Nan, me and Omar Sharif

Nan was a vivacious woman who had plenty of boyfriends, but sadly she was also extremely hot tempered and her romances tended not to last.  In retrospect I think she was probably lonely and hid this under a loud and sociable exterior. Her annual romance-fest took place each summer holiday in Ramsgate (and you thought Paris was the city of lurve).  It was surprising she got any amorous action being encumbered by a whiny child (me, whiny but sweet),  a grumpy old woman (Great Gran) and an incontinent poodle (Great Gran's canine companion).  But sea air obviously made lots of people frisky and she was never short of a companion - although it should be said that the holiday boyfriends were of varying quality; but as these relationships rarely lasted longer than two weeks Nan didn't seem to mind.

One evening when on the bus to Margate (the height of holiday sophistication - a trip to Dreamland) a man introduced himself to us as Omar Sharif.  He enquired politely if we were surprised to come across a famous Hollywood actor on the bus.  Nan (a keen cinema fan) said that this thought had immediately crossed her mind and he was looking a bit shorter than when he starred in Doctor Zhivago (and a trifle plumper).

Omar explained that although he knew it would disappoint it was important to be honest and that he wasn't the famous Omar Sharif, just the Omar Sharif who was working in a Ramsgate restaurant for the summer season.  He then asked very formally if we would do him of the honour of accompanying him on a night out.    As we got off the bus Nan whispered that I should call her Mum -  I was happy to go along with this as I  was a little bit in love with Omar already.

We met him most days for the rest of the holiday, he was charming, funny and happy to be buried in the sand.  On the last night of our holiday he told Nan that he was returning home to Turkey at the end of the season and asked if we would  like to go with him. Nan said that she would have to think about it.  Once indoors I excitedly asked if we could go to Turkey (in my mind a place of gargantuan Christmas lunches).  She thought for a while and said that we had better not as she was need to run the Co-op carpet shop and - almost as an afterthought - that my Mum and Dad might miss me.

Nan and the magazines

Nan has an elderly gentleman admirer called Donnie, an unattractive version of dear Paul Daniels -  as she got older her standards definitely slipped.  I'm ashamed to admit they once came up to visit me at University and I pretended I wasn't in as they hammered at the door - I loved Nan, but didn't want anyone to see me with him.  They spent most of their time arguing - well,  Nan argued and Donnie apologised.  He brought her frequent presents - she said tartly that this was because he hoped to take their relationship to the next level (but let's not go there - it is not a good thought).

One day he arrived with a bag of magazines and asked if she would read them to him.  Nan was very fond of Woman's Own and was looking forward to a read with a cup of coffee and a Tunnock's teacake for company; but it crossed her mind that perhaps Donnie couldn't read and needed a fix of Patience Strong - so she agreed.  Sitting close to her on the sofa he began to decant the contents of his plastic bag.  As Nan put on her spectacles she focused on a pile of hard-core Teutonic porn magazines when she was expecting to see Clare Rayner - fundamental mistake here as Nan didn't read German .

Horrified Nan pushed Donnie off the sofa and as he got up she hit him around the head with a rolled-up magazine.  Exit Donnie - no apologies would suffice - he had had his chips.  For a good while after Nan entertained her girl friends (think Golden Girls merged with the witches in Macbeth) with lurid descriptions of the magazines and how disgusted she was.  I did wonder about her detailed recall of the contents of said publications when we were told she had immediately thrown them in the dustbin.

Nan and the sheepskin slippers

Every Christmas as Nan looked on expectantly as we opened our 'surprise' packages.  The problem was the final presents we were given were never a mystery as they were always pairs of sheepskin slippers.  I think sheepskin slippers were thought to be rather 'posh' and every member of the family would be clad in a new pair for the rest of Christmas day.

I am not a fan of slippers preferring to wear nothing on my feet or if it is really cold I might don a pair of flip flops.  I suspect this is because years of enforced slipper-wearing have super-heated my poor feet.  Even the fashion for Uggs had passed me by; bit like wearing your PJs outside - not natural or necessary in my opinion.   I realised I was growing up and away from the bosom of the family when I announced before one Christmas that no one should buy me slippers as I wasn't going to wear them ever, ever, ever again.
No one took any notice and I continued to be given these furry monstrosities for years to come only to take them down to the local charity shop as soon as it opened after the festivities.

