Happy, Happy Talk!

Saturday. 6.20 a.m. If you read my blog posts regularly, then you would know that I have been attempting to find someone to look after Alfie when I visit my daughter and grandchildren in Worcester, because Alfie doesn't get on well and makes a lot of noise. There has been a bit of a cul de sac as regards one attempt, but now it seems I have found someone who can look after him, who has dogs. I suddenly had a brainwave. I had the idea that someone at Dexter House might be able to help if I were to go to Worcester and leave Alfie in the flat, but to have someone go in and feed him and take him out several times a day. I thought of Dave, who is a neighbour. I met him when I was about to go somewhere in my car, as he parks his car next to mine. He told me it might be difficult for him to look after Alfie, but his sister might. She loves dogs and has a small one herself, so Alfie would possibly fit in and settle if I left him for a long weekend.

Sunday. 5.50 a.m. It took quite a while to wake up properly this morning, which meant it was somewhat difficult to focus so that I could take Alfie out. He was wide awake and barking loudly, which is why I had the lounge door firmly closed whilst I got myself organized, dressed and ready to go out. It is a mild but somewhat overcast morning. We are being told that for the next couple of weeks we can expect another heatwave. I just hope it's not going to be as hot as it was a few weeks ago. My digital thermometer currently reads 71ºF.

12.50 p.m. There was no church this morning, but there was a picnic at Furzton Lake, but I decided not to go. I had intended to watch the M.K.C.C. service via YouTube, but, having got it all set up through my Fire Stick, it just buffered, so unfortunately I gave up. It just froze, which made it impossible to watch. I've been reading, more of 'Modernity Britain', David Kynaston's book on the later '50s and early 1960s. Very informative, particularly as I can remember vaguely some of the details, as I would have been around 10-11 during that period. He mentions the opening of the Lionel Bart musical, 'Oliver!' which opened at the then, New, Theatre, (Now, I believe, called the Gielgud Theatre. I was at Rushmoor School in Bedford, and we were taken up to London by the English Teacher to see the show. I was very much inspired by it, and it would have been my first experience of a West End musical.  It must have been quite radical in some ways, because the book on which it's based is quite dark in places, think the murder of Nancy by Bill Sykes. The set, designed by Shaun Kenny was very distinctive, imaginative and probably unlike anything a West End audience would have seen up until that point in time. I think it must have coincided with the marriage of Princess Margaret to Lord Snowdon. If I remember correctly, we saw decorations in the street which must have been for this momentous occasion, but, at such a young age, it might not have meant much to me. I do recall going to a Lyon's corner house, of which there were many, not just in London, but in all the major towns and cities throughout Britain at the time, but, now, long since closed. I think this branch was somewhere in the vicinity of the Houses of Parliament. We were all allowed to order whatever we wanted, and one boy being very bold and having a Knickerbocker glory, one of those sweet concoctions, created in a long, stemmed glass, and consisting of brightly coloured jelly, in layers, with fruit cocktail and topped with whipped cream and that completed by a glacé cherry. Very pretentious. Which is probably why I remember it, some 60-plus years later. It must have been that school trip to London, where we were waiting on an Underground station platform, and a train came in, and everyone got on it but it turned out to be the wrong train, so we all had to get on, otherwise some of the group would have gone without us. I don't know how it turned out, but no doubt we had to go back to the same station and start again, getting on the correct train.  The following year we were taken to see 'Pickwick', another musical based on a Charles Dickens novel. It starred Harry Secombe, but it didn't have the same impact or long West End run as 'Oliver!' had. That show was staged at the Scala Theatre in Shaftsbury Avenue, but now converted into a cinema.

I am gradually returning the stuff which was removed from the kitchen units before the refurbishment was started. I just want things back as more or less what they were before the work began. I have lugged two large plastic boxes which have been parked in the bedroom. More or less all the stuff under the sink is back, and I find quite a lot of stuff is duplicated, such as furniture polish. A lot needs throwing away. I have found a really great-looking unit on Amazon which would be ideal to take my HP printer. If I get it, the printer can be moved from the IKEA unit where it lives at present. It comes with wheels and can be pushed around and has space underneath to store printer-related stuff like paper and ink cartridges and even has a handy drawer.

Bread and Circuses

Friday. 6.25 a.m. It's mild and sunny as I write this. I'm going to the Central Milton Keynes Shopping Centre to get my haircut this morning. I booked my appointment online and it's paid for, so I just have to drive in, park and then walk through to the barbers.

Later. 11.40 a.m. I had to take his littleness out before venturing forth to the barbers. Easy enough parking in the usual place. I'm surprised to see that the old food centre, which is where Central Barbers used to be and in the same block which Sainsbury's vacated years ago, is currently being demolished to make way for a new development which is supposed to be a mixture of retail and residential properties. Just a pile of rubble and a bit of a shock to see it in such a state.

I'm also quite shocked by the number of empty units within the shopping centre. It looks as if Paperchase has gone. An empty unit. All shelving has gone. Carol would be upset, as she loved their products and we seemed to spend quite a lot of time- and money- in that store. One of Waterstone's two stores has gone, or so it would seem. As there had been two branches, one in the main shopping centre and the other in Midsummer Place, it's not surprising that one would close down. How many more are likely to close. Although I did go into the new Hamley's toyshop. This must be a new departure for them because they have always had a store in central London, Regent Street I think, which was a favourite place to visit when I was a child and a major focus on any London visit, especially over the Christmas period.

I got to Central Barbers and I had to wait outside until I could go inside the shop. Several other people also waiting. All this to keep to social distancing regulations. 

Came out after my haircut and a lot better as a result. I can't stand not getting my hair cut so the pandemic has been awful in that respect. A good ten years younger-looking I think!

I went into Lakeland's shop near Middleton Hall and bought two sponge baking pans. Heavy gauge as it's better, in the long run, to spend on better quality cookware because you get a far more even bake and they don't warp or rust like the cheap, thin baking ware. These also have loose bases which make removing cakes from the tin easier. Now to stock up on flour, butter, and other ingredients and get baking. Now I have almost all the equipment I need so there's really no excuse.

Saturday 3rd July. 6.50 a.m. Yet another mild and pleasant morning. Football this evening, England v Ukraine or something, but, as you know, I don't follow football, but I suppose it keeps the masses occupied. 

What did someone say, a Roman emperor probably, about 'bread and circuses? Keep the masses occupied and prevent revolution. (It was Juvenal who made that statement.) All that sport at school was just a means to work off excess energy. But at the school I went to in Bedford, Rushmoor, I reckon it was just a way to keep the heating bills down during the winter months. One of the reasons I hated it so much because I used to suffer excessively with cold and standing around (or running around.) didn't exactly help matters,  on a football pitch which was on the top of a hill, now the place where Bedford Modern School is today, in Manton Lane, was no fun when it was blowing a gale, or it was raining or snowing. Getting there was a bit of a hike from the school in Shakespeare Road and then up a sometimes muddy path to the top of the hill. Not my idea of heaven, although it might have been for some people. I think in all honesty it was because I don't like being told what to do, not compliant with the will of some people who should have known better. As I was no good at either football or cricket it was painful and then being the last person to be picked for a team for either game (I wasn't the only one to be left till last, there were several others.) Then they march back to the school and putting up with mud-clogged football boots and probably kit. Yuck! All that mud you had to pick off your boots was not a pleasant task. Memories! Memories! What is it someone said 'the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Harrow. . .' or Eaton, or some other public school. Rushmoor was certainly not of that calibre, but you get my meaning, or at least I hope you do. I think the purpose of that place was to inculcate its pupils into being the drones who would be the backbone of Empire, working in the administration, pen-pushers, civil servants who would do the bidding of their masters without making any sort of fuss. Without question. Something like in one of my favourite films, by my favourite film directors, Terry Gilliam, 'Brazil', set in a sort of dystopian Britain, where people work in offices, run-down, with poorly functioning machinery. The whole plot revolves around an error that occurs when a man's name is misspelt and he lands up being interrogated by the state police. I won't divulge the ending as you should watch it, even if it's to see the amazing production design and laugh at what is, in effect very much a black comedy.

N.H.S. Soup and other Culinary Delights

After N.H.S. custard, how about N.H.S. soup? Well, no thanks, not surprisingly. When you're suck in a hospital bed and rely on being fed the food they dish up, your appetite isn't up to much, you've just had an operation and you feel like throwing up every half hour or so, what can be worse when you've ordered food form the list they send round each day, you order soup and when it eventually arrives (by which time you may well have completely forgotten what it was you ticked on the menu-form) and soup turns up, and you look at it in it's bowl, it's a thick gloop, thicker than the average sauce you cook your chicken in, one of those ready-made sauces such as Chicken Tonight, this soup doesn't exactly help your appetite. Like the custard I've already mentioned in a previous post, it just doesn't move or if you turn the bowl upside down, it doesn't fall out of the bowl. You could use it to fill in the gaps in your bathroom grouting or down the edge of the bath. Just plain disgusting.

Hey, another thing. If you order omelette, it can come with gravy! If you so wish. But, please, who on earth eats GRAVY with omelette? What sort of culinary genius came up with THAT! I know if I mention such delights as mushy peas I'll no doubt be shot down in flames, but they are so disgusting and unpleasant to the taste, and usually a totally unnatural green-colour (not sure that peas are bright green like that, they must put artificial colour in to give it that awful colour.) Well, what else is on the menu for the next day? I'll have a look this morning when I'm with Carol on the ward and give you an idea. I might even take a photo with my iPhone and post it on here.

