Catch Up and a Trip Down Memory Lane

Things are definitely looking up!

The garage is sound! No leaks!

The wall ... the one with the cracks in it ... this one in fact ...

Lower right of window

Upper right of window

... has almost dried out to the point where it could be reinforced with steel rods.

The bathroom, which wasn't originally on my "To do" list,  is about to be ripped out and new fixtures and fittings installed.

All-in-all I reckon nearly £4000 of my money has evaporated into those two projects.

Now, knowing everything is either finished or well in hand, I can

 

Now, let me take another of those trips down memory lane. Indulge me, if you will, as I recall an incident from my childhood.

It was in 1971 and I was 12 years old.

Memory is fickle and my recollections of this time are sketchy to say the least, but at 12 years of age I do recall that I very nearly committed suicide.

There are many ways of doing such a thing; many involve pharmaceutical product of one kind or another, arriving on low places at speed or firearms.

In my case it would have been suicide by Margaret Middleton.

Margaret was a big girl.

She stood a good five inches taller than I did and, in times of trouble, she was perfectly built for several people to hide behind.

One day, just after my twelfth birthday, a note was passed to me in class.

It read 'Meet me after school at the gates! Margaret'  

It was a note that struck fear into my heart and made me yearn for several hours of detention.

You see, Margaret always got her way and she was quick with her fists when she didn't. If she didn't get you, her two brothers would.

I spent all day in school telling my friends that she didn't scare me and that she'd have to wait until the world froze over before I'd go out with her.

But I was quaking in my boots!

I therefore decided that at the end of school I would run like hell across the sports field, climb the fence and take the long way home.

As I was halfway over the fence I heard a voice say "You little shit! I thought you'd leg it this way!"

It was Margaret!

She punched me!

Several times!

Then, to my surprise, she gave me a curly-wurly (a chocolate covered toffee bar) and told me that she only wanted me to get my best pal, Les, to stop sending her notes asking to take her out because she was going out with Tom 'Knocker' Powell.

It was like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt like I was almost floating. I was in the clear!

Oh and the up-side of the story is that she gave me a handful of notes, all in the handwriting of my pal Les, which I was able to use for many weeks as a means to torture him.

But I was brought back to earth with a stern warning from Margaret.

She said "If I had wanted to go out with you and you'd run away from me like you just did, I'd smash you face in!"

Now that did scare me. After all, she'd just punched me in the nose and fattened my lip. I dreaded to thing what her version of a smashed in face looked like.

This is the first time that I have ever admitted that it was she, and not her brothers (as I told everyone it was), that beat me up.

I do so in the full knowledge that none of my school friends will be reading this ... I hope.

When Bollocks Drop!

On the bus this morning, my tired client tried desperately to snatch 40 winks.

However, he had to settle for a mere 5 or 6 winks between potholes and some pretty erratic manoeuvring.

His nodding in and out of dream land gave me time to get my thoughts in order and fire up those little grey cells with regards as to what I would regale you with today.

Travel with me, if you would be so kind, back to the year 1969.

I was ten years old and undergoing the torture that is education. The quick witted amongst you will have worked out my age by now, but for those of you that have no skill with numbers ... I am mumble-mumble years old!

Yes, I was in Junior School!

As I recall ...and I'm a pretty good re-caller ... it was December and fast approaching Christmas and the school was winding down for the festive holidays.

In the weeks prior to this ... the day I am about to re-live with you ... we (the school choir) had been working hard on all the carols we planned to entertain the parents and family of pupils.  Forget the Nativity Play! We, the choir, were the stars!

We started practising in November and at that time I was only a member of the chorus ... an also-singer, if you will. Then, just a week before our Christmas concert, Tony "Snot-face" Davidson, our boy-soprano, found himself with an 'get out of Jail free' card when he came down with a mystery throat infection.

A replacement for all those squeaky-note songs that we'd been practising was needed and Miss Stimpson (music teacher) was in a lather and threatening to pull the ginger hair from her head.

She made all the boys, including me, despite my best efforts to hide, try out for the role of boy-soprano.