Never trust a man who wears slippers

Dad and the nail in his foot

Living in the countryside it is useful to be able to drive; especially as our village had a pub, a garage and a village shop which sold little that was in anyway edible.  Dad decides to teach Mum to drive.  Sister and I sit in the back seat of the car and listen to much arguing (actually I don't think Mum said much - think the terror of being behind the wheel gave her lock-jaw).  In my mind learning to drive always involves dire threats - so during my ill-fated attempts I wasn't surprised when my normally mild-mannered boyfriend took on  the attributes of Grendel's mother (no - he did not resemble Angelina Jolie - very bad representation of G's Mum IMHO).  Anyway,  Dad despairs that Mum will ever pass her test and Mum despairs of being in that circle of hell which has her taking driving lessons with Dad for eternity - she almost gives up.

Late one night Mum wakes me up and says Dad has to go to hospital as he has had an accident.  Dad was mooching around in the garage and managed to step on a nail with a large piece of wood attached (note - in our family cars were rarely kept in the garage - it was useful store for guinea pigs accoutrements, gardening tools and assorted dangerous bits of lumber).  Unfortunately the nail and plank were now attached to his foot - he is a squeamish man and couldn't face separating them and so couldn't drive himself to hospital which is about eight miles away.

Although sleepy I was quite excited about the thought of an ambulance appearing outside our house (yup- life in the countryside provided plenty of thrills).  Mum said that they certainly wouldn't be ringing for an ambulance - they didn't pay their taxes for people to waste NHS resources.
I was alarmed to hear her say,  'Don't worry about Dad, I'm going to drive him there.'
This was, in fact, extremely worrying:  firstly Mum couldn't see in the dark (I mean this literally - she has an eye condition that makes it hard to see in the  dark - even half-light), she had never driven in the dark before (true darkness - no streetlights) and Dad was pretty irascible at the best of times - how would his speared foot help?
They managed to get to hospital and when asked what the drive was like Mum said that Dad groaned and swore quite a lot, but she assumed that was the pain in his foot.

Great Gran, Nan and me

Great Gran and I were in almost perpetual competition for Nan's attention.
One day on a shopping trip to Broadstairs I distinctly heard her to say to Nan that they should leave me at the bus stop and collect me when they had finished shopping - I think I was about 6 at the time.  I like to think she was joking, but I suspect not as she wasn't known for a sense of humour.

Me and how to entertain yourself when bored: part 2

To continue the account of some of my childhood hobbies.


A speedy and cheap activity is loo paper Papier-mâché.  First take sheets of loo paper (having checked you haven't taken the last roll in the house - you could find yourself rather unpopular) and put them in water.  Put the soggy mass on a mould e.g. egg cup.  Leave until completely dry and then it can be pulled off in one piece (well, it will come off in one piece once in every twenty goes and only if you are very, very careful).  It can be painted with very, very dry paint - anything too liquid will destroy your creation.  The resulting object will have a very short life - so don't imagine you will be making a family heirloom.


I also liked decorating things with shells that I'd collect on holiday.  I would take an empty matchbox (one of the few advantages of being the child of a couple of chain smokers is a constant supply of match boxes), glue on the shells in patterns and then present the box to a delighted (possibly slightly glazed-eyed and bored) grandmother.  Poor Nan -  her bedroom often smelt a bit odd in the weeks after receiving these gifts as I rarely checked to see if the sea creature has left its home before I wielded the glue brush.

Me and how to entertain yourself when bored: part 1

As a child there always seemed to be hours of time to fill and despite busying myself with reading Mallory Towers, playing with Barbie and writing poems I was often bored.  It was about this time that my passion for making things started.   Anyway I'll pass on a few of my childhood craft ideas in case you are suffering from ennui and need inspiration.