Does all this hark back to the dark days of World War 2, when people were on rationing, and food was difficult to come by, what with dried egg, Wilton Pie, shortages of virtually every food staple you could think off, and perhaps all this carried on afterwards and the N.H.S. was set up so the food had to be the same as army or any other service, regulation menus, all manner of nasty things such as lumpy custard and tepid soup, thin watery dinners (such as I had when I was at Rushmoor School) and you weren't allowed to complain. Over-cooked cabbage. Liver that tasted bitter and had the consistency of rubber (not that I've eaten rubber.) Watered-down custard, as well as treacle and jam.  Well, that's a failing of the British, 'make do and mend,' 'put up or shut up' and of course, queuing like it was going out of fashion and DEFINITELY never complaining (but moaning continuously about all these things but not doing anything about it.) Rather in the fashion of characters in an Alan Bennet television play. Why do we put up with poor service and food in motorway service areas, school dinners, tea made with teabags on bits of string that you have to dunk in hot (not boiled) water (a rather cheap importation from America, I fear.) An insult when most British people know how to make a proper brew, always boil fresh water, never reuse water that's already in the kettle and then let the pot stand for a while to 'mash.' And generally very sloppy service.

An update

This lunch time I had to walk all the way to the main entrance to get something for my lunch. I got a baguette from the small shop, which turned out to be only reasonable for taste. The bread was like eating cotton wool, a mouthful of mush which I didn't exactly enjoy, but, hey, why complain? I had to get the wretched Hospicom card topped up and got a £10 note out of the A.T.M. and then went to the shops to try and get it changed into 10 £1 coins (a repetition of a few day's previously, as recorded on here a couple of posts ago.) The Hospital Friends shop in the Out-Patients department couldn't change the note and by now I was getting a bit annoyed. If they insist on having this television service, they could at least make sure the vending machines that you use to top up the cards work properly and most of all take the new notes which have come out recently. In the end I managed to discover that there was another Friends shop near Ward 20, but on the lower level, right next to the hospital restaurant. The lady on the till was reluctant to give me the change, saying that she wasn't supposed to change people's notes as she had done for me, but nevertheless less she did and I was glad she was able to and eventually get the card topped up. All I can say is- what a performance and how many miles did I have to walk to get the confounded card topped up?

By the time I got back to Carol on the ward she had been served her lunch. It had been eaten, but there was a lot of it left. It was supposed to be either chicken or beef pie, but it didn't look in the least like any pie I've ever seen. Just a load of brown mush and the pastry looked almost raw. What ever is it about hospital food? Why does it have to be so awful?

Wet Weather and Cold N.H.S. Custard

It's raining this morning. As it's been dry and sunny for the past few days, it's rather a shock to find rain. Alfie poked his head out of the patio door when he wanted to be let out early this morning and went out but he doesn't really like rain. I can understand because he gets cold easily. 

I've been walking to the hospital each day this week to visit Carol. It's not that far, walking along the Redway and through into the hospital grounds, but if it's raining I think I'll go in the car. I did yesterday late afternoon.

It crazy that the ward is so hot. In Carol's side-room, it's quite claustrophobic and it's TOO warm. I can understand why they have to have it warm if people are ill, but then Carol has to have a window open and they've give her an electric fan to cool it down. It just doesn't make sense somehow.

Poor Carol is having enough trouble with food. She can't have solid food of any kind and is on what they call a 'Low Residue' diet. As a result she can eat such things as yoghurt, jelly and custard. I bought her some Aldi mousses yesterday. They are to die for. Excellent all round for flavour and texture and they're very reasonably priced. I was in yesterday evening at the hospital and they were bringing round the dinner (at around 6 p.m.) Carol was bought a bowl of custard. Well, they said it was custard, but it didn't look much like what I'd term 'custard.' The consistency of something you'd use to cover a wall, that stuff that used to give a rough surface, my mother had it put on the ceilings of the home we lived in when I was a child, which gives a sort of rough texture and these ceilings had sort of swirls in this stuff a bit like plaster. Well, this custard had this sort of resemblance. If you moved the bowl, the custard stayed in the same place. It didn't move or do anything and the colour was pale. It looked ill, intact, that's a good description for N.H.S. custard. Probably made like that deliberately. You could lag a pipe with the stuff or fill in potholes. That would be a good use for it. Carol said it might be because it comes a long way from the kitchens and has to be kept warm. Dear goodness, is it not the easiest thing to make? Just some custard powder and some warm milk, whisked up in a pan??? How on earth difficult is it to make that? Not this pale and inspire and totally unappetising stuff? I thought the idea was that you went to hospital when you're ill, not given this stuff which would make you very, very sick. Lumpy custard, insipid soup (Carol texted me to please get her something NICE to eat, as the soup she was given for lunch was AWFUL! Are we really stuck in the 1950's, when things were bad just after the war? Why can't they make something decent for the patients to eat? I think they put lumps in specifically, a bit like the awful stuff we were supposed to eat when I was a shoddy Rushmoor School. Not just the custard there, which wasn't lumpy, just watered down. Just about stayed on your plate, it was as thin as possible so they could make as much profit as possible out of a very small Bird's custard tin. The gravy there was just as bad. More like something out of the school in some Dicken's novel like Dotheheboy's Hall run by Mr Squeers in Nicholas Nicklby. The whole place should have been condemned by Ofsted years ago and I'm surprised it's still in existence. Do you get the impression I didn't enjoy my period there much? Well, you'd be absolutely right on that score. Strange how I made the link between N.H.S. food and that served up in private education establishments.

This evening (Saturday) Carol was bought her evening meal ON A TRAY  as I sat in the ward with her. It was a plate of pasta with some sort of meat sauce (presumably a sort of bolognaise bake), a slice of cake wrapped in cellophane and another bowl of 'custard.' None of it looked appetising and was just slapped onto a plate without a great deal of effort. I appreciate it's a ward in a hospital, and that the nurses don't have time to present the food better, but it really looked horrible. I think Alfie's dinner looks more appetising, and he's a little dog. Why can't the food look better? I also know they have to work to a very tight budget, but this was just, well, words fail me (no, they don't, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this, and I love words, but you know what I mean.)

Living At Home- Part 5

I've mentioned in an earlier post how I went to Rushmoor School in Bedford, and how I absolutely hated it. I'll repeat myself by saying I can't understand why my parents wasted good money sending me to such a hopeless school. I dread to think how much money it cost per term or year. I came away from there with nothing in particular and had to go to a state school, Abbey Sec Mod in Elstow to complete my final few school years. I've said before somewhere on this blog that I had problems with maths at school. I think my basic skills were sound, but when it came to complex fractions and the more advanced stuff I really struggled. Anyway, I have survived all my life without the need for such things as algebra so I'm not worried. It was the fact that I wasn't able to get into Bedford School as my other brothers was the problem. Or, perhaps, that's what my mother thought. So I was dragged around a variety of tutors, actually taken out of Rushmoor School in, presumably, an attempt to get me through whatever exam it was so I could join my brothers. But it wasn't to be. It was great to be taken away from school for a couple of hours, as anything was better than being at Rushmoor School. I recall a couple of the places where the tutors ran their sessions, one being above a shop in St Peter's Street, about where the Probation Service had, or used to have, their office, and the other was around Goldington Road, about where the offices of an agency I used to work for and opposite my former doctor's surgery. All I remember of that one was that there was a pipe rack on the fireplace, odd that I should remember that, but absolutely nothing about doing maths exercises. All I remember of the other place was that there was a sandpit and I played with toy soldiers in this sandpit. Again, nothing remains of any maths I might have done.

I had another dose of tutoring (or whatever you want to call if) of a different kind as I had a slight speech impediment, a stammer. Not surprising if I was always being picked up over my maths. I went to a speech therapist (I imagine that was what this person was, but probably not called that in those days) and the house I went to was off Kimbolton Road, in Pemberley Avenue, Bedford. There again, I can't remember a great deal about the sessions I had to endure. But I remember having to shove my tongue to the front of my mouth to get me to speak properly and being given chocolate mint sweets as a sort of incentive. Even today I really like them, but I don't suppose today you've be able to use them as an inducement to stop lisping or to push your tongue forward because they'd be considered unhealthy or something like that, with too much sugar in them. Even today, although I don't recall much else about these sessions, I think I'd know which house in that road they were and I have a sort of thing about 'speaking properly.' I have a certain affinity with the George Bernard Shaw 'Pygmalion' which is about 'proper speech.' My mother was constantly picking me up if I dropped an 'H' when I could easily drop one off the end of certain words. I don't know why me, in particular, as I don't think she did it to my other brothers.

I've mentioned my lack of skills in anything sporty, somewhere in an earlier blog post. I think it's got a lot to do with being forced to use my right hand when I should probably have been left-handed. I think that is how you were taught at school in the late 1950's- early 1960's. Probably just to make it easier for the teaching staff. If you were left-handed you would be considered a problem child, thus creating more work for teachers, so it would have been easier to make a child write with their right hand. I think this made me very clumsy when using a cricket bat, making it really difficult to hit a flying cricket ball in any sense of a straight line or merely hit the thing. The same with kicking a football or merely catching a ball when thrown at me. So, I didn't like being made the butt of jokes or have unpleasant remarks made by teachers or other pupils. So, inevitably, it put me off sport of any kind. This lead on to maths skills. Totally hopeless. I think this 'disability' if such it can be called, wasn't (or isn't) dyslexia as such but dyscalculia, a term which I've since discovered. So, as a result, I can't stand either cricket or football. I just have memories spent at the very edge of cricket grounds on long hot summer afternoons. Or football, played on the school playing fields, a long walk from the school in Shakespeare Road and along Manton Lane and then trudging up a muddy path to the top of the hill and having to endure cold, wind, ice, snow and whatever awful weather conditions to 'play' a game which I detested, as I suffered terribly from the cold at that age. The hill seemed to be open to every thing the elements could throw at me and then having to trudge back to school, coated in mud and our boots encased in thick, claggy mud. Shivering like crazy and taking an eternity to get some warmth back before leaving to walk to the bus station in order to get home. Not nice. I think the sports teachers were just sado masochists to make us go through that ordeal. Sometimes you could get to the top of that benighted hill and look down to where the rest of Bedford should have been, to find it had disappeared in a haze of fog.

