Magic Boots

Memories are funny things. They pop into one’s head at the most odd times and for no apparent reason. How wonderful the good ones can be though, and how they can make one smile.

As I trudge through the woods with the dogs this morning, the legacy of a night’s rain drip-dripping on my head from the overhanging branches, an early morning sun barely visible, I am glad of the Wellington boots encasing my feet, rubber boots that squelch through the mud and wet. Heedless of the water-logged ground, I splish-splash on my way. The Duke of Wellington stumbled, quite literally, on a great idea when he modified the original 18^th century, hessian boot. Apparently, he thought it hard-wearing enough for battle and comfortable enough for evening wear. I am not sure I would agree with the latter function.

As I ponder on the usefulness of the humble Wellington, I am struck by the memory of some other boots, worn in another time, in another place…

Looking up, I can see the sun try valiantly to penetrate the branches, newly decked in emerald livery, made richer by the recent deluge. It looks a little magical … I remember the Magic Boots.

Magic is in the air…

I am small, maybe six years old. My middle sister is not quite three years older. We will have travelled for over an hour in the cramped, back seat of the black Austen Morris, driven by my father. My baby brother sits on mother’s lap on the front passenger seat. It is 1963 .

We are visiting my aunt Rene. She lives alone in a ground floor flat within a small, two storey block. She has no garden to the rear, only a shared, concrete courtyard where she can hang her washing. The yard also serves as the car park, not that many of the residents have cars. Auntie Rene certainly doesn’t. She is a stone’s throw from the beach and says she does not need a garden either.

Auntie Rene is funny and quick-witted and has an obsession with food. Not with eating it, with recording it. Auntie Rene likes to go on organized coach trips around the country and carries a notebook with her in which she writes down every meal, in detail, that she has throughout the day. As she tells us about the places she has visited, she brings out the notebook and reels of the menus she has sampled. We pretend polite interest, yawning a little as we reach “day seven – lunchtime…”

We know we will be given chocolate fingers or penguins from the biscuit barrel, shaped like a pineapple, and orange squash from the kitchen cupboard. We will be allowed to watch the television when Children’s hour comes on. Meanwhile, we will sit politely and draw and read while the grown-ups talk but at some point, our patience at being indoors will falter. We will catch one another’s eye, my sister and I.

My sister looks at me, I jump up from the floor and ask if we can go outside and play. The grown-ups are mystified as always. What will we do out there?

Sometimes, we play Hopscotch but we must be careful to remove all trace of chalk afterwards. Sometimes we play ball, but we must be careful not to throw it too hard and break a window. Today, we do neither of these things, today we do what we love doing best – we put on our “Magic Boots”.

There is a knack to putting on the boots. You must not put them on before you are standing on our aunt’s front door step. The step is shared with her neighbour. We are careful not to stand on that side.

We each slip our feet inside the invisible boots and pull them on. I wriggle my toes to the very end and stamp up and down for effect. My sister does the same. As long as we are on the step, the boots will behave.

All around us, the concrete yard has turned into a swamp, filled with dangerous creatures into whose clutches we might fall. We take turns to decide what happens next.

Today, I let my sister speak first. I am wearing the boots. Even though no one can see them, I can feel them pinching my toes. I wait. My sister smirks,

“Walk backwards, Magic Boots!” she decides.

Obediently, I, and my Magic Boots, begin walking backwards. My sister does the same. We must continue walking backwards until we reach the safety of the backdoor step unless we are told otherwise. If we need to rest we are allowed to stop on the old tree stump by the wall, or on the drain cover in the centre of the yard. Both are ‘safe’.

My sister’s voice calls out,

“Hop on one leg!”

“Backwards?”

“Er, yes, backwards!”

We hop, backwards, all the way round the building, ignoring the tree stump and the drain, all the way to the backdoor step, barely making it without collapsing into giggles. We have crossed the swamp successfully.

Safe on the step, I must now remove the magic boots or continue to hop on the spot. I don’t mind hopping. It is my turn to speak.

“Magic Boots jump!” I yell.

Immediately, we are both jumping on the spot. Breathless, we jump off the step and feet together, jump, jump, jump across the swamp. We must not stop or we will sink.

We arrive on the front step together.

Those Magic Boots can make us do anything. At times they have us turning in circles, waving our arms in the air, at others they make us bunny-hop from one side of the car park to the next. If any of the other residents are watching, what must they think? We must present a strange sight, tip-toeing, skipping, jumping, sliding and striding with giant footsteps, backwards and forwards across the courtyard for no apparent reason.