Then as now I have little patience for making things that don't give fairly immediate results; French Knitting was a quick win.  You need a wooden cotton reel (haven't seen one of these for a while) for the authentic Renka experience or a commercially-made knitting dolly.  Tap four small nails into the top of the reel, stuff a tail of wool through the hole - I'm getting a bit bored trying to describe this - so for excellent instructions I shall refer you to:  http://www.how-to-knit-guide.com/french-knitting.html.

Eventually a small woollen sausage will appear at the bottom of the cotton reel - if you are very impatient you can pull the tail and stretch the wool.  Keep going until you lose the will to live or you have run out of wool.  I would then sew the said sausage into hats, capes and skirts for my dolls.  Alternatively I'd sew them into circles and give them to Nan -she would (loyally) put them on her dressing table as coasters for flagons of  Oil Of Olay (aka Oil of Ugly ).

Another time-consuming activity was shoe box weaving (no - you are not weaving a shoe box - just read on).  Take the body of a shoe box, on the rims of the short-side cut shallow notches at about 1cm apart.  Knot some wool and thread it through a notch, take it to the far end and thread through the facing notch, wind around the tag (this instruction writing is obviously an art which is beyond me and a little dull) and then take it back up again.  Continue until all notches are full - you now have your warp.  You are now ready for the exciting (everything is relative) part. Take a small ruler and use it to lift up alternative warps and slide under a length of  wool to act as a weft or woof (those Anglo-Saxons really knew how to make a good word in my uttlerly biased opinion). If you vary the wool colours and don't pull it too tight you will produce a tiny magic carpet (or big if you happen to have very large feet) - warning this takes ages and ages.

Me and Easter eggs: Nan tells me off -part 2

Probably best not to read this if eating a chocolate egg.

It would be true to say I was an indulged child (at least until Sister was born - I'm not jealous - honestly).
Every Saturday Nan would buy me two comics.  Early favourites were Beano and The Dandy - how I loved Beryl the Peril (it may have been her striped t-shirt, not the beret; I've never got on with berets - they do accentuate the ears I find).  In later years these changed to unsuitable teenage magazines with dodgy problem pages that made me feel inadequate as I didn't have interesting problems to send in.

An aside - while musing on  problem pages - few nights ago when watching 4Music with my son there was an advert for a mobile phone service that advised on becoming a better kisser. We spent an idle 30 seconds wondering what advice they might give - we came up with to brush your teeth more than occasionally, shave off any extra straggly moustaches especially if used as a crumb catcher  and avoid looking over your partner's shoulder to see if someone you'd rather kiss has come in the room.

Back to the past. The main indulgence was food especially regular sweets to go with the comics, Christmas selection boxes and best of all Easter.  In spite of my misadventure I still love chocolate (Galaxy being my chocolate of choice - not so keen on anything with a  high cocoa content  - but then again Charbonnel et Walker rose or violet creams - although almost unnatural - are delicious and have great packaging).

I received an Easter egg from Mum and Dad, one from Nan, one from Nan and Grampy and one each from my three uncles and two aunts.  One of the uncles had been to Jersey for a holiday and came back with a tin containing Jersey fudge (I remember the tin now - it had a relief map of the Channel Islands in vivid colours). That makes 8 eggs and 1 tin of fudge.

It is Easter morning - I am in Nan's bed with my hoard.  I inspect them closely and try to decide in what order I should eat them.  Even with Easter eggs there are dilemmas to be solved - do I eat the caramel ones first (I don't like caramel very much) and get them over and done with quickly or save them to the end when I probably won't care less what I'm eating.  I'm afraid it does not occur to me to share them.

Nan gets up and tells me I can eat a little bit of an egg and then must come downstairs for breakfast. When she leaves the room I begin to eat the eggs systematically and in between each egg I eat the fudge (even the rum and raisin flavour - yuck).

Some time later Nan comes upstairs. I realise I will get into trouble, hide the boxes under the blankets and pretend to be asleep - I don't feel so good.  She goes back downstairs and I go back to eating the eggs despite my churning stomach.   Eventually the inevitable happens and I am violently sick all over her bedroom (I really do mean ALL over her bedroom).  Nan is cross and shouts at me - this is the first time I ever remember her telling me off.  
In future years I am only allowed to eat Easter eggs in public places.
Lesson learned:
Lesson 1:  Don't be a pig - no one needs to eat that much chocolate.
Lesson 2: Avoid anything with caramel or rum and raisin flavouring.
Lesson 3: If you must over-indulged do it in your own bedroom.

