David Bowie’s, during Bowie’s ‘Anthony Newly’ stage of course). The film is directed by….Tim Burton. Spooky!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helena_Bonham_Carter
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweeney_Todd:_The_Demon_Barber_of_Fleet_Street_(2007_film)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corpse_Bride
http://www.showbizspy.com/article/219016/helena-bonham-carter-admits-she-needs-parenting-classes-to-help-her-become-a-better-mom.html
They are certainly an unusual couple. Three years ago Helena, in an interview with Playboy magazine said the following:
The household of Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter is outfitted for Christmas – just not in the traditional manner.
"He (Burton) decorates it with dead babies and slime balls and things," Carter, 41, tells Playboy magazine in its January issue, about trimming the tree with boyfriend (of six years) Burton, 49. "It looks lovely and glittery from afar, and then as you get closer, you realize it's rather gory."
Lest anyone get the wrong idea, Carter, who stars with Johnny Depp in Burton's new movie musical Sweeney Todd, says, "We're not that dark. What I love about Tim is that he retains a certain innocence and a childlike quality. He sort of forgot to grow up. I think I've definitely forgotten to grow up, which is great."
Carter, who in 2003 gave birth to the couple's son Billy Ray – and is expecting their second child later this month – adds with a laugh, "At some point, [Billy] will probably want parents. He'll have to look elsewhere."Of their life at home life, where she and Burton share separate, yet attached, houses, Carter says: "Mine looks like Beatrix Potter. ... He has dead Oompa-Loompas around and multicolored fiberglass alien lamps. But then he has some nice red-button sofas from Sleepy Hollow. So it's a funny and good mix."
A newspaper had to print an apology earlier this year for saying the family lived in three connecting, but separate, houses. Burton in one, Carter in another and the children and their nanny in a third. The writer of the piece described this arrangement as 'chilling'. Certainly I would agree that three houses in which to house one small family is a bit extreme but if you can afford two connecting houses that sounds like heaven. Both Burton and Carter have their own tastes on interior design and both value their own 'space'.
'We haven't got a passageway [connecting the two homes] - we've just got a room ...between the two. And to me it makes complete sense: if you've got some money, and you can afford it, why not have your own space? It really is a great idea. You never have to compromise emotionally or feel invaded....I'm surprised when people find it weird, to be honest. It's not even that separate, really - it just looks like a quite big, strange house. And there's a sense of choice about things - you see each other when you want to.'
I am not sure what she means by 'compromise emotionally' and that by having your own space means never having to do it. If only it was that simple.
It seems Carter was very upset by the allegation that the children were housed in a 'unit' with just a nanny, and felt this painted her as a bad mother. Maybe this had something to do with her decision to take parenting classes. Or maybe Billy and Nell have reached the stage were they want grown ups as parents.
As a parent said to me this week, talking about his Autistic son, 'N is my teacher. I take my lead from him'.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Memories
We were not allowed to have a bath. You would think that having moved into a flat which not only had an indoor toilet but also boasted a separate bathroom we would have been allowed to use this wonderous thing. The flat we had lived in previously didn’t have such luxury. There we had to share the outside toilet with the other families on the landing and it did not have a bathroom. The flat only had two rooms, a living room with a scullery and a bedroom. The flat we moved to was on the forth floor of a block and Mum made the bathroom out of bounds the minute we moved in by filling the bath with soiled nappies (my sisters, not mine). Once a week she would take us to the local baths where you paid a couple of pennies for the use of hot water and a bath. This was not in Victorian or Edwardian times, but in the Swinging Sixties. My mum might have been worried about the cost of taking baths at home although I don’t think we were exactly poor. Certainly working class but not poor. My Dad had a good job in a factory and my mum always had nice new clothes. I think she worked once, for a couple of weeks, in a sausage factory. Nonetheless we were never allowed to have a bath, instead we had to have a ‘wash down’. I was only allowed to wash my hair once a week and even then I was only allowed to use half a sachet of shampoo. Conditioner hadn’t been invented, and even if it had been I would never have been allowed to use it. My mum only bought red Lifebuoy soap, Signal toothpaste and black hair dye. These were the only items, along with my dads razor, in the bathroom cabinet. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I rebelled and took a bath every night and washed my hair (unless I was having a period, as apparently you risked death by washing your hair at that time of the month). I was a very smelly child. And I wore National Health glasses. It is a wonder I had any friends.