Eventually, we are called in for tea and all too soon, it is time to say goodbye.

Back home, where skipping ropes and tricycles, dolls-prams and roller skates await us, we discard our Magic Boots until the next visit. We have tried playing the game at home from time to time but it lacks the excitement and magic it holds for us at Auntie Rene’s.

As we grow older and wiser, we hang up our Magic Boots and leave them in the land of make-believe that only children inhabit.

Still, now and then, just like today, I remember those Magic Boots and the memory still makes me smile. Memories of my sister, cart wheeling around the courtyard or spinning until she is dizzy, stay with me along with the memory of us standing on Auntie Rene’s doorstep, shivering in the cold or rain but refusing to go inside because our Magic Boots were waiting.

Sisters on the beach

This morning was, indeed, a magical morning!

 

Print versus e-book

For some time I have hovered on the fence regarding e-readers versus print. Well, ‘hovered’ may not be quite the correct term. I have always believed and still believe that the hard copy book beats the e-reader hands down.

I mean, what can possibly replace the feel of a good book in one’s hand? What can emulate the pages that waft excitement as you turn them and allow one to breathe in the aroma of crisp print-on-parchment? (I get fanciful now). Furthermore, a hard copy never needs re-charging and sits, tantalizingly inviting, on the bookshelf, begging to be read.

Despite this love of the printed material, I do possess both an iPad and a Kindle. iPad has a nifty way of mimicking the turning of a page but fails to perform outdoors in the sun. In fact, iPad burns up and turns off if exposed to the heat of the sun, British or otherwise. (I speak from experience) It does perform well in the dark of course, being backlit. iPad holds illustrations and can handle colour. Its bookshelf is reassuringly real and presents itself as a library of the old order.

Kindle on the other hand, has a screen that can be read in any light – though a light is needed it must be said. The screen cannot be brightened and the pages do not ‘turn’. Instead, a click of the sensitive button on the side of the device allows one to move forward or backwards through the book. The font can be enlarged just as it can with the iPad – a bonus for many people over forty. Its library is in the form of a list of contents and selected by the up, down and across arrows on the main button. The black and white format is set. There is no colour, no illustration. This is a device for reading, pure and simple.

With both devices, ordering a book on-line makes it instantly available on the Kindle or iPad of choice.

Now, what has happened to change my perception of these devices?

I have just spent a relaxing few days on the Isle of Wight. Part of my relaxation routine requires a good book, if not more than one. I was given several books at Christmas and still have a few to read. I chose one that at first glance looked promising, and packed it. One book, I reasoned, would be enough. Memories of stashing seven books in my suitcase on our holidays to France each year, sprang to mind but common sense surfaced. I would not be reading the entire weekend. I just wanted a book to turn to now and then.

Old habits die hard.

At the last minute, I grabbed my Kindle, sadly underused but containing a selection of books, purchased as try-outs, all the same. I pushed it into my bag and forgot about it.

The paperback I pulled out to read on the first night, when presented with a gap in engagements, did not begin well. Claiming to be written by one of the Sunday Times’ top ten best selling authors, who shall remain nameless, the narrator exasperated me at the start by talking to me as though I was a child. The sin of ‘Telling not showing’ being committed over and over again, finally overcame my desire to read any further. This, coupled with stilted and unbelievable conversations introduced for the sole purpose of filling in gaps in the backstory, did nothing to encourage me to persevere.

I was now presented with a dilemma. Should I go out and buy another book or should I pull out the Kindle and see if I wanted to read one of the several books I have downloaded?

“You can read my book if you like, it is very good,” my friend offered, waving a hard backed copy of her novel in my face. The book looked good. However, share a book? I had a better idea. I downloaded a copy to my Kindle.

Oh bliss! Suddenly, thanks to the recommendation from my friend, I had a book that grabbed my attention and kept me reading to the last, er, page.

I forgot the words were appearing on an electronic device. I forgot I was clicking to turn a page. It made no difference. When I had to put it down I did not lose my place, I did not need a bookmark and I could enlarge the type when my eyes were tired. Perfect!

I finished the book this afternoon and have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. In my normal style, I read and read at every opportunity but saved the final few pages until I got home so I could savour the ending.

The Kindle asked if I would like to tweet about it if I had enjoyed it. I did. The book? Kind of Cruel by Sophie Hannah. This author is also on the top ten list of Sunday Times’ bestselling authors.