Me and the village crime wave

When I was nine I went back to live with my mum and dad in the countryside.  School was in a village about three miles away and we went there by coach.  A boy in the year above me constantly picked on me saying I talked funny, had nits (I didn't - I can assure you) and needed a good thumping. Robin was a tough little ruffian with brown hair and rosy cheeks and proceeded  to  make my life miserable.

But then one day things changed.  On the way to school one morning he announced to the coach that I was now his girlfriend (this relationship had no long term future - I wasn't his cousin so probably wouldn't have been accepted by his family).  My feelings didn't seem to matter, but to be honest this was preferable to physcial violence.  Robin then decided only he could say who say next to me on the coach home - he, of course, didn't because he sat in the back seat with all the naughty boys.  He also objected to me reading as he could hardly read or write.

During the summer holidays we returned from our family holiday and there was a lumpy envelope in the hallway.  Addressed to me in ill-formed writing it contained two rings and a necklace - I knew it was from my swain and took it as my due.  Sometime after he asked for the return of my jewels - which were currently adorning Barbie.  His mum had noticed her denuded jewellery box, accused his older brother of stealing them to buy cider and was threatening to call the police.

I was relieved when he left to go to secondary school and I could sit where I liked on the coach.

The two nans

Nan and my other Nan lived next-door to each other for much of my childhood.  I would like to say they were the best of friends, chatting over the garden fence, having cosy coffee mornings  and lending each other sugar  - but that would be a lie.

In fact it would not be an exaggeration to say that they hated each other with a vengeance - difficult to deal with as I spent six out of seven days a week living between their two houses.

Nan was a vivacious brunette (slightly less-blowsy Elsie Tanner for vintage Corrie fans) always dressed in the brightest of colours with lashings of red lippy and a generous spritz of scent.  She lived with her three sons, four cats (could be more - depending how many 'strays' came through the garden), one dog,  two budgies and two chipmunks.

Nan was a divorcée - this was still frowned upon when the Nans first encountered each other.  Despite unfortunate experiences she still sought true love and to help in her search she had numerous boyfriends - few of whom were satisfactory.  Satisfactory boyfriend material meant they should be: romantic (i.e. give compliments, presents, flowers), smartly dressed (in a slightly louche sports-coated way), good looking (in Nan's world this ran the gamut from Omar Sharif to Clark Gable - moustaches being obligatory).  Nan was wild, flirtatious and a great raconteur - especially after a few port and lemons.  To her everything was black and white.  She was never indifferent to people; if she disliked you she would really hate you, but if she loved you it was with devotion.  Until my mid-teens I truly thought she could solve any problem I had from dodgy eyesight (eat more carrots and don't war your glasses to strengthen your eyes) to unrequited love (find someone who appreciates you - then he'll be sorry).

Nan-next-door was about five years younger,  always dressed like an old lady in either drab cross-over aprons or dresses and sensible shoes, her brown hair tightly permed.  Nan-next-door was married to Grampy, a taciturn man who knew who was boss (and it wasn't him).  Her life was centred around her home and family; going out - apart from annual holidays or the odd family wedding - was morally reprehensible in her eyes.  Needless to say she did not approve of Nan, who she said was a loose woman and all the respectable husbands in the road needed protecting from her (and themselves).

Although Nan didn't have a live-in man she had no interest in the male residents of the road; this was because  they had allotments, wore bicycle clips, sleeveless pullovers and  liberal applications of Brylcreem.  Nan wanted someone more sophisticated; she had a boyfriend called Ralph, who owned a red setter dog and drove a jag - more Terry Thomas than Morse, but there are some great photos of him leaning against car with slicked-back hair and very baggy trousers, usually with the dog at his feet. The attraction of Ralph, I suspect,  was a cross between his car (very cool, red with  leather seats) and his dog - Nan had a matching red setter called Rufus.