Living At Home- Part 4

we didn't have any sort of record player at home when I was growing up until quite late into the 1960's. I have a feeling that there was an ancient gramophone of some sort, probably only capable of playing 78's, but not a modern one capable of playing modern L.P.s and 45s. We eventually got a small portable machine when my great aunt died and there were heaps of Greenshield Stamps which were converted into this new player. If you remember Greenshield stamps, you used to 'earn' them when you bought things at certain retailers, such as Tesco, so many stamps when you shopped and then stuck them into books. I suppose the equivalent today would be Tesco Clubcard points, or Nectar points, although these are collected on a card, electronically saved and then 'spent' when you have sufficient, either on your grocery bill or on other items such as free tickets for places such as Alton Towers or Sealife World, Warwick Castle or Madam Tussaud's. This record player was eventually replaced by a far better player which my brother Sandy and I shared.  I remember my mother deciding that we needed a decent record player as she like to hear the occasional bit of classical music. We went to Weatherhead's, a local electrical retailer which had a large shop at the corner of Bedford High Street and Dame Alice Street. It's long since gone, replaced at the last time I visited Bedford by a pub. A shame really, as it was an independent company. Anyway, we went there to choose a record player, one of those semi-portable machines, only playing records, but one with a device in it which was the height of technological wizardry which enabled you to stack a pile of 45 r.p.m. discs on this system which allowed you to play these records one after the other without having to get up and do it manually. My brother was more into pop music than I was. I became interested in classical music and began my own collection of LPs of standard classical repertoire. I also became interested in recording using a tape-recorder, as a result of being influenced by a teacher at Rushmoor School who used a tape-recorder in some of his classes to record our voices, reading poetry and prose. Later on, when I moved to Abbey Secondary Modern School, I bought a Grundig tape-recorder from one of the teachers. I know Sandy used to record pop music off the radio (as did everyone else during this period) and be was (and probably still is.) obsessed by motor sport, and in particular, Grand Prix races. Was it called Formula 1 in those days? I don't know, but he used to record the radio commentaries on a tape recorder. I eventually replaced my tape-recorder with an early Philips cassette recorder.

Although quite good for recording from the radio, the occasional bit of voice work and listening to music, cassettes had their limitations. For a start, you couldn't edit them. The tape was extremely tin and had a tendency to stretch. You could never find specific points on a tape, for example, the beginning of a piece of music. Eventually pre-recorded cassettes were introduced, as a sort of replacement for LPs, but the technical quality of cassettes wasn't up to much. It took a long time to re-wind a cassette and, because the tape was very thin it could get caught up in the mechanism of the machine as well as stretching and this eventually lead to them not functioning. In-car players were eventually introduced, some with built-in radios, but if you kept your collection of cassettes in your car, they could become damaged if there was warm weather, as heat seemed to cause all sorts of problems to the tape. My brother Sandy had an 8-track player at one point, I think perhaps it was a birthday present. The cassettes were bulky and not as good as cassettes, and I recall he had all sorts of problems with the machine which constantly got jammed. The tape was far wider than a Philips cassette, but eventually he gave up on the thing and the whole system was eventually abandoned by the manufacturers.

A friend of mine when I was at Mander College, John Gregory, introduced me to The Goon Show. His father had recorded the original episodes off the radio and onto reel-to-reel tape. John allowed me to record many of the episodes onto cassette when he used to visit me at home over several Saturday afternoons. I am still an ardent fan of The Goons and listen to some of the episodes which are broadcast regularly on the digital radio channel, BBC Radio4 Extra. Not just The Goons, but I also enjoyed many other BBC comedy shows, such as I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again, Round The Horne, The Navy Lark as well as The Men From The Ministry. All re-broadcast on BBC Radio4 Extra. I, and probably loads of other people, recorded from the radio using a microphone, but I eventually managed to find a way to link the tape recorder to my transistor radio by using a lead from the tape recorder fixed to the loudspeaker, linking to the soldered points inside the radio. It worked! Which meant I could get a far better recording as there was no background interference as you would get if you used a microphone set up in front of the radio, for example, cars going past or people talking in the room.

My interest in tape-recording and recording in general was a very useful skill because when I worked in stage management I was sometimes called upon to operate the sound desk at several of the theatres I worked at, having to make up the various sound effects tapes and I learned how to edit and splice tape. In those days it was physically cut, using a special splicing machine and sticky tape. No doubt today all this would be done digitally and saved onto either a CD-ROM or at least on a computer hard drive.

More Politically In-Correct Books and Films

Continuing on the theme begun in my last blog post, what about all those other works of literature, usually aimed at children, as well as films? Just think of a series of books that I read avidly as a child, beginning with "Swallows and Amazons" which were written by Arthur Ransome. They were about a group of children who seem to spend their lives perpetually on holiday in either the Lake District, Norfolk or Essex. The children are John, Susan, Titty and Roger Walker. I don't think, in all honesty, you could have a character called Titty in a book nowadays. Sorry, but the name just causes (sorry for the pun) a titter. You would have to re-name the character for a modern audience. I think it's the fact that they sail their boats on one of the Lake District lakes (I think it must be Windermere, but I'm not sure.) and there's no attempt to them wearing life jackets of any sort. When I was growing up, my father was an avid sailor, and had several yachts, some of which were sailed on the River Ouse near where we lived, mostly at Cardington Mill. We were never allowed in these boats unless we either wore a life jacket (generally a very bright orange or yellow) or we could swim proficiently (about the only decent thing I ever got from going to Rushmoor School was the fact that I learnt to swim). The stories of the Walker children continue in several other books, Pigeon Post, Swallowdale, Peter Duck, Winter Holiday, We Didn't Mean To Go To See. I think he later books might have been set in and around the Essex coast. As we used to go on holiday each year to Frinton-On-Sea, and the inlets in and around Walton-On-Naze, which was a little bit further up the coast from Frinton, this gave the stories a good deal more interest to me because I could picture the places in the books. But I think it's the fact that there's no hint of 'Health and Safety' and neither the fact that they wander around the Lakes and surrounding countryside free from any sort of adult interference. When you consider things like 'Child Protection' today, and the unfortunate stories that have come out recently about child abuse, it makes these stories, although written in the 1930's, even more intriguing. It's sad that today's children don't get the freedom to roam about as the children do in those books. Even when I was growing up in the 1960's there was no such thing as 'Health and Safety' or 'Child Protection.' Infact, when I consider the fact that living on a farm alone had many dangers and perils that would make the place a possible death-trap. We built hideouts in amongst the hay and straw bales, never once thinking that they might collapse on us and suffocate us or even catch fire. I used to make tree-houses, fairly high up in some oaks trees in the garden at Malting Farm. Thinking about it now, I could have easily fallen out of the tree and broken a leg, arm or whatever. You didn't think things like that were in the least bit dangerous in those days, but I suppose children never see the dangers in anything.

Returning to Swallows and Amazons. In the mid-1970's they made a cinema film of the book. It was, by coincidence, at the time I was an A.S.M., working at Century Theatre in Keswick. We did a series of four plays, running in repertoire, and changing every two days. Hard work, to say the least. When they began filming (no doubt on Derwent Water, on which Keswick is near). When we were out looking for props in the town for the plays we were staging, we often got asked whether we were from the film unit. It was also a coincidence that this film had a screenplay written by David Wood    who was in a play that I worked on at Greenwich Theatre called "A Voyage Round My Father" by John Mortimer. The director of the film was Claude Watham who also directed the Mortimer play, as he had done when it was originally done as a 'Play For Today' on BBC Television.

Back on books and films. Just think of Harry Potter. Why didn't the Dursleys, who had young Harry as a lodger (where they actually related? Were they really Harry's aunt and uncle?) Nevertheless, they had Harry under their care, so why did the poor boy end up living under the stairs? Why were they never prosecuted for child abuse? Expecting the child to live in such confined conditions is surely abuse of some sort? Why didn't the authorities intervene?

Then think of Oliver Twist, in particular the musical version, on stage and screen. What are they teaching children if they watch Oliver! That crime seems to pay, perhaps? Teaching youngsters to PICK POCKETS! Really terrible.

I seem to have veered off course about unsuitable or politically un-correct films for children, but never mind. I'll get back on the them in another blog post. It was good to reminisce on various things. The whole point of these blog posts I suppose.

More Reading and Viewing

I'm currently reading Andrew Marr's book 'A History of Modern Britain.' I read his earlier volume, 'The Making of Modern Britain' which starts with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and concludes with the end of the Second World War in 1945. This second book (which, apparently, was written before the other book.) takes up the story in 1945 with the General Election which saw Labour win a landslide victory and Clement Attlee becoming Prime Minister. This administration ushered in the Welfare State, the birth of the N.H.S.,  and National Insurance. I'm not sure this wasn't written to compliment a documentary series which Marr wrote and presented on BBC 1. I think I may have seen it, but, when I saw these two books in The Works in Milton Keynes Shopping Centre I had to buy them. Full-price they cost £9.99 each, but they were selling for £6 for both.  I have to say I love a good bargain, and at that price they were more than a bargain.

Yesterday evening there was a documentary on BBC1 which was a sort of complimentary programme to the drama series 'Call The Midwife,' which gave a background to that series and mentioned the introduction of the National Health Service in 1948, so it was interesting to read about this in the Marr book and hear people talking about this on this programme.