You may be wondering who wrote the book I disliked so much or what it was called. That I will not divulge. As we all know, one man’s meat is another man’s poison and it may well be that the book in question has delighted readers world-wide. I am not about to besmirch another author’s work on a whim. I am, of course, delighted to promote the book I did enjoy and leave it to you to make your mind up about it, whether you read it on traditional paper or electronically.

Meanwhile, I confess to being a convert to the Kindle, if only because it rescued me from a dire situation – book drought!

Happy reading!

Quirky Inns and Karaoke

We have a couple of particularly quirky pubs near us. One has to be visited at Christmas time, without fail.

This pub, run by a garrulous gay couple with theatrical leanings, is a veritable feast for the eyes, a chocolate box of taste, bearing testimony to every knickknack and piece of memorabilia ever created. (That is the impression it creates as one walks in through the door)

We are drawn to it for those special occasions when atmosphere and experience is everything. My eldest daughter has held her birthday dinner there for the past few years, ever since the day we turned up for a quiet evening drink and were struck by the curious eccentricities of the place.

A carpet, matching one that once adorned the floors of our own living room when pattern was the choice of the day, still graces the floor. When we had that carpet, in the early nineties, it was christened “the carpet you can lose a sausage on” by a friend when I was describing how hard it was to see if the children had dropped food or toys on it. I had chosen it because it reminded me of the flooring found in the oak panelled libraries of famous country houses. (Ideas above my station perhaps.)

In the pub, the carpet flows from the oak panelled bar where chandeliers glisten above one’s head and Toby jugs dangle from the beams and perch on window sills, through the vestibule where a host of music scores, theatre programmes and hats and feather boas cascade off the shelves and on, down the steps into the dining area where candelabras glisten, a piano waits to be played and glittering streamers drape the windows.

The food is always good and the staff never fail to make one welcome. Its eccentricities are what makes it so entertaining and we love its quintessential sense of Old English Hospitality.

For high days and holidays it beats all the other pubs hands down.

Just round the corner to us though, there is another, less opulent pub which has undergone some serious changes over the past few years. Its latest owners are friendly and eager to make one welcome and to make a success of what has been a pub of mixed fortunes.

It is of course, our duty to support local business so when our daughters hear that a Karaoke night is planned, they immediately sign up for it and promise to bring as many people as they can. Unfortunately, the date is changed at the last minute and many of their friends cannot make it.

Being staunch supporters of new ventures ourselves and with the promise of a meal out and an evening’s entertainment, we elect to go with them.

The event is to start at 9pm so we turn up at 8 o’clock, all eight of us. (Not all the family can make it but those who could are here). The older ones amongst us have already decided we will stay and watch for a while but will leave by 10.30pm. We are greeted at the bar by the land lady. Are they serving food? The landlady beams,

“Oh, yes, of course,”

“Where would you like us to sit?”

“Anywhere you like – we have laid a table for eight in the dining room,”

The bar is reasonably full though not packed. The dining room is empty.

Well, it is early yet!

A table had been set for us. We sit down and the menus are brought to us. Between ordering and receiving the starter, the landlady tactfully suggests we might like to move as we will be in the way of the team setting up the equipment. She suggests we move some other tables together to form a larger one.

We are happy to oblige and decamp to the far side of the room where we push three tables together and carry our cutlery and napkins to their new home. I am carried along in the throng and end up sitting with my back against the wall in the corner. It is very cramped. I will not be able to leave quickly. My fellow diners, on this side of the table, resort to sliding under the table to go to the bar in between courses.

There seems to be some delay in the arrival of our starter – a long delay. Eventually, the first course arrives for which we are by now more than ready. Not everyone is impressed but the alcohol is flowing freely. (I am not drinking but wish perhaps I was) The main course arrives at 9.50pm.

We wonder why the equipment has not been set up yet. After all, we moved specially to allow them access. A couple of people loiter in the shadows and dart curious glances at us from time to time. They nibble on sandwiches and peanuts. Two more join them and we assume they are all together.

The meal is disappointing. I have ordered a fillet steak.

“How would you like your steak?” asks the waitress at the time, “Medium, rare or well done?”

I have been caught before, by asking for “well done,” too many times and memories of receiving a charred apology for a steak live on.

“Medium please,” I say brightly.

“Is that medium rare or medium well done?” asks the girl.