My mum didn’t like cooking either. So if she had to cook it would be done grudgingly so that bits would be burnt, other bits would be raw and all of it was unappetising. The fridge was always empty – apart from a pint of milk. When I met my friend Kitty I was amazed to see the inside of her mum’s fridge, filled with cheeses, cold meats (in Tupperware! So posh), salads and soft drinks. It was a relief when my dad left and mum gave up cooking. The Chippie provided for my dietary needs.
My mum was very fussy about housework but not at all concerned about home comforts. The carpets were threadbare and the furniture had seen better days. Even when she could afford it mum would never spend money on things for the home. I was always embarrassed about asking friends home. They lived in homes with fitted carpets and G Plan furniture. My room in the flat near Lambeth Walk was empty except for a bed. My baby sister must have been in my mum and dads room. I don’t remember any toys and certainly no books. But I must have had toys. There is a photograph of me with a lot of dolls but this was taken at my Nan’s home so I suspect that was where my toys were. I did have a special doll, Bella, that must have lived with me because I would have been inconsolable without her. My Nan used to make her the most wonderful outfits. When I was 7 we moved to a flat in a tower block and I remember I had toys there. I had an Etch-a-Sketch and Spirograph which I loved. I never had a Sindy (too expensive) but I did have a Tressy doll. I also had a Silver Cross dolls pram (must have been a gift from my grandparent) before we moved but my Dad used it to move some items to the new flat and it broke under the weight. I know I was mortified.
My Mum and I spent one Christmas in Ireland when I was about 11. On Christmas day I didn't have any presents to open as they were all in London (as was my Dad). No one thought to buy me anything to open on the day itself and I remember watching my cousins excitingly opening their gifts and one of them allowing me to have a go on the Spacehopper that Santa had delivered. When I got home I was given my present, a Lilliput typewriter which I loved. But by the end of the week it had been hurled across the room and smashed to bits by my dad who had got annoyed by the tap tap tapping noise it made as I typed. My next door neighbour Jeanie had been given a typewriter too (the more expensive Petite Typewriter) and she used to let me have a go on hers until we fell out when she stole my Tressy.
My Nan used to buy me colouring pencils, magic markers, pads of paper and I loved staying with her because she played with me. She loved Scrabble and we would spend hours playing this, it was the travel version (Travel Scrabble) so it even came on holiday with us. My grandparents took me to the South Coast, Dorset and the Isle of Wight. My Nan would cook me tasty meals, my Grandad would take me everywhere with him. Every Friday night the 'Evening News' would publish a ramble and each weekend grandad would cut it out and we would walk it that weekend. My main memory of him is walking with him in bluebell woods singing 'Ive Got Sixpence' http://www.retro-lyrics.com/lyrics/ive-got-six-pence-lyrics-364.html and I don’t remember them ever shouting at me and they certainly never smacked me.
My Dad would play cards with me now and again. He would always play to win and would get very angry if I won a hand, which hardly ever happened as he was an excellent player and I wanted him to love me.
When I was 6 I asked if I could go to school on my own and my parents said ‘yes’. The journey was about a mile and took me across two main roads and a few less busy ones. Maybe they were looking rid of me. I used to go to the shops to buy dads paper when I was 5. On the way back I would walk along pretending to read it so that passers by would be impressed - 'look at that little girl reading the paper - she must be a genius'! When I was twelve I took over cooking Sunday dinner (the Chippie closed on Sundays). My mum would have had me up chimneys if London wasn't a smoke free zone.
Although my dad had a car I don’t remember ever being in it with him. Not surprisingly as he had a Bubble Car http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bubble_car. This gave way to a Ford Zodiac which I had to spend ages at the window to make sure no one nicked it. The only time I remember being in a car with him is after he and mum had split up and he took me to Southend in a beautiful blue Ford Cortina.
The toiletless flat was next to the factory where my dad worked. I used to see him as me and mum walked back from the shops and I loved the smell of sawdust and how kind his workmates were to me. I used to pick a pretty white flower (bineweed!) that grew on the fences surrounding the bombsites to give him. The firm used to give the children of its workers the most wonderful Christmas parties with lots of food and Santa would bring us amazing presents. One year they thought I was a boy (having a unisex name) and I got a tool kit. But the best thing was they would take us to the London Palladium to watch the pantomime. My mum came one year and embarrassed me by screaming ‘Malcolm I love you’ when the singer Malcolm Roberts came on stage in the 1971 production of Cinderella.
It is shocking that I never had any books. The only one I can remember is ‘Kittens with Mittens’ which I think belonged to my sister. When we moved to the flat in the tower block I joined the library and a whole new world opened up for me. A world of Hans Christian Anderson and Enid Blyton. I used to love going to that library. The children’s area was in the basement and was my favourite place to be. In fact I was exactly like Roald Dahl’s ‘Matilda’. And my mum and dad weren't very different to hers either.