I also learned that in 1947 there was a 'Big Freeze' that winter. Roads were blocked and food had to be rationed, even more than it had been during the war which ended in 1945. Things were certainly extremely tough. It reminds me of the winter of 1962-3. That was exceptionally cold. I lived on a farm and my father had real problems keeping pigeons off the Brussel sprouts which they grew on the farm.  They used what are called gas guns, contraptions which ran on cylinders of what I imagine would have been like caller gas, with a timer, and these things had a charge in them, with a timer, which was let off at a pre-determined length of time and which scared off the pigeons. It was one of these gas-guns which went off in the back of the Land Rover, which my father was driving at the time, and perforated my father's ear-drum and as a result made him profoundly deaf which he was forever after until he died in 1993. He did wear a hearing aid, when he could be bothered to wear it, but his hearing was never the same after that incident, as you can imagine. It must have been a very loud explosion, and in an enclosed space, as it would have been in the back of a vehicle and he would have been sitting quite close if he was driving the Land Rover. 

It was also the year I had my appendix out. I was supposed to go into Victoria Ward at Bedford Hospital over Christmas that year, but fortunately I went in well before Christmas so I could be at home for the Christmas period. I remember that ward, it had tile panels on the walls, each one showing illustrations for nursery rhyme characters. I don't imagine that old Victorian ward is still being used as a children's ward. Anyway, at Rushmoor School which I attended, no doubt after I returned to school in 1963,  the playground became so snowed over because it snowed and then thawed and then froze I seem to remember, the snow became so thick we had to go out and help shovel it off the surface (unlike today, when children don't have to help with anything at school, no doubt they would say it was contravening their 'Human Rights' to have to work, or even help to pick up litter which is something we had to do at school. Anyway, the snow was heaped at one end of the playground, against a wall, and when it was frozen solid, it began to push over the wall. I'm not sure it was able to actually collapse it, but I do remember it was pushed to a quite sharp angle.

Further Rushmoor School Memories

As I've discussed elsewhere in earlier posts on this blog, my time at Rushmoor School was anything but happy. I can't understand my dear parents spent good money on sending me there. I can't really say I remember learning anything of any real use in my later life. Some really odd sporting events I recall, one called a Milling Contest. It's no good me attempting to describe this odd event, which was held annually and in the green corrugated iron gym. This 'sport' was vaguely boxing and you were thrown into the 'ring'and your opponent or opponents punched the living daylights out of you. Me, being a somewhat quiet and reserved individual, wasn't exactly ideal material for this type of thing, as you might imagine. I cannot to this day think what the point of this barbaric 'sport' was (in fact, I can't see what the point of a great many sports are, but I expect I'm in the minority regarding that.) You would end up punched senselessly and covered in black and blue bruises. How on earth you could allow you child to be subjected to this barbaric carry-on I cannot think. I think by today's standards you might class it as some sort of child abuse. I'm not sure how long this 'event' went on after I left Rushmoor, which is well over 50 years ago now. My memories of that gym at Rushmoor was of a really foul smell which greeted you whenever you entered, I think produced by having a cupboard full of ancient gym shoes, which smelt of sweaty feet and that horrible rubbery smell. Also, the gym was also used for carpentry lessons and as part of lessons we used glue which was heated in a pot on a gas ring. The smell of glue size pervaded the air. Later, in my time working in stage management with a wide variety of rep companies across the United Kingdom, that smell of glue size was again familiar as it was used in the workshops in the construction of flats which were used to build sets for the plays I was involved with.

I recall being taken on walks when at Rushmoor. Usually in the afternoon and out into the country. Sometimes walking along Clapham Road and across the golf course. One clever individual managed to pick up lost golf balls and I think he sold them back to the golf club. A few years ago I stayed with someone I was at Rushmoor With and we spent some time talking about our time at school. He mentioned these walks we were taken on, and he made the comment, whether correct or not, I don't know, that we were taken out of the school on these occasions as it was a way of saving on heating, which sounds as if it might be true. As a child you don't think of this sort of thing, but as the school was run as a profit-making business I suppose it makes sense. So, what were our parents doing paying good money out for our education there? Surely a percentage of the fees must have gone towards heating the place.

A couple of reasonably good things I can say came out of my time at Rushmoor. I learned to swim. We went to the Modern School swimming baths in Clarendon Street once a week. Although I wasn't a particularly strong swimmer, I did manage to get my 'pass.' I think it was a couple of lengths of the pool. As my father owned boats, which he sailed on the Ouse at Cardington Mill, we weren't allowed on these boats until we were competent swimmers. Unfortunately, my confidence was completely lost when some little idiot decided to jump on top of me when I was in the pool and pushed my head under water. Not a very nice experience and it took some while before I regained my confidence. The second thing we did was have singing lessons, given by Mr. Eden, the music teacher. I think being able to sing properly is a great skill and helps with such things as voice production, being able to breathe properly when you sing is quite important. We were put forward to be entered for the annual Bedford Music Festival, which was held in the Corn Exchange, although I think at the last minute we withdrew for whatever reason I can't remember, come to think of it. I think I was in the school choir. You didn't have a choice as to whether you were or you weren't. There was an annual carol service at St Martin's church in Clapham Road and I think I was involved. I can't be sure exactly as it was at least fifty years ago. Mr Crutchley, one of the teachers, had a tape-recorder and recorded the service and I have an idea it was put on record and sold. We never had a decent record player so I never got a copy, which is a pity as I'd love to have heard it. As a result of Crutchley's tape recorder, which intrigued me, I became interested in sound recording, which later became quite a useful skill to have when I worked in stage management and often was a sound operator on some of the shows I was involved in. 

Food Favourites (And some not quite so)

I have written extensively about my school days and in particular at Rushmoor School in Bedford. Of the many not quite so pleasant memories of that establishment must surely be the totally disgusting dinner that was served up. More like slopped up. I have absolutely no idea how much my father had to fork out to send me there, but I would have hoped if I had a son and I was paying for their education, I would hope the food that was dished up was a good deal better. I think they could have made more effort to make it, at least, half edible. I think most people when they look back on their school days (which, you keep being reminded are supposed to be 'the happiest of your life.') it's generally the dinners that get mentioned the most frequently if it's for how bad they are, or even, how good. I can remember gristly, chewy meat. What sort it was, I can hardly imagine. I should think beef or pork, but possibly a horse, mule or donkey. More likely road-kill from some country road in and around Bedfordshire. Sorry, I know we've had food scares in the past. But expecting your progeny to eat such disgusting food should come under some form of an act of parliament for child cruelty in this day and age.  I don't know about the time I was at school. You just put up with it and didn't make any sort of fuss. Liver, I seem to recall, looking like and having the consistency of rubber erasers and tasting bitter, and swimming in gravy. No, struggling to survive. Usually watered-down, like the custard. I think they could make a reasonably fine sponge pudding, but then they ruined it with lumpy custard. But tell me, how difficult is it to make the custard, minus the lumps? Shove it through a sieve to remove the lumps and then boil it to death. Similarly, cabbage, which has been boiled to within an inch of its life. And stinking the place out to high heaven. Enough to put anyone off for life, and it probably has. Rice pudding was another staple. Actually, to tell the truth, I do actually like rice pudding. They served it up with watered-down treacle I seem to remember. I've heard of stretching things until it breaks, like a piece of elastic (yes, another metaphor. The liver and meat had the texture of elastic. Chew it until your jaw ached!) Which reminds me that once, at Rushmoor, one dinner time they served up plain boiled rice. I think it might, on reflection, have started out being a good old fashioned rice pud, but someone forgot that it's made with milk. So we were expected to eat it, along with very watered-down treacle. Not nice. Can you imagine being made to sit and eat it until it was all gone? That Mrs Richardson, who presided over the piano-playing for assembly (see my earlier post.) was in control of the ladle and spoon, doling out the dinners, slapping the custard, gravy and other comestibles onto our plates as we queued up, in a similar fashion to the inmates of the workhouse in 'Oliver Twist.' We had liver, as I've said. Pretty disgusting. I expect it put a lot of people off liver- for life. No 'asking for more' as you can imagine. I think even poor old Oliver would have passed on the rubber-consistency of this. I actually rather like liver, as an adult. I don't have a problem with it and know how to cook it, slowly, in a nice rich gravy. It's quite nice, for a change. It's a cheap meal and is good for you. It contains iron, amongst other things. But the thought of eating boiled rice, on it's own, with thin, watered-down treacle, that was just disgusting. 

My mother was a very good cook. She made plain, simple food. As there were seven of us living at home, five of us brothers and my mother and father, what you had put in front of you, you were expected to eat up and not leave anything. No room for finicky eaters. I don't think my mother would have put up with such behaviour, and certainly not my father. We had porridge for breakfast. Actually, even as an adult, I quite like porridge, so long as I'm making it and it's not lumpy. Better for you, and a good deal cheaper, than sugar-filled cereals from a packet.  I don't think we ever had any other cereal such as Rice Krispies, Sugar Puffs or even Corn Flakes until I was perhaps around 12 years old. Also, bacon and eggs. A good old fry-up, because, being a farm, my father and two eldest brothers needed a substantial breakfast each morning as they would have got up early, around 5.30- 6.00, to feed the cattle and other animals and do other early-morning jobs, and then come into the house to have their breakfast at 7-8 o'clock. That was after they left school.