“Er, medium well done I suppose, just medium really…not rare,” I falter.

“Oh I’m sorry but the chef is bound to ask you see,”

Chef must be very particular, I think to myself. I look forward to a juicy but medium steak.

The steak sits on my plate. It looks like a biscuit. If it was ever juicy it is now a dried out husk of its former self. The others have their own concerns with soggy rice and cold food that was meant to be hot. We consider sending it all back but it is now almost 10pm. Can we just eat and go? Has the Karaoke been cancelled? (Hope springs eternal).

Most of us forgo dessert.

Eldest daughter has drunk a little too much and eaten too little. She is determined to see the evening out. A sneaky look into the bar shows us that everyone else has gone home. We are the evening’s entertainment and the audience!

In the meantime, the people giving us the eye from the shadows have emerged into the light and are suddenly active, plugging in equipment and climbing on chairs to trail wires round the room. One apologises and asks me to move so he can plug something in behind me. We take the opportunity to ask why it is being set up so late.

“We had to wait for you to stop eating so it’s your fault,” the cheeky chap replies.

I’d hit him with my handbag if I could reach it but it is under the table and as I said before, it is very cramped here.

Finally, at 10.30pm, the microphone is tested and the DJ launches into his welcome song. He is quite good. Our daughters have filled in forms with the songs they want to sing. Correction, they chose the songs but one of the shadow people, a girl, had other ideas.

Now, my elder two daughters – the younger as well who is not here tonight – have always enjoyed parties, Sing Star, Karaoke and just about anything that allows them to get together and sing. Their ‘party piece’ is Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best”. Second daughter spots it on the list and declares that she wants to sing it.

“She can’t sing that, I’m singing it,” the shadow girl announces, eyes flashing.

My daughters stare at her in amazement. They choose another song not wanting to cause a scene.

Submitting their selection to the DJ, they return to their seats with the shadow girl’s eyes burning into their backs. This is going to be fun!

The DJ finishes his introductory warbling and calls up Shadow Girl. Shooting smug glances at us all, she grabs the microphone and launches into a sad wail that is neither terrible nor good, just – depressing. Her boyfriend, we think he is her boyfriend though both seem very friendly with the DJ, slipping him bits of paper and nudging him to play this song or that song…sings a funeral dirge. I kid you not. We are almost in tears of despair by the time he finishes.

Eldest daughter is on the edge of her seat, eager to pick up the baton. Finally, they are allowed the microphone and give a pretty good rendition of a song that neither like.

Shadow girl is back before we can blink. This time she performs the Tina Turner number to our table. We are a captive audience, at least, I am. She does not impress.

The boyfriend is on next, then Shadow girl again… Landlady and Landlord get in on the act and our girls have another go. I am just thinking that perhaps now we can go home when son-in-law gets up and surprises us all with a startling arrangement of a song that I cannot name for the life of me. Fuelled by alcohol, his deep baritone reminds me of Pavarotti, his sudden high-pitched warbling surprises and his intermittent lapse into Acka Bilk, stuns. I can only think that his talents are wider than imagined though he is wise to stick to his day job I suspect.

Shadow girl and boyfriend are back in front of the screen, though neither watches it. They are now both playing to an audience.

Well, sorry folks but this audience has had enough. It is 12am and I am leaving.

I manage to free myself from my corner and we older folk make our excuses to those who prefer to stay (Eldest daughter would not dream of leaving when everything is just getting going and mother-in-law has baby son for the night).

We leave them to it and head out of the empty bar and home.

I believe daughter and son-in-law, roll in at 3am. The next day we are treated to some stories about the shadow girl and her partner who turns out not to be her boyfriend (too much competition perhaps). It seems they are ‘Groupies’ and go from pub to pub following the Karaoke DJ.

I am still recovering from my enforced imprisonment behind the table from where I had to listen to Shadow girl sing for an hour and a half. Well, it was entertaining to say the least.

Apparently, there will be a fortnightly Karaoke evening at the pub from now on. Hmm, Do remind me not to go!

Mummy-brain is a long term condition DJ!

I was listening to ‘Pop Masters’ on BBC Radio 2 this morning. This is not a competition I am ever likely to enter. Musical facts and dates are just not things I can reliably recall to order. My prowess at musical quizzes stops short of being able to name much more than the winner of ‘Eurovision’ in 1967 (Sandy Shaw) I was ten, I liked ‘Puppet on a String”.

The DJ introduced the first contestant.