Why am I sharing all this? Well kids, you aren't interested in this stuff now but one day you will be. I am going to ask my mum to talk to me about her childhood. She never has very much to say about it but I want to know what her home was like, what she was like in school, what her relationship with her parents was like and how things changed when her mother died. My mum was just 6 when her mum died and left a family of four children, my mum the youngest, with their father. Maybe that is why she struggled as a parent.
My mum came to England to be bridesmaid for her oldest sister and she never went back 'home' to live. She met my dad and they married. She was 23 and he was a mere 20. When I asked her why she married him (having been told she had never loved him) she said 'I fell in love with his mum and dad.'
10 months after they married I came into their life and for my mum this meant life was over. She hated being a parent, saw me as the reason she was trapped and spent the next 17 years telling me she hated me, I was stupid, ugly and that she tried to abort me but chickened out at the last minute. Abortions in 1960 were illegal and very risky and I know she tried drinking lots of gin in order to go through with it but it didn't numb her enough to put herself in the hands of back street abortionist. 'I wish you were dead' was the mantra of my childhood.
Even in my darkest moments I am always glad she failed.
I would have loved to have grown up in a proper house. With a garden. In a proper family. I would have loved to have had a pink bedroom filled with books and games and toys. I would have loved to have come home from school and be greeted by the smell of home cooking, to a mummy who smiled sometimes, kissed my cheek, and was happy to see me. I would have loved to chat to her about my day, show her my homework, be told how clever I was. How pretty. I would have loved to have been run a bubble bath (Matey) and told to make sure I washed behind my ears. I would have loved a dad who took the time to talk to me, to sit me on his knee and read to me. I would have loved to have got through one day without being hit, without shedding tears.
'When I was Seventeen' http://www.top40db.net/Lyrics/?SongID=73059 I ran away from home and from everything I had ever known. Well everything except the being hit and shedding tears bit.
My mum didn’t like cooking either. So if she had to cook it would be done grudgingly so that bits would be burnt, other bits would be raw and all of it was unappetising. The fridge was always empty – apart from a pint of milk. When I met my friend Kitty I was amazed to see the inside of her mum’s fridge, filled with cheeses, cold meats (in Tupperware! So posh), salads and soft drinks. It was a relief when my dad left and mum gave up cooking. The Chippie provided for my dietary needs.
My mum was very fussy about housework but not at all concerned about home comforts. The carpets were threadbare and the furniture had seen better days. Even when she could afford it mum would never spend money on things for the home. I was always embarrassed about asking friends home. They lived in homes with fitted carpets and G Plan furniture. My room in the flat near Lambeth Walk was empty except for a bed. My baby sister must have been in my mum and dads room. I don’t remember any toys and certainly no books. But I must have had toys. There is a photograph of me with a lot of dolls but this was taken at my Nan’s home so I suspect that was where my toys were. I did have a special doll, Bella, that must have lived with me because I would have been inconsolable without her. My Nan used to make her the most wonderful outfits. When I was 7 we moved to a flat in a tower block and I remember I had toys there. I had an Etch-a-Sketch and Spirograph which I loved. I never had a Sindy (too expensive) but I did have a Tressy doll. I also had a Silver Cross dolls pram (must have been a gift from my grandparent) before we moved but my Dad used it to move some items to the new flat and it broke under the weight. I know I was mortified.
My Mum and I spent one Christmas in Ireland when I was about 11. On Christmas day I didn't have any presents to open as they were all in London (as was my Dad). No one thought to buy me anything to open on the day itself and I remember watching my cousins excitingly opening their gifts and one of them allowing me to have a go on the Spacehopper that Santa had delivered. When I got home I was given my present, a Lilliput typewriter which I loved. But by the end of the week it had been hurled across the room and smashed to bits by my dad who had got annoyed by the tap tap tapping noise it made as I typed. My next door neighbour Jeanie had been given a typewriter too (the more expensive Petite Typewriter) and she used to let me have a go on hers until we fell out when she stole my Tressy.