Sunday lunch we'd usually have a roast, such as chicken, beef, pork or lamb. Naturally, if it was beef or pork it might possibly be home-produced. And with the roast, roast potatoes and other vegetables from the garden. My father grew Brussel sprouts on the farm, which were sent off to Smithfield Market, and we had with our meal. A much larger variety than the tiny variety that you'll find in your average supermarket. For pudding, something like sponge pudding and custard (although I don't remember having custard. Probably cream, straight from the cow which was reserved for the house. Something I don't expect would be allowed today, what with the E.U. and all the regulations that go with it. The cattle were tested for T.B. or whatever it was once a year, can't remember what else for, to fit the current regulations. I just know that you wouldn't be able to drink 'raw' untreated milk. I have to say that it tasted a good deal better than pasteurised milk, and the cream was thicker and richer. We also had a lot of fruit from the garden, such as strawberries, raspberries and rhubarb, when in season, and ate it stewed with more cream, or in a sponge pudding of some sort. Also, celery and asparagus, which, looking back, we were very fortunate to have growing in the garden. When you see these things in a supermarket, and the price they charge, I realise more than ever how lucky we were to be able to eat these fruit and vegetables. There was a quite substantial orchard at Malting Farm, with plenty of plum, apple and pear trees in it. Sadly, the last time I went to the farm I saw that it had all been removed and the land used  as animal pens. I suppose the cost of maintaining it all was too much and was better being used for the sheep and other farm animals.

My mother was a good baker and we had ample cakes and other delights for tea. I don't think she ever bought a cake, although I seemed to remember her buying the odd treat from a cake shop in Harrowden Road, on the road going into Bedford. Doughnuts, filled with jam, as well as little cakes in fancy paper trays, I think called Viennese Whirls, made, I think of choux pastry and with a dob of bright red jam on top. Not jam probably, more like a thick gooey substance with a sweet over-flavoured taste. She was a dab-hand at making shortbread, I believe being given the recipe from one of my father's Scottish relatives. There is a certain knack to making this Scottish delicacy, made of real butter and it has to be kneaded carefully. Just delicious, cut into triangles and sprinkled with sugar. Also, scones with cream and jam, Victoria sponges, also filled with jam (I'm quite good at making them.) as well as fruit cakes and her piece-de-resistance, cream slices, which had not jam and cream in them, but confectioner's custard, which is quite difficult to make. Tea was at around 4.00 p.m. and you can see why we had so many visitors to the farm, usually 'reps' from the various companies who did business with the farm. They would not only get an order out of my father, but a decent cup of tea, a piece of cake and a chat, before they got back in their cars and drove back to wherever their company was based, such as Biggleswade or Sandy, which are further up the road going towards the A1.

My grandmother, who lived at Mill Farm, made rock cakes, and she covered them with little seeds I think they were caraway seeds. I didn't particularly like them as a child. If you went to tea you weren't expected to pick and choose. You couldn't be finicky. You ate what was put in front of you. So, if you found yourself eating something you didn't like (such as the aforementioned seeded rock cakes) you put up and shut up. I do remember though, one family (who shall remain nameless) coming to tea with their two children who would have been quite young at the time, and my mother had made her usually delicious teas with plenty of cake (although the rule was generally 'bread before cake' in our household.) and there was a plate full of delicious-looking little cakes (probably filled with jam and cream.) One of these children had an eye for the plate of cakes and was determined to get on. So, in order that one, in particular, was taken for him to consume, he licked a finger and then stuck it in one of the cakes and said 'that one's for me!' meaning that, because he'd shoved his finger into it with a licked finger, no one else would possibly want to eat it! Not a particularly pleasant little boy, I must say, and I'm not entirely sure what my mother made of this strategy to get one of her delicious cakes!

As for some  other of my favourite foods: I like pancakes, and I'm fairly good at making them myself. As it's Shrove Tuesday this week ('Pancake Day') I shall no doubt be making some myself. The knack is being able to make a good batter and leaving it to stand for well over an hour. Whisking the batter is the secret. Also, making batter for Yorkshire pudding, making sure the oven is hot and the pan you cook it in has hot oil in it before you put in the batter. I like mine crisp and crunch with a most or soggy centre.My grandfather liked his Yorkshire pudding soggy and I remember going to lunch with my grandparents and my grandfather deliberately slammed the oven door when we had Yorkshire pudding with our roast beef to make sure they sunk and wouldn't go crunchy! I also like bread and butter pudding, so simple to make, but easy to make. I'm good at making that also.

Snow Flurries

We've had a surprisingly mild winter so far. We have had a couple of days of snow, but not enough to cause too many problems, such as ice on the roads or drifts blocking the main highways or incommoding such things as airports and railways. We have had a couple of mornings when there has been frost and the car's windows have been iced up so we've had to scrape it off. But we were prepared and got a can of deicer as well as a scraper from the supermarket. Problem solved. The car has a good heating system which soon melts off any ice. Unlike the old car, which was so antiquated I don't think they had such refinements in them when they were built back in the days of the Ark. But this morning it was considerably colder and there was a small amount of ice on the windscreen. Strangely it was not on the driver's side but it was easy enough to scrape off. There was a flurry of snowflakes, so are we to be whited out? No, I expect not. I said to Carol, as we sat in the car waiting for it to warm up, "So, the kids will be out building snowmen in the playground then at break time?" To which she replied "No. Because they're not allowed to." How miserable can you get? When I was at school we couldn't wait to rush out at break time and have snowball fights and build snowmen. What is it with today's kill-joys? Health and safety have gone mad. I remember all sorts of things we did when it snowed when I was a child; sledging, walking on ice in ponds (dangerous, I know, thinking about it now.) and particularly making snowmen and even igloos out of snow which was made by rolling snowballs in the snow and making really big blocks of snow/ice, when it froze on thick snow. We made some fantastic igloo-constructions which seemed to last for ages. At school, we had to go out and help clear the playground of snow when I was at Rushmoor School. There was a large pile of snow up against a wall at one end of the playground which seemed to remain there for days on end. It must have frozen hard to such an extent that it began to push the wall at a rather dangerous angle. I'm not sure now whether it actually pushed the wall over, but it would have been quite unsafe. None of this nonsense with health and safety in those days. I think it was the winter of 1962-63, or thereabouts when the snow lasted what seemed like months. So much so that the roads were blocked but it didn't stop people moving about. And school went on regardless. I think we must have been much hardier then, no fussing about it being too cold or anything. And certainly no shortages of food, lorries or trains not getting through.

My Dad

There was quite an age difference between my mother and father, around 20 years, so my father would have been in his early 40's when they got married in 1945. He would always appear to me, as a  young child, as being quite gruff and somewhat distant as a parent. This might be put down in part to the fact that he was profoundly deaf. This was due to an incident which happened when a gas-gun he was carrying in the back of the Land Rover exploded whilst being driven at the time. I should explain that these gas-guns were used on the farm as a way of frightening off birds, particularly pigeons,  from crops and operated on a timing system. No doubt the one that exploded hadn't been put on safety when it was being transported. He did eventually wear a hearing aid, but only when he could remember to use it and then when it was working correctly and not making loud whistling noises which must have been very uncomfortable for him. Once I'd left home, and after my mother had died in 1981 and you'd visit him he'd be sitting watching television with the sound turned up almost full volume and it was obvious that he wasn't using his hearing aid, so you'd have to hunt around for the television's remote control in order to reduce the volume so you could begin a conversation with him.

He was very good with his hands. He was an excellent welder and this would have been handy with regards repairing equipment on the farm. When we were very young children he constructed an amazing four-wheeled contraption which allowed four of us older children to pedal the thing around the village. It had a steering wheel like a car and the same sort of pedal and chain mechanism you'd find on a bicycle to power it. We sat behind each other rather like a tandem. I'm not sure what became of this wondrous machine, but I have an idea it met with a serious incident, perhaps ending up in a ditch or something worse as as a result being beyond repair and ending it's life in one of the barns on the farm and never being used again when we grew too big to be able to fit in it, which was a real shame.

My Dad certainly seemed extremely accident-prone. The incident which caused his deafness, or at least contributed in large measure to what poor hearing he had before the accident, was just the beginning. At harvest-time there were always problems of some sort or other with the various bits of machinery breaking down and then needing repair. The weather was always an important factor when the corn was being harvested, so if there was a threat of rain then the combine harvester or baling machine would have to come to a standstill. If there was a breakdown, and there were many, my father would be on the spot attempting to repair whatever machine it was in order to keep the harvest going. It was whilst attempting to repair the baling machine that he managed to cut his hand. There is an extremely sharp knife inside the machine which cuts the twine which runs around the bales of straw so I presume it was this which caused his injury. He was constantly shoving his hands inside these machines without any thought of injuring himself. He had to return to the farmhouse with blood pouring everywhere and my mother's training as a nurse must have come in useful as she cleaned up the wound and bandaged his hand but this didn't prevent him from returning to the harvest field to continue with repairing the baler.

On another occasion he was doing some sort of repair on the horse-box my mother owned which was used to transport her horses around to various places. I think he might have been replacing a tyre or something and didn't have the thing lifted up on the proper sort of lift such as you would expect to use for the purpose and the horse box was balanced precariously on a pile of bricks. It was just when my mother was about to serve up Sunday lunch and he came flying into the house, again with blood pouring everywhere. The horse box had collapsed and crushed one of his fingers. He was rushed off to Accident and Emergency in Bedford and it turned out the top-most segment of the finger that was crushed when the horse box collapsed on it had to be removed. Which ever surgeon did the operation did an amazing job but it meant he never had any finger nail on that finger. It must have hurt considerably, but he never seemed to show any sort of pain as a result of the accident.

There could be times when you were with him in the car when he was driving and it could be quite hair-raising, particularly if he was driving past a field that had been ploughed or was being harvested. He would be staring at the field and making comments, particularly if it was a neighbouring  farmer's  as he was sure to make some comment such as 'Huh, that's  a poor field of wheat!" or "ploughing's not very straight!" or "It's full of weeds!" and you'd be holding on to your seat for dear life as the car wandered all over the road and you'd be worried sick that you didn't end up either in the ditch or being hit head-on by another vehicle.