One after the other, we were (frog) marched into the music room where she commanded us to sing.

As it happened, I turned out to be an even better boy-soprano than 'snot-face'!

And I was given the job!

All went well.

Until ....

The school hall was full of proud parents!

The Nativity play had ended with Mary, having thrown the Baby Jesus at the head of Josef, crying her eyes and being lead away by one of the teachers.

Then it was the choirs turn.

We marched out onto the stage to a ripple of applause and proceeded to flawlessly belt out carol after carol.  The watching parents rewarded us after each one with rapturous applause and occasional cheers!

Then twelve of us stepped forward to sing the last carol of the show ... The Twelve Days Of Christmas!

As the 'squeaky' singer, I had been given the number five spot ... Five Gold Rings.

"On the first day of Christmas, My true love gave to me ..." we all sang.

"A partridge in a pair tree!" sang number one.


"On the second day of Christmas, My true love gave to me ..." we all sang.


"Two turtle doves!" sang number two.

"And a partridge in a pair tree!" sang number one.

And so it went.  Each of us singing a 'day'.

I managed to sing "Five Go-old rings" three squeaky times before disaster struck.

On my fourth attempt the squeak became a crackly, gurgly grunt!!!

The audience sniggered.

At each further attempt, my voice crackled like an old crystal radio set.  My throat hurt; my face took on the hue of beetroot; my fellow singer's chuckled their way through their parts.

The audience ... the bastards! ... applauded every croak!

I wanted to die.

I wanted to knock seven bells out of 'Snot-face' for bailing out.

I never wanted to sing ever again.

And to cap it all ... I had no idea why my voice had let me down.

At least not until it was explained to me the effect a pair of new bollocks could have on a lad of my age!

Growing Up In Instalments 1963-1969

Obviously, I don't remember being born.

I can't tell you that I heard a popping sound; that I was engulfed in a sudden, brilliant light; that I remember that first slap on my rump by a child abuser in a green gown and mask.

I can't tell you any of that.

In fact, my earliest memory is that of being left in the capable hands of Mrs Peggy Puntin (headmistress) at the doors of Newbiggin by-the-Sea Infant School.  My parents had pinned a 'disclaimer' onto my duffel coat, in the hope that they would not be blamed for any colourful language that might escape my lips.

I was 4 years old and I hated being in school.

My parents always told me that if I was ever separated from them whilst shopping, than I should look for a policeman, as I could ALWAYS ask a policeman for help. In my first week in school I managed to make two 999 phone calls from the school office, claiming on both occasions that the 'people' there wouldn't  let me go home to my parents.

In those days I had to wear short trousers and braces ... in all weathers ... and I never forgave my parents for it.
Those short trousers are the reason that my legs are so stumpy now!
Like Koi, they only grew as much as their environment allowed!

Junior school followed and I remember many a time spent hiding on the roof of the boys toilets so that I could avoid the dreaded handicraft lesson which almost always had us embroidering table place mats.  It never seemed to occur to our teachers that boys and embroidery are not a good mix!

This was also the place where I discovered my singing voice, as choir membership was compulsory.  Our music teacher, Miss Stimpson, said I had such a good voice that I should sing all those high, screechy parts in all of our choir's performances.

From the age of 7 I played a major part in our school concerts.

But in December of 1969, my dreams of stardom, and of becoming bigger than the Beatles, came to an extremely embarrassing end.

It was at the school Christmas Nativity play and concert.  The youngsters had just done their Mary, Josef and Jesus thing and the choir was now centre stage for our rendition of The 12 Days Of Christmas.

The choir was to sing "On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me  ...."  and I, as our squeakiest singer, would sing a prolonged, and high pitched "5 Gold Rings".

I successfully managed it 6 or 7 times before disaster struck!

On my next attempt at an ear-piercing "5 Gold Rings" my voice, in response to developing nuts, broke.  Accompanied by the laughter of over two hundred parents and teachers and a burning sensation in my face, I croaked my way through the remainder of the performance, but had already decided that at that point that I would  never, ever sing in public again.

And I never have!