My Nan used to buy me colouring pencils, magic markers, pads of paper and I loved staying with her because she played with me. She loved Scrabble and we would spend hours playing this, it was the travel version (Travel Scrabble) so it even came on holiday with us. My grandparents took me to the South Coast, Dorset and the Isle of Wight. My Nan would cook me tasty meals, my Grandad would take me everywhere with him. Every Friday night the 'Evening News' would publish a ramble and each weekend grandad would cut it out and we would walk it that weekend. My main memory of him is walking with him in bluebell woods singing 'Ive Got Sixpence' http://www.retro-lyrics.com/lyrics/ive-got-six-pence-lyrics-364.html and I don’t remember them ever shouting at me and they certainly never smacked me.
My Dad would play cards with me now and again. He would always play to win and would get very angry if I won a hand, which hardly ever happened as he was an excellent player and I wanted him to love me.
When I was 6 I asked if I could go to school on my own and my parents said ‘yes’. The journey was about a mile and took me across two main roads and a few less busy ones. Maybe they were looking rid of me. I used to go to the shops to buy dads paper when I was 5. On the way back I would walk along pretending to read it so that passers by would be impressed - 'look at that little girl reading the paper - she must be a genius'! When I was twelve I took over cooking Sunday dinner (the Chippie closed on Sundays). My mum would have had me up chimneys if London wasn't a smoke free zone.
Although my dad had a car I don’t remember ever being in it with him. Not surprisingly as he had a Bubble Car http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bubble_car. This gave way to a Ford Zodiac which I had to spend ages at the window to make sure no one nicked it. The only time I remember being in a car with him is after he and mum had split up and he took me to Southend in a beautiful blue Ford Cortina.
The toiletless flat was next to the factory where my dad worked. I used to see him as me and mum walked back from the shops and I loved the smell of sawdust and how kind his workmates were to me. I used to pick a pretty white flower (bineweed!) that grew on the fences surrounding the bombsites to give him. The firm used to give the children of its workers the most wonderful Christmas parties with lots of food and Santa would bring us amazing presents. One year they thought I was a boy (having a unisex name) and I got a tool kit. But the best thing was they would take us to the London Palladium to watch the pantomime. My mum came one year and embarrassed me by screaming ‘Malcolm I love you’ when the singer Malcolm Roberts came on stage in the 1971 production of Cinderella.
It is shocking that I never had any books. The only one I can remember is ‘Kittens with Mittens’ which I think belonged to my sister. When we moved to the flat in the tower block I joined the library and a whole new world opened up for me. A world of Hans Christian Anderson and Enid Blyton. I used to love going to that library. The children’s area was in the basement and was my favourite place to be. In fact I was exactly like Roald Dahl’s ‘Matilda’. And my mum and dad weren't very different to hers either.
Why am I sharing all this? Well kids, you aren't interested in this stuff now but one day you will be. I am going to ask my mum to talk to me about her childhood. She never has very much to say about it but I want to know what her home was like, what she was like in school, what her relationship with her parents was like and how things changed when her mother died. My mum was just 6 when her mum died and left a family of four children, my mum the youngest, with their father. Maybe that is why she struggled as a parent.
My mum came to England to be bridesmaid for her oldest sister and she never went back 'home' to live. She met my dad and they married. She was 23 and he was a mere 20. When I asked her why she married him (having been told she had never loved him) she said 'I fell in love with his mum and dad.'
10 months after they married I came into their life and for my mum this meant life was over. She hated being a parent, saw me as the reason she was trapped and spent the next 17 years telling me she hated me, I was stupid, ugly and that she tried to abort me but chickened out at the last minute. Abortions in 1960 were illegal and very risky and I know she tried drinking lots of gin in order to go through with it but it didn't numb her enough to put herself in the hands of back street abortionist. 'I wish you were dead' was the mantra of my childhood.
Even in my darkest moments I am always glad she failed.
I would have loved to have grown up in a proper house. With a garden. In a proper family. I would have loved to have had a pink bedroom filled with books and games and toys. I would have loved to have come home from school and be greeted by the smell of home cooking, to a mummy who smiled sometimes, kissed my cheek, and was happy to see me. I would have loved to chat to her about my day, show her my homework, be told how clever I was. How pretty. I would have loved to have been run a bubble bath (Matey) and told to make sure I washed behind my ears. I would have loved a dad who took the time to talk to me, to sit me on his knee and read to me. I would have loved to have got through one day without being hit, without shedding tears.
'When I was Seventeen' http://www.top40db.net/Lyrics/?SongID=73059 I ran away from home and from everything I had ever known. Well everything except the being hit and shedding tears bit.
Monday, 22 November 2010
Maxims
Living by the rules is not always easy. Living by maxims can be even more of a challenge. Take these, favoured by George V:
Teach me to be obedient to the rules of the game.
Teach me to distinguish between sentiment and sentimentality admiring the one and despising the other.