Nan thought Nan-next-door dull and provincial, deplored her taste in clothes and disliked being portrayed as the nearest thing to a lady of the night in their road.  She was in fact rather proper and her 'gentlemen' were allowed no liberties.

Their mutual dislike increased exponentially when Nan's middle son and Nan-next-door's eldest daughter decided they should become an item.  It must have been like Romeo and Juliet, but with real-life Montagus and Capulets insulting each other over the Forsythia hedge; for example -  'Slut - all that red lipstick!'  'Thick ankles' (Nan's insult of choice).  The worst happened and they became related by marriage.

Nan-next-door and ants in the pantry

I am playing in Nan-next-door's garden with my uncle Colin - he is only a few years older than me.  Whatever the weather we are sent outside so Nan can clean the house and then when the house is clean we have to stay outside so it stays clean.  Our activities are fairly limited as we couldn't do anything that will damage Grampy's veg patch or his dahlias (very nasty flowers - have never seen the attraction - always full of earwigs).

We are complaining that Nan-next-door won't get a pet - probably she feels she has enough contact with animals as she has to endure Nan's increasing menagerie (the two Nans live in adjoining houses).

We mooch around the garden looking for trouble.  Uncle Colin finds an ants' nest, we poke it with sticks and pour water on it (I know that childhood cruelty to insects is often seen as an indicator of propensity to serial killing - but let me assure you that neither of us followed this path - he went into cars and I follow the same profession as Casanova).  Uncle then suggests that we adopt the ants as our pets, so we get the big mixing bowl from the kitchen and one of Grampy's trowels and begin to put our pets in their new home along with the sandy soil that they like. I want to give them names, but Colin tells me to stop being soft and get digging -while he supervises.

When it starts to rain we take the mixing bowl into the house.  We leave it on a shelf in the pantry and promptly forget about it.  Nan-next-door is not amused to find the Sunday trifle overrun with ants.

Me and the Bishop

The Rector asked who would like to be confirmed by the Bishop of Oxford.  I wasn't sure what this entailed, but he mentioned that we would need new dresses. That was all it took to bring me to religion - if he had mentioned shoes I would probably be a member of a closed order of nuns by now or perhaps an anchoress - a modern Julian of Norwich.

Confirmation lessons were surprisingly interesting - knowing so little about religion there was always something to surprise me - it was like some amazing soap opera with funny names.  The best bit came after the lesson when Mrs Rector used to make us hot chocolate and biscuits, then the Rector would turn off most of the lights and tell us ghost stories.

Confirmation day came and I put on my new dress (navy blue with a white sailor collar decorated with a couple of red anchors - I can see it now) - suspect the shoes weren't so good as I have no memories of them.  We get to church to find tens of small girls all dressed up as Barbie bride in flouncy white numbers with veils (sorry - again no recollection of what the boys wore).

I don't have a veil and am in a panic.  Mum, although not an experienced confirmation attendee, was not to be defeated - she attaches my baby sister's muslin cloth (i.e. the cloth for wiping baby puke - let's not beat around the bush) to my head.

I'm sure the Bishop winced when he came to bless me - it may have been the matelot outfit or the delicate aroma of  vomit issuing from my hair.

Nan and the guinea pigs

One day Nan produces a cardboard box saying she has a surprise for us.  My parents exchange anxious looks.  Inside is a heap of straw that moves as if something is going to erupt from it (think John Hurt's chest in Alien).  Nan parts the straw to reveal a small furry bundle: a guinea pig.  Orange and white with black button-eyes and wiggling furiously.
'Cousin Doreen's got an Alsatian,' she says as if this explains everything.  The box fortunately was not big enough to contain an Alsatian - even a puppy.
'He eats anything that moves so I said I'd find a good home for this little chap'.
Mum and Dad don't want a  guinea pig, but know when they have met an immovable force.  The guinea pig is christened Peachy - another top-class animal name from me (Just as well I never became a racehorse namer or one of those people who think up paint names - Farrow and Ball would have gone out of business).
The straw continues to churn.
'Well, if you are going to have the big one,  you'll have to have the small one.'   Nan reaches in and pulls out a tiny guinea pig - this one is black and brown with a little caramel sprinkle.  He is covered in tufts of hair, not smooth like the other one.  Inevitably I decide to call him Tufty.