He knew a great deal about cars and it was always useful when something went wrong with your car, as he was really good at sorting problems out, particularly if you couldn't get your car to start, as was often the case with cars I owned, and usually first-thing in the morning if I was driving off somewhere in the middle of winter and it was cold and frosty. Also, if you were looking for a new car he would come with you and check out any car you might be consider buying and make some comment, either good or bad about a possible purchase. He would always ask you, if you were going on a long journey, "have you checked the oil, the tyres, water?" etc etc. All good advice, but it could get a bit tiresome at times.

When I was at Rushmoor School we used to have school on Saturday morning and he was supposed to come and collect me to bring me home afterwards. On several occasions he totally forgot to come and collect me and I was left standing on the pavement outside waiting patiently. He would no doubt be somewhere talking with someone or other and then realise he'd forgotten me. I think he had on one occasion actually gone home and my mother had asked him where I was, and he had to go all the way back to Bedford to collect me. It was on one such occasion when it was raining and I got soaked through, standing and waiting. All this long before mobile phones and being able to ring up or text, of course. It's amazing how we take such technology for granted. I'd love to know how he'd have responded to all the modern technology we have now, such as the internet, mobile phones and multi-channel television such as Sky. I think he would be overwhelmed by it all.

Dad had a passion for cars. Infact, almost anything mechanical or with an engine in it. Which would explain his ability to weld and to build the pedalled contraption already mentioned in this post. He had a variety of cars over the years. As we grew older, the need to have a vehicle which was merely a taxi to ferry us around, either to school or other places, became less and less. So be bought cars that were a little more, how should I say? Sporty? Built for speed? Probably. He had a Triumph Herald 12/50. A little green car. Quite a nifty little beast. But my father wasn't one to leave a car alone. He had to tinker with it and had twin carbs put on it, and extra dials added to the dashboard inside to measure R.P.M. etc. These refinements only made things more difficult when the car broke down. I remember driving with my mother to Fronton-On-Sea in this vehicle (see earlier post for description of our summer holidays on the Essex coast, particularly Frinton and Brightlingsea.) and this car kept over-heating. I think it was during a period of very hot weather. We had to stop in a lay-by somewhere en route, I think probably the Avenue of Remembrance near Colchester, and having to fill the radiator with water as the car was boiling over. I think it was definitely as a result of the 'extras' that had been added by my father. We didn't get much further on, only a couple more miles or so, and having to stop again to top up the radiator. You can imagine how long the journey took, as we had to wait for the radiator to cool down before taking off the cap to put water in. I can't remember where we got the water from. Probably we had to stop and ask at a petrol station or even a private house and no doubt we had a water can with us kept in the boot of the car.

A little later he bought a Triumph 1300 TC. I remember it was gray. He seemed to love it. For it's size and engine it was quite nifty as far as I remember. This was well before I passed my driving test, so I never actually got a chance to drive it. He then decided that my mother should have a car and he bought a second Triumph. This time a maroon colour. Well, as you would expect, my mother kept her in an immaculate condition. Inside and out were kept spotless. Meanwhile, my father's car was dirty. Well, living on a farm you expect there to be a lot of mud and other unmentionables. My mother stuck to driving on the roads. My father not only drove on the public highway but also drove around the farm on farm-tracks. More mud and manure. Also, he drove across fields, through the worst conditions imaginable and probably not the sort of conditions a car such as a Triumph 1300 TC was designed for. So no only the exterior of the car, but also it's interior became very dirty and unloved. Also, because it was driven across very uneven ground it seemed to effect the suspension or something and slowy and shortly it began to develop an annoying squeak as it was being driven. I don't suppose my father could hear it due to his deafness. To cap it all, because he smoked a pipe, and often when he was driving, the car began to fill up with rancid smoke and the smell of tobacco and the remnants of burnt tobacco. Which added not inconsiderably to the very run-down appearance of this vehicle.

Dull, Damp and Dreary Day

Today starts wet and miserable. Over-cast, and for this early hour of the day, 8.45, it seems incredibly dark. I'm put in mind a poem I remember from school called "November", by Thomas Hood, which describes very well such a day.  Must say quite a lot about my education if I can recall such a poem. Strange how such things stick in your memory. I don't think it had a great deal to do with the teaching, but I suppose poems create strong emotions, create pictures in your head. I can't say I have particularly happy memories of Rushmoor School, quite the opposite. Here it is:




November

NO sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon!

No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--

No sky--no earthly view--

No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--

No end to any Row--

No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--

No recognitions of familiar people--

No courtesies for showing 'em--

No knowing 'em!

No traveling at all--no locomotion--

No inkling of the way--no notion--

"No go" by land or ocean--

No mail--no post--

No news from any foreign coast--

No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--

No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member--

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--

November!




Thomas Hood

Even More School Memories

Not only did we have those trips to London to see those shows I mentioned in the last post, but I seem to remember being taken on several other trips. One being to St Alban's, to view the Roman remains. Why we went there specifically I have no idea as we weren't studying the Romans during history lessons. In fact, I don't remember ever studying that period in all my school career. As it was a Saturday, the teacher who took us must have given up his own time to take us. We used to have school on Saturday mornings, for a few hours. As Rushmoor had boarders I suppose it made some sort of sense to have classes if there were pupils already there. I was threatened with being boarded out by my mother, but it never happened. It would have seemed a bit pointless when you think we lived only five or so miles out of Bedford. We used to be taken to school in the morning in a sort of system set up between my mother, the family who lived next door to us in Cardington, the Porters, and my aunty Chris who lived in Ickwell, a village around ten miles towards Biggleswade. Ann and Alec Papworth  went to schools in Bedford, Ann to St Andrews, which I've mentioned being virtually opposite Walmsley House School in Kimbolton Road, and Alec to Bedford School. Some days we were collected by one or other of the team, Uncle Ralph Porter (not actually an uncle, but you always seemed to call people 'Uncle' or 'Aunty' out of respect.) Nancy Porter went to the Bedford Girls High School in Bromham Road and Charles to Bedford School. The Porters had a farm in Cople, the next village to Cardington, but lived at Pleasant Place, a large house next door to Malting Farm. Some days we were taken by Geoff, their pig man, in an ancient car which always seemed to smell of gone-off milk, no doubt because they used to carry vast quantities of milk to various places and some would no doubt spill, hence the unpleasant milky smell. Then Aunty Chris would come and collect us in her ancient Morris Minor estate. I can always remember we used to eat imperial mint sweets in that car as there was always a bag of these in the front glove compartment and we ate them on the journey home. The sound of a Morris Minor is quite distinctive. I doubt that you can get even old models now as they must have gone out of production years ago, but this model was the one with the wooden panels on the side.

When my father was detailed to collect me on a Saturday morning there was always the chance that he would actually forget to come and collect me. He did this on several occasions, and I would be left standing outside the school for an hour or two, no doubt because he had stopped off on the way to have a chat with one of his friends and had just forgotten to come and collect me. It's not like today when we have mobile phones and you can just phone up whoever and they come and collect you. I think on this particular day it rained and I must have got soaked to the skin.

Later on, I got the bus home and the first time I was helped by Nancy Porter who was going home from school at the same time as me on the bus from Bedford Bus Station. It was quite a long walk down Warwick Avenue and into Bromham Road and the bus I caught went from bay 8 and the cost of the journey was around 3 old pence. Amazing how you remember all these tiny little details. I imagine that this was the only time I ever caught a bus as I don't ever remember going anywhere with my mother or father on a bus. I just don't think busses were ever considered an option when I was growing up, as my parents had cars and it was probably simpler to get in and out of Bedford by car. Not like today when there is so much being talked on such subjects as 'The Environment', 'Sustainability', and no such thing as 'Park and Ride' etc.

Those were the days when there was a fairly strict form of discipline in place. I don't exactly support any form of punishment, but if you did anything wrong at school you knew that if you were caught you would get caned. I never got to being caned. I was a bit of a goody goody I suppose. There was one incident I remember when I was a Rushmoor. In one of the classrooms, there was a large cupboard which contained all the art materials. Somebody had been found to have meddled with the lock and put a screw in the keyhole and this prevented anyone opening it with a key. The teacher, Mr Crutchley I believe, wanted the culprit to come forward, but nobody did. So he made the whole class stay in after school (it may have been during school time. It was a long time ago, so I can't remember the exact details.) As nobody was brave enough to come forward we all got punished, each of us going forward to the front of the class and being hit on our open palms with a ruler. If you flinched he did it again. It really hurt and even thinking about it now, it brings back the memory and I can almost feel the sting that was left after he hit our hands. I don't suppose you would dare do that sort of thing today. It would be in contravention of your 'Human Rights' or something, but as any form of corporal punishment in schools has been outlawed you certainly wouldn't get away with it.  Well, whether it was right or wrong you did, at least, know what would happen if you did something wrong. I think today children appear to have no boundaries (perhaps most do, but when there is a behaviour problem it is usually because the parents give their children any boundaries.) When I was about eleven or twelve I was supposed to be in and getting ready for bed. We didn't have all the gadgetry that we have today such as mobile phones, the internet, gaming consoles and all the other electrical gadgetry you can get. I can't say I'm any the worse for not having all those things. If we had a mobile phone I'm sure we wouldn't have been able to take it to school with us as they do over at the Milton Keynes Academy. I think people spoke to one another more in those days. You see people walking about with iPods plugged into their ears, so they can't hear what's going on around them. Rather dangerous if you can't hear traffic that is coming when you cross the road. Or else have you face permanently turned towards a mobile and texting all the time. It's a wonder some people don't get killed because they walk out in front of a moving car because they're concentrating on texting someone instead of taking notice of the traffic.