Teach me neither to proffer nor receive cheap praise.
If I am called upon to suffer, let me be like a well bred beast that goes away to suffer in silence.
Teach me to win, if I may; if I may not win, then above all teach me to be a good loser.
Teach me neither to cry for the moon nor over spilt milk.
Some maxims, like these for 'manhood' are a lot easier to adhere to:
Your dog must be larger than a toaster.
Tip well.
Never use the word 'blossom.'
Outperform the GPS.
Always hold the door.
Never use emoticons
Then there are maxims that, if taken note of, will help you get by in this harsh and demanding world:
If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.
He who hesitates is probably right.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism; to steal from many is research.
To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles.
Two wrongs are only the beginning.
Maxims for women:
Don't sweat the small stuff.
If you want everlasting love - surrender.
When you are old you will look at photographs of your younger self and marvel at how hot you were - and how stupid you were not to be able to see it. Enjoy your youth.
Max the maxims for a better life!
Teach me to be obedient to the rules of the game.
Teach me to distinguish between sentiment and sentimentality admiring the one and despising the other.
Teach me neither to proffer nor receive cheap praise.
If I am called upon to suffer, let me be like a well bred beast that goes away to suffer in silence.
Teach me to win, if I may; if I may not win, then above all teach me to be a good loser.
Teach me neither to cry for the moon nor over spilt milk.
Some maxims, like these for 'manhood' are a lot easier to adhere to:
Your dog must be larger than a toaster.
Tip well.
Never use the word 'blossom.'
Outperform the GPS.
Always hold the door.
Never use emoticons
Then there are maxims that, if taken note of, will help you get by in this harsh and demanding world:
If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.
He who hesitates is probably right.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism; to steal from many is research.
To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles.
Two wrongs are only the beginning.
Maxims for women:
Don't sweat the small stuff.
If you want everlasting love - surrender.
When you are old you will look at photographs of your younger self and marvel at how hot you were - and how stupid you were not to be able to see it. Enjoy your youth.
Max the maxims for a better life!
Sunday, 21 November 2010
The Man With The Key In His Hand
He said ‘take the time to indulge…
To find the space in your day, in your heart, in your mind
Wherever it is that your soul resides,
Search for a place to stop thinking and start being
To embrace the layers that are full of light and knowledge’
He said it would bring an understanding
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘be aware of your dark side and that of others…
It has its purpose, its aim, and its compelling attraction
Search for the meaning behind it
To reveal its secrets and harness its power,
Recognise the difference between feelings and emotions
He said it would bring an acceptance
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘Life is full of awe and wonder…
If you know where to search
You might find it in work that fulfills and excites you
Or in the discovery of your true self,
Look within carefully and deeply’
He said it would bring an awareness
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘Patience is a lesson worth learning
For life can be tiring and sometimes dull
Recognise the value of the journey,
Reflect, use meditation, control destructive emotions
Make time to take care of your soul’
He said it would bring a contentness
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘There is a right way to live
Whenever possible promote and pursue truth,
Strive for peace and battle for justice
For sometimes a peaceful man has to take up his sword
Be afraid, embrace your fear, let it feed your flame
He said it would bring a courage
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
To find the space in your day, in your heart, in your mind
Wherever it is that your soul resides,
Search for a place to stop thinking and start being
To embrace the layers that are full of light and knowledge’
He said it would bring an understanding
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘be aware of your dark side and that of others…
It has its purpose, its aim, and its compelling attraction
Search for the meaning behind it
To reveal its secrets and harness its power,
Recognise the difference between feelings and emotions
He said it would bring an acceptance
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘Life is full of awe and wonder…
If you know where to search
You might find it in work that fulfills and excites you
Or in the discovery of your true self,
Look within carefully and deeply’
He said it would bring an awareness
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘Patience is a lesson worth learning
For life can be tiring and sometimes dull
Recognise the value of the journey,
Reflect, use meditation, control destructive emotions
Make time to take care of your soul’
He said it would bring a contentness
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
The man with the key in his hand.
He said ‘There is a right way to live
Whenever possible promote and pursue truth,
Strive for peace and battle for justice
For sometimes a peaceful man has to take up his sword
Be afraid, embrace your fear, let it feed your flame
He said it would bring a courage
That would ultimately set me free
He said all this…
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About Me
- Katie Clapton
- Rat symbolizes such character traits as wit, imagination and curiosity. Rats have keen observation skills and with those skills they’re able to deduce much about other people and other situations. Overall, Rats are full of energy, talkative and charming.