Nan puts Peachy and Tufty down to play on the floor.  Peachy zips around, but Tufty lurches drunkenly.
'He's a bit lop-sided,' says Dad, picking him up. 'Oh he's only got three legs.'

'Yes'  I know,' says Nan as if three-legged pets are nothing out of the ordinary. ' That's why I was telling you about Doreen's Alsatian, he bit the leg off poor little Tufty - so I couldn't leave them there could I?'

me and the school tuck shop

At primary school during morning break nearly all the children would descend on the tuck shop (there were no more than 90 of us from age five to eleven).  We were allowed to go out of the side door of the school and into the headmaster's garden, through the garden, minding not to step on the plants or his wife would get cross, and then down the lane to the village shop.

The shop, which doubled as a post office,was tiny and we were only allowed in three at a time.  The elderly woman who ran it didn't like time wasters and would start shouting if we took too long deciding (no suggestion of the customer always being right).  I would often start planning my purchases on the way to school or even in bed the night before.  The enticing glass jars I hold responsible for my imperfect gnashers.    My favourites were sherbet dabs - always discard that rather medicinal liquorice stick (they look alarming like leeches) and use the finger,  That way the flavour could be savoured all day and at story time you had the comfort of the wrinkled yellow finger to suck if bored.  Other favourites were flying saucers - sherbet again, rainbow drops, black cat chews and fruit salad chews, Love hearts were good .  Liquorice  shoe laces - red or black - tasted vile, but were useful for garroting people or tying their hand together (we played a lot of kiss-chase at primary school and the boys weren't always compliant so restraints were necessary).

I get religion

My religious mania was encouraged at school - a Church of England primary - if not at home.  The Rector came every Friday, taught RE and then played football with us in his long black dress.  The whole school - all ninety of us - went to church for all the major festivals.  I loved harvest festival, all the food piled up before the altar - this being a farming community there was not a packet of pasta or tin of baked beans to be seen, but great baskets of colourful fruit and vegetables and who could not like bellowing 'We Plough the Fields and Scatter' - bliss.   But Ash Wednesday was probably my favourite because I liked having the cross marked on my forehead - don't ask me why -  I suspect it was just another chance to show off.   By the time we got back to school most of the cross would have worn away so we'd spend all afternoon rubbing pencils on hard surfaces - the desks were ancient and had metal ink wells with brass covers so we could re-anoint ourselves.  If  the pencils had been lead I expect we'd have all been poisoned - not sure if there is such a thing as graphite poisoning. 

Me and Church

There is a girl at primary school who is picked on more than me.  I am an outsider, my mum is not well and so I am an easy target; but surprisingly Bess is from one of the old village families.  The reason she is picked on is that her family are poor, her four much older siblings all live at home and she shares her parent's bedroom; in her innocence Bess told someone and this makes her a pariah.   Inevitably, as isolated children, we become friends.  Bess goes to church every Sunday on her own and I am invited to accompany her.  My parents see this as a definite sign of eccentricity - religion playing no part in our family life - but agree I should go as I imagine it gives them a few hours of peace and quiet.

The church isn't actually in our village, but in a little hamlet just ten minutes away.  You can get there either by walking along the main road, risking death by crossing on the blind corner or you can walk along the disused railway line.  Then up the lane that led to home farm, a manor house with an octagonal folly and the church.The churchyard was dark and gloomy, worn gravestones surrounded by trees and yew hedges - it was absolutely terrifying and Bess and I made the best of it by scaring each other silly.

 The Rector (who ministered to three or four churches) was a lovely man and was always welcoming.  Church was never full; there would be the Rector, me, Bess, the local doctor and his daughter - who played the organ and a few elderly ladies.  The service seemed to go on for hours; a long sermon and a short one, lots of hymns (the best bit in my opinion - especially 'Praise my Soul the King of Heaven' -).