There were quite a few quite strict school rules you were expected to keep to. You were supposed to wear your school uniform at all times in school. None of the modern 'thing' about wearing your 'everyday clothes.' The uniform consisted of grey flannel trousers, grey shirt and blazer in dark blue with a cap, both of which had a badge of a red 'R' in a sort of shield. The cap was the same colour as the blazer and had a red section in the top. You were supposed to wear this at all times outside the school, or if you were in school uniform. I think there was also a tie which was striped red and dark blue, again to match the rest of the uniform. You also had to wear black shoes, which were expected to be cleaned for daily use. There was a winter and summer version of the uniform. The summer one I think had a light short-sleeved shirt (I think the brand was Airtex, but I'm not sure.) For games, we had to wear light brown shoes with a crepe sole for cricket and the usual football strip for games and no doubt shorts and t-shirt for gym. As I detested games anyway, any excuse to get out of it and into 'normal' clothes meant I was never in games clothing for long.

There were other rules, one being you weren't supposed to go to the cinema during term-time. I don't think this was adhered to very much as I remember going to the Granada cinema in St Peter's Street in Bedford to see the Disney animated film "Jungle Book" with one of my brothers, no doubt Sandy, as he went to Bedford School, and their rules about where you could or couldn't go during term-time were even stricter than Rushmoor's. We were also not supposed to go into what were called 'chain-stores.' To this day, I don't know why. I think this referred to such stores as Marks and Spencer and Woolworth's, but I cannot think of a good reason why this was so. I don't know what would have happened if you were caught in Woolworths or wherever, or in a cinema. Were you taken out and shot at dawn?  Taken out and caned in public? To this day, I don't know and know of no one who ever fell foul of this school rule. Oh well, as I say, rules are to be broken and it all remains a complete mystery.

Seems amazing that you always referred to everyone as 'Murdoch', 'Smith' or whatever a pupil's surname was. It seems amazing that you never got to know anyone's Christian name. What was the point? I can't think of any situation where you would be known by your surname alone. You never work anywhere (at least I haven't.) where you would be referred to by just your surname.I just hope if I was they would, at least, call me 'Mr.' Otherwise, it sounds so deferential and out of date, rather stuck in the Victorian or Edwardian period.

I remember when I first went to Rushmoor I was intrigued by several things. What was all that mesh, netting and suchlike over the windows? Was it to keep the pupils in, or prevent them getting out? The fact is, it looked quite sinister. Thinking about it now, as a 9 or 10-year-old at the time, it must have made the place seem like a prison or a zoo. Even at Whipsnade Zoo, today they don't have so many cages and enclosures for the animals that have old fashioned bars or cages with netting, or else they use some modern alternative to keep the animals in. I expect this netting and chicken wire was to prevent balls from breaking the windows. I was further intrigued by the green corrugated construction in one of the playgrounds. It resembled a somewhat ramshackle chicken house, made to seem more so bay the fact that it had chicken wire over the windows. I may have confused if for a chicken house because there was a similar construction on my grandfather's farm. Whether that was to house chickens I rather doubt, but the two constructions were very similar. Anyway, I soon found out that the one at Rushmoor was used as a gymnasium and also used for school assemblies which we had each morning. It smelt horribly of sweat and horrible rubber shoes, the type we wore for games and P.E. i think there was a cupboard in there which contained a load of such shoes, and you have an idea perhaps that the pong came from sweaty, unwashed feet that lingered in these disgusting old shoes. Not pleasant. Also, the smell of that chalky stuff they use in gymnasiums, the stuff ballet dancers use, is it rosin or something?

One incident comes into my mind. We used to go into that tin shack (for want of a better way to describe that shed or  gym.) and have morning assembly. The owner of the school, Mrs Richardson (I believe she owned the school when I was there.) a strict woman of indeterminate age, used to come in and play the piano for hymns. The words of the hymns were put up on a sort of song-sheet arrangement, rather like a massive book, perhaps six feet by four, which was suspended by a length of sash cord that was hauled up and then tied off on a cleat (all this quite familiar to me now, having worked in stage management, with song sheets used in pantomime and cleats and ropes on a fly floor. I have operated many in my time so a cleat is very familiar and I know very well how to use them.) Anyway, I digress. One morning someone hadn't cleated off the hymn sheet or else the sash cord was wearing dangerously thin, because on this particular morning, as Mrs Richardson was plonking and plunking on the piano, a rendition of something like "We Plough The Fields and Scatter" or some other hymn, and we were in fine, full voice, the whole contraption came crashing down, causing the assembled masses to laugh out loud. Whether we were supposed to or not, I don't know, but it certainly caused a great deal of amusement.

I recall a gym display was put on by pupils of Rushmoor. It wasn't put on in the 'tin shack' as I like to call it, or the so-called gymnasium. It could never be put on there as there was barely room for the 'performers' (or whatever you want to call them.) as well as the audience of parents and teachers. Instead, it was staged at the drill hall just off Ashburnham Road in Bedford. There was a great deal of showing off, jumping over wooden vaulting horses, marching around, all set to music. I can't think what the purpose of this display was about, who was supposed to be impressed, what it ever lead to. But it seemed to take up a great deal of time and effort. I don't think that drill hall is still used for such events. I'm not even sure that it's still there, but if it is I suspect it's for a different use. There used to be another similar building somewhere in Ashburnham Road, I think where now there are blocks of flats and where once the Job Centre used to be. Anyway, I can't even remember my role in this gym display, even if I was involved at all. Such are memories.

I have not made a great deal of effort to keep in contact with Rushmoor School. Well, to be honest, with my rather bad memories of the place, I didn't entirely want to. My younger brother, Andrew, spent a few years as a pupil at the school, but I'm surprised my parents sent him there after my experiences of the place. I do recall going to a sports day when he was at Rushmoor, when the sports field was somewhere along Clapham Road. I think, perhaps, on the ground where Sainsbury's now have a superstore. I can't say I remember now much about it and I don't think I met any former pupils or staff from my time at the school. As regards meeting any former pupils, I did bump into one, working in  a camera shop on Bedford Bus station when I used to use it on my way home, but that was a good 40- or more years ago. His name was Peter Sutton and I think he used to live in Sandy. Also, I had a friend called Andrew Allen who I used to have home for tea (as you did in those days.) and I think I went to his home in Biggleswade. He visited me some years ago and we had a chat about our time at Rushmoor and then I went to stay with him in Norfork when I was working on the television show "Allo, Allo."  I believe he was managing a garage or something in the Norwich area, but I'm not sure where exactly. A rather unpleasant individual, whom I recall was probably called Ward, and I believe came from around the Northampton area, who's family were in the shoe industry, used to be on holiday at the same time as we used to go to Frinton-On-Sea, was something of a nasty little pip-squeak. I used to spend a lot of time on the beach at Frinton, building really complex structures out of sand, roadways and rivers with water which rand along these dug-out channels from rock pools. He went and distroyed the hard work I had put in by jumping on it and breaking it up. Shows how spilt and unpleasant he was. I don't know where he is now, but I hope he doesn't continue with the sort of behaviour that he got away with then into his adult life.

I left Rushmoor in around 1965. You were supposed to go on to a 'big school', presumably one of the Harpur Trust schools or a grammar school. There were several in Bedford at the time. One being Pilgrim School, which is no more. It merged I believe with another, I think one at Biddenham if I'm correct. Can't be sure. The building, in Brickhill Drive, was taken over by various Bedford County Council departments in the 1970's and the Registry Office moved there and it's where you go to register a birth or get married. I did go for an interview at the old Pilgrim School, presumably to complete my education and do my G.C.E. exams, but I didn't get in. I eventually went to Abbey Secondary Modern School in Elstow and completed the final two years of my education there. I didn't actually do G.C.E.'s but instead did the then fairly new C.S.E.'s. I did five subjects, English, Biology, Art, Geography and History. The biggest culture-shock going there was that there were GIRLS! I think I actually benefitted from going there, after going to Rushmoor. Looking back  think I actually learnt far more. In fact, I don't remember actually learning much at all at Rushmoor.

From Abbey, I went to Mander College in Bedford (now Bedford College. I never knew why they changed the name.) I began an 'A' Level course, doing English and History, with the intention of eventually going to Bristol University to do a drama degree, as I had wanted to get into television production. I suppose in those days a degree in drama would have been a good path to getting into television production. As it turned out I didn't do particularly well in my mock 'As' at the end of nearly two years. I applied to several 'rep' (repertory) theatre companies to find out if I could get into stage management as I had been told by the BBC that in order to get into floor management I would need to have several years of professional stage management behind me before I could apply for any floor management jobs. I wrote to as many reps as I could find in a directory called 'Contacts' and got an interview at the Everyman Theatre in Cheltenham, and was interviewed by the then Artistic Director of the theatre, Michael Ashton. I had also gone for an interview at the Royal Theatre, in Northampton, which would be the closest professional theatre to Bedford, and which I knew relatively well as I'd been to see several plays there over the years. I didn't get the Northampton job, but I was accepted at Cheltenham and worked for around a year as a Student A.S.M. (Assistant Stage Manager), and it was how I learned the various functions expected of an A.S.M. I think I might have got the Northampton job, except the Cheltenham offer came up first. The job began on the 16th of February, 1969. How well that date is permanently etched on my memory!