My devotion to the church continued for some years and I went through a stage of telling people I wanted to be a nun - this may either have been influenced by 'Black Narcissus' - could never decide if I wanted to be Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr - I salute you) or crazy Sister Ruth (amazing hair as well) or it might even have been The Sound of Music.   Occasionally Bess and I slipped from our spiritual path; greed getting the better of us we would spend our collection money on  sweets and then couldn't go to church empty handed.

Me and sex education: books

In our sitting room was a bookcase with a number of books placed spine down.  As a voracious reader no book escaped me; so at at youngish age I devoured 'Giovanni's Room', 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'  and 'Fanny Hill' which I found interesting, if a little confusing.

Then one day I went back to basics when I found a book by Claire Rayner, 'Sex Education for Girls' or some such.  The pictures left a lot to be desired and filled me with a certain amount of concern as no one in my family looked like that with their clothes off - how many children have been traumatised by black and white line drawings?  But Claire was a nurse (it said so on the back) so she obviously knew what she was talking about and perhaps D. H Lawrence didn't?.

About six months later Mum said that she would tell me where babies came from - I didn't like to tell her that I had a pretty good idea from my extensive reading of our equivalent of the British Library Private Case, from kids at school and not withstanding that my bedroom window overlooked a field full of cows and the occasional bull.  She produced the Claire Rayner book, said we would read it together and learn where babies came from.  I felt it only polite to pretend I hadn't read the book before and whenever she got embarrassed I'd try and help out by asking her leading questions being careful that I didn't bring in the activities of Fanny, Constance or David.

Me and the wedding

One of my aunts is getting married and I am going to be the smallest bridesmaid - I'm probably about seven.  I have vague memories of the day - a sweet mauve dress made out of some shiny self-patterned fabric, being given a silver bangle by the groom, deciding that I will entertain all the guests with a ballet dance and then, after about thirty minutes, getting cross when I am moved from the dance floor so the happy couple can have the traditional first dance.

There is a buffet-supper; I am allowed to go and help myself - although Nan-next-door says I must eat everything I take - waste not being permissible (also she and Grampy are paying so I expects she wants her money's-worth).  I milk the situation by making numerous trips to collect a single items of food, a slice of ham - eat that, then back for a bread roll, eat that and then back for a single tomato and so on - good excuse for swishing around in my nice dress.

Then the best bit - pudding.  This is a dodgy-looking fruit salad - too many pears and not enough peaches for my taste, but never mind,  I spot a bowl of cold pale yellow custard - so much nicer than cream.  I wonder why formerly hot food tastes so much nicer cold?  Pizza, tepid roast potatoes and toast left in the toaster for 15 minutes until it is nice and crisp - delicious.

Back at the wedding - I liberally (actually - replace that with greedily) spoon custard over the miserable fruit salad and plod back to the table (all those trips to get food and the ballet dancing are taking their toll). Unfortunately the bowl did not contain custard, but salad cream (I do not mean mayonnaise  - which would have been more palatable, if a little strange), but sharp and vinegary salad cream.  I am mortified at my mistake and do not tell anyone.  Instead, taking Nan's words to heart, I plough my way through the fruit salad and salad cream -a  very nasty combination.

Nan-next-door and the dentist

Nan-next-door didn’t really have much time for dental hygiene.  Living with her I remember eating lots of biscuits, but never being told to brush my teeth.  Fortunately when I went home at weekends Mum had a rigorous approach to teeth and drummed it in to me  that I had to take responsibility for brushing at least twice a day as the grandparents couldn't be trusted.  When I reported back and was seen to act on these instructions Nan-next-door would snort, ‘Modern nonsense – we didn’t brush our teeth when I was your age and what harm did it do us?’  Nan seemed unable to connect this lack of attention with the fact that most of her generation had false teeth from the age of thirty.

Eventually I needed to be taken to the dentist as one of my milk teeth was painful - I am probably about six or seven - those malted milk biscuits have taken their toll.  The dentist operated out of his house which stood on the main A40 into the city.  Whenever I pass it now I have a little shiver  - it remains the same: gloomy, with brown pebble-dash and dark green painted woodwork - it could easily act as a location for a horror film - Silence of the Lambs or some such.