More School Memories

The Rushmoor School playing fields were on top of a hill (where now Bedford Modern School stands. It was moved there from the centre of Bedford in the 1970's. That old building was converted into the  Harpur and Howard Shopping Centre.) This didn't exactly help my interest or otherwise in cricket or football as to get there you had to trudge around two miles and then up a very muddy path and then stand around in all weathers, usually a howling gale, in rain and snow. So, you can see my dislike of the whole process which dwindled considerably as those winter afternoons dragged on and on, and then  having to drag oneself back to the school in Shakespeare Road and change back into your clothes in a crowded changing room.  I seemed to suffer really badly from the cold, not entirely helped by lashing rain and howling gales. I think the master in charge of sport seemed to relish the thought that he had some sort of control over us and to make you stand and shiver in the cold was some sort of control over us all. Probably there were those who enjoyed the torture, but it was supposedly meant to make 'men of us' but I don't for one moment think so. Why on earth they couldn't build a changing room on the side of the playing field I will never know. I think there was some sort of pavilion there, more like an over-sized garden shed, and even then it didn't contain facilities for changing or even toilets. Such are the future men of this country 'made' as they say, not on the 'playing fields of Eaton' as someone or other said, or was it, the 'battles' or something, by some brave future prime minister or some such person. Was it Churchill? I don't know whether he said that, or a variation of it, but I wasn't impressed as a child of tender years, nor now, as an adult, of far more mature years. Just cruelty to be expected to endure such cold and total unpleasantness. (The quotation  about 'the playing fields of Eaton' is actually attributed to Matthew Arnold.) It just further put me off the stupidity of kicking a leather ball in-between wooden uprights with a net slung between or to endure the hitting on some delicate part of the body by a fast-moving lump of red leather, a cricket ball, or standing aimlessly pretending to understand the stupid 'flannelled fools' playing cricket on a bright, sunny afternoon in summer. That quotation comes from a poem by Rudyard Kipling called 'The Islanders.' If I use a quotation somewhere I always want, wherever, to get the quotation and the attribution correct.

Anyway, you will have discovered by now, as you read this, that my interest in cricket and football is virtually nil.

I do remember that we had sports day on that games field in Manton Lane, Bedford. I was fairly good at running and long-jump, but never got through the heats to actually get a chance to win anything. I remember being used as a sort of runner of a different sort on the actual day of sports day, delivering messages of one sort of another. I suppose quite good training for when I eventually get into working in stage management. Also, Rushmoor put on several gym displays in a drill hall which if I remember correctly was in Ashburnham Road, Bedford. A lot of jumping over wooden horses and displays of one sort or another and set to music. One of the teachers, Mr Crutchley, got me interested in tape-recording, and I quite liked the idea of being able to use a tape recorder to read stories or to produce little dramas. I eventually bought my own Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder and recorded music and plays off the radio. Later on, when I was working in stage management my interest in tape recording and tape recorders came in handy when I worked on the sound side of various productions, having to create sound effects and then operate the sound decks on some of the productions I worked on.

Although I grew to total detest both cricket and football, I did quite enjoy swimming. We used to go to the Bedford Modern School swimming pool in Clarendon Street. I presume it was hired out to Rushmoor for a couple of mornings a week. I actually gained something as a result: learning to swim, although my memories of the lessons weren't favourable as I recall being jumped on whilst in the pool which I never liked, by some idiot child or other. Ever since I have had a dislike of having my head under water. My father, who I have mentioned elsewhere, had several boats, would not allow any of us children on these boats until we were proficient swimmers so learning at school did have it's advantages.

I met a former Rushmoor friend of mine a few years ago, name of Andrew Allen, and we were talking about our time at the school. He reminded me of the long walks we were taken on  some afternoons, and we seemed to walk for miles, usually towards the village of Clapham and along Bromham Road. Looking back I couldn't see what the purpose of all this was. Those walks, when we walked along in long crocodiles, with a couple of teachers in attendance, seemed pointless, until he pointed out that they were usually during the winter months, and were no doubt so that we were out of the building and which would mean they didn't have to put the heating on, hence, a way to save money! Seems unlikely, but no doubt true when I come to think of it.

We produced a couple of plays at Rushmoor. There was a stage, of sorts, in that tin 'chicken house' gym. It was mainly used for wood work, where there was a variety of woodworking instruments such as vices, saws, hammers and so on, but for the plays the stage was converted quite successfully. One play was an adaptation of "Oliver Twist." Being an all-boy school any female roles had to be played by us boys. I wanted to play Fagin, but didn't get cast as that. I played the matron of the workhouse (I think in the original Dickens novel she is called Widow Corney or something), but this was supposed to be set in modern times so the workhouse became a boy's school. Could it conceivably have been Rushmoor? I don't know, but we had fun putting it on. There is more on this in an earlier post. The second play was called "The Bookworm's Nightmare" and involved a plot whereby a whole host of characters from various books come alive. I played another female character called Rutabaga, and I think she was from one of the "Tales of the Thousand and One Nights" but I really can't remember much more about it as it's all so long ago it rather fades into the mists of time, unfortunately.

As a result of the production of "Oliver Twist" some of us went to London to see "Oliver!", the Lionel Bart musical. I imagine that it would have been the original stage production at the New Theatre. It must have been my first experience of a West End musical, although i think I had been to see other shows, most notably going to see "Peter Pan" when I was very young and I remember as part of the treat having tea served on a tray in the stalls. This is also mentioned in an earlier post on here. We later went to see another musical, based on another Dickens novel, "Pickwick' which starred Harry Seacombe but I don't think it was anywhere as successful as 'Oliver!'

Early School Memories

I would have gone on from Walmsley House to Bedford School, no doubt because my two eldest brothers went there. But because of my problems with maths I failed the entrance exam. As a result I ended up going to Rushmoor School. A preparatory school in Shakespeare Road, Bedford. It's still there to this day, and every time I drive past (but not for quite a few years, I have to say.) I get a sort of chill down my back. To be honest, I hated it. I can't for the life of me think what persuaded my parents to send me there.  A waste of money if you ask me. The headmaster at my time there was Mr Appleton, a large very avuncular gentleman with grey hair and beard and a very jolly sense of humour. I remember being taken for an interview to go to this school and him making some joke which was a reference to the poem Lochinvar, but don't ask me what or why it came into the conversation. I think something to do with him riding in with his vest on. Supposed to be funny, but please tell me why or how a child of that age, perhaps seven or eight, was supposed to see what was amusing about a poem by Sir Walter Scott is beyond me.

One thing used to intrigue me about Rushmoor when I first went there: why was there chicken wire over almost all the windows? I imagine it was to prevent them being broken by flying cricket balls or pupils flinging stones in a rage (I jest, of course, about the raging pupils, but who knows?) Then there was the weird green tin shed which could have been some sort of chicken house. It also had it's fair share of chicken wire over it's windows.  I think it was the chicken wire that made me think it must be a chicken house. But thinking about it now, why on earth would a school have a chicken house, let alone a green corrugated tin one? It really didn't make sense. It turned out to be the gymnasium, and doubled up as assembly hall for hymn singing first-thing in the morning. The piano was played by the lady who owned the school, Mrs Richardson. She was a relatively old lady and lived in a house next door to the school. The words of the hymns were put up on a huge sort of song sheet, an enormous book with pages around four foot wide and five or six foot high which had the words of the hymns printed on in really large lettering which could be turned over to the relevant hymn for the morning's singing. One day something went disastrously wrong. This song-sheet book, or whatever you want to call it, had to be hauled up on a length of sash cord and then tied off on a cleat at the bottom, but this day, whoever had done this job, hadn't fastened it off securely, or else the sash cord got very frayed, because part-way through this particular day's hymn the whole hymn book/song book/song sheet collapsed, causing Mrs Richardson to abruptly stop playing the piano and the whole assembled school burst out laughing! Not something you forget in a hurry and no doubt was the talk of the whole school for the rest of the day. The weight of that song sheet must have been quite a lot, and when it crashed down when it did it was just as well it didn't land on somebody as they would have received quite a nasty injury.

We had our weekly session of gym in that weird green box. The building smelt of stale sweat and the horrible rubbery smell you get from ancient gym shoes. I leant to climb a rope and vault over horses (not real ones. Those odd wooden boxes, reminiscent of the one used in the film "The Wooden Horse" which is about an escape from a concentration camp somewhere in Germany during World War 2.) Also, swinging on parallel bars and other odd things. These lessons were lead by a man whose name I forget, but who was very short and had a bull neck and had an almost sado-masochistic streak. Don't all gym and games teachers have a tendency towards sado machochism? I'm put in mind of the Roald Dahl story, called I believe 'Galloping Foxley' which is about a young man who meets his former gym teacher on a train, and what befalls him as revenge for what he did to him when he was at school, as I bumped into this man on a train in a similar fashion. He obviously didn't recognise me, but I remember how we were treated quite badly by this man so I can see how Dahl could write a story about that former schoolboy getting his revenge. I think the retired teacher got thrown off the moving train, but I'm not sure. I remember it being adapted as part of the "Tales of the Unexpected" but have not read it. I will have to get the collected Dahl stories and give it a read.

Rushmoor School, as perhaps many schools at the time would have also done, was very much 'in' to sports. Cricket and football in particular. Also, gymnastics and country running. I didn't mind the gym sessions so much, but football and cricket, even to this day, leave me cold. I think, as I've discussed in an earlier post on this blog, my problem was to do with being vaguely dyslexic, and having problems with left and right. I think I was supposed to be left-handed, but I was made to write with my right hand. I think in those days if you were left-handed you must have been considered a bit of a misfit, so you were forced to write with your right hand. So, thinking about it, the very idea of being made to play cricket, throwing a ball, or batting, was made more difficult by the fact that I made such a pigs ear out of hitting the ball with a bat or bowling or kicking a football. I think I mentioned somewhere in an earlier post that my one and only attempt or even success at scoring a goal in a game of football was in the wrong goal. Nobody had the sense to explain to me the wretched rules of the game, the fact that you scored a goal in the OPPOSITE net. The same goes for the rules of cricket or even tennis. If someone had sat me down and gone through all the rules of these sports I might have understood and been more inclined to participate. But because I wasn't any good I was never chosen for a team and always got to be at the back of the queue and fielding away from all the excitement and action of a game of cricket, no doubt in the long grass away from sight and sound of the game and lost beyond recall, probably dozing in the shade of some tree or other.