The dentist decides I need the tooth out and because I am so scared he is going to put me to sleep (temporarily - it isn't that bad).  He puts the rather nasty, smelly mask over my face; unwisely he has his finger between the mask and my mouth and gives my sore tooth a prod.  Not liking this treatment I decide to bite him.  I bite, he screams and drops the mask,  I cry,  he slaps me and then slaps me again for good measure.  Nan-next-door rushes in to see what is going on and why the poppet (this is what I am called by the family - simper, simper) is wailing.  She is furious that he has slapped me and completely indifferent to the fact that I have almost severed one of his fingers and there is blood running down his arm.  She shouts at him using what I know, even then, are bad words. We are told to leave and never to return.  Back home Nan-next-door gives me sweets to comfort me.

My tooth still hurts, but Grampy loops a length of thread around it and then ties the other end to a door handle, slams the door shut and, hey presto, out comes my tooth, ready to be put under my pillow for the tooth fairy.

Now when I go to the dentist I have to try really hard not to think of this story as I am worried that one day I’ll do some more biting.

Me and the school library

At primary school I was known (probably also pitied) as the only child who had read every book in the school library (oh yes, my destiny was calling).  Actually it wasn't true, but the headmaster put it on my reference for secondary school and in my final report. I suspect he just wanted to prove that one of his pupils could read.  Education wasn't high on his list of priorities, but we did an awful lot of sport.  Mostly football or running up and down the playground - yelling loudly.  The latter came to an abrupt end when a boy ran so fast (the playground was on a wicked slope -- like Yeovil Town's old pitch)  that he punched his arm through the dining room window and a tourniquet had to be applied by one of the dinner ladies.

Anyway back to the library.  The library consisted of about 300 or 400 books and I vowed I would read everyone of them - goodness knows why - for attention I suspect. 
The books in the school library were largely ancient hardbacks that sat mouldering in a corner waiting for someone to love them.  Lovely 'Little Grey Men' by BB - all about gnomes and nature and, of course,  that seminal work 'The Secret Garden' with fierce Mary Lennox, feeble Colin and Dickon.
There were also lots of school stories, mainly set in girls' boarding schools,  where everyone was called by their surname.  One in particular sticks in my mine, about a family of very plain girls - their faces are described as being like dinner plates -  called Kibble.  At the beginning of the story the Kibbles are just known for being dull and virtuous, but by the end they have saved the school, the true worth of the plain woman is finally appreciated, the glamorous, but unworthy headgirl has been replaced and all is well with the world - 'Hurrah for the Kibbles!'. Sadly complete fantasy - let's face it we plain girls are just not going to get to rule the world.  These books made Mallory Towers (Darrell Rivers - how I loved you and wanted to be your 'bosom chum' - you were the k.d. lang of my pre-teen years) and St Clare's seem very contemporary.  They always wore gymslips which sounded very appealing - I imagine they were something like a floaty nightie  - perhaps made of pale pink or duck egg blue silk with a coffee-coloured trim?  It was a disappointemtn to find they were what we called school pinafores.

Other titles of note included 'The Swish of the Curtain' by Pamela Brown - about some teenagers who start a thetare company - this fueled an acting bug and a book about a girl called Mary who did something with a bible in Wales - can't remember what - but I so wanted to be her (may have been nothing more than a shallow desire to wear one of those red cloaks and a tall black hat).

I loved these books - their very physical nature: heavy and substantial,  thick cream paper  with brown freckles and  covers that would get all gummy when you read them in the bath.  They were good to sniff, musty and a little mouldy, like the smell of green canal water.

A somewhat melancholy link with the past weree the inscriptions inside the books  'To Sylvia, Happy Christmas 1932,  Love Mother and Father' or 'To Bobbity, for being such a good sort, from your pal Ruggles' .  The bookplates recording some child's proudest achievements: books for good conduct, for doing well in algebra, in parsing, in bible studies, for deportment.  Occasionaly you would find some long-forgotten bookmark and feel a fleeting connection with a human being you would never know. Books, lovely books.