“If I do badly, I think I can claim to have ‘Mummy-Brain’ even though my daughter is seven months old,” declared the latter. The DJ was sceptical,

“Can one have ‘mummy-brain’ after the event? Isn’t it something that just happens during pregnancy?” he asked.

What? Where have you been Mr DJ?

‘Mummy-brain’ is something that is with you from the moment nature decides a new life is being created. From that moment on it is a downward slope to La-La land in my opinion.

I read an article about it years ago, when my own five children were still small enough to demand mother’s full attention (so, nothing changes). I think the article appeared in a daily newspaper and was reiterated on TV. The article claimed that a woman’s brain shrinks a little each time she is pregnant. I looked at my children a little differently after that.

There are, of course, many women holding down competent full-time jobs despite their brains having been apparently shrunk during pregnancy. I was one of these women and apart from a decidedly dubious meeting or two in which I totally forgot what I was talking about, I mean, literally fell silent and gaped at my client in confusion, I think I did reasonably well. The client was understanding, though had never suffered from mummy-brain herself and could only offer to make me a coffee to help me regain my train of thought. It didn’t work but I managed to bluff my way through the rest of the meeting. However, the ‘mummy-brain’ syndrome remains to this day never mind when the youngest was seven months old!

There is more to ‘mummy-brain’ than a few lost brain cells though. I believe it is more due to the over-use of the brain cells that remain. The positive side of ‘mummy-brain’ has to be the amount of time and care we are able to lavish upon our children despite holding down jobs and running homes. Our brains seem to cope with this pretty well, give or take the odd disaster. In fact, mummy-brain can be a positive advantage to us, stretching us to our limits as it does.

We wont dwell on the time that I left my baby son strapped into his car seat in the living room and backed the car out of the drive, with all four older children yelling,

“Where’s Steven?” at me in unison.

Nor will we tarry on the time I went to pick up my son and his friend from infant school but forgot the friend and arrived all the way home with my son, thinking all the while,

“Have I forgotten something?”

Of course, I raced back to school and the little friend was sitting with his teacher, waiting patiently in the classroom. Teacher, knowing me well, smiled brightly,

“I knew you’d be back, don’t worry!” (I am sure Miss Newell had seen umpteen mothers with mummy-brain over the years)

On a positive note, I can multi-task unbelievably. I can drink in information and disseminate it in a nano-second to give the right reply to the right ‘child’. Equally positive, is the ability to ‘turn off’ and concentrate despite an inordinate amount of noise coming from play room or bedroom. I am not so sure I believe our brains actually shrink to any great degree, they just seem to hold more and more.

However, even now, with children grown and the youngest at University, I know that mummy-brain still lurks, ready to strike at any moment. I hide it a little better these days but it is there.

So, to the contestant on Pop Masters this morning, I say ’good on you’ for getting 21 points out of a possible 39 and be assured that with a seven-month-old baby, you are fully entitled to claim ‘mummy-brain’ when you wish.

On a brighter note, there is new research around nowadays that claims to show that during pregnancy, a woman’s brain shows a tremendous blossoming of what are called dendritic spines–the parts of the neurons that reach out and form synapses, necessary for new learning. Dr. Kinsley, a Virginia neuroscientist, compares it to a computer acquiring extra bandwidth to help it run more than one program at a time.

Now that metaphor appeals to me. I can relate to the usefulness of an increase in bandwidth these days. It makes perfect sense.

So, let’s be clear, mummy-brain is now officially a good thing in my book (La-La land is a good place to be) and it hasn’t held me back at all!

Read the article here

Steampunk Goggles (the mind boggles)

My research has just taken a new twist. A temporary twist I might add, hastened by a request from my late sister’s son.

My lovely nephew, he with Asperger’s and a deep interest in Star Wars, Games Workshop and Re-enactment role play, stumped me this morning.

Last week he requested a green cloak, a two-man army surplus pop-up tent a flash memory card and a foam hammer (the latter he is saving up for himself). All these items seemed easy to find and I could visualize them in my head.

He has been craving a Classic Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor P71 for some time and his requests do not usually surprise me.

This morning I received a text asking me to look out for big old clocks that no longer work as he wants the cogs and inner workings. Naturally, I was moved to ask,

“Why?”

Now, any mother knows that asking this question can be risky. Do we really want to know why? Is it not easier just to nod and agree and do what’s asked most of the time? Alas, I cannot do that because I have this thing about making things from nothing. You only need to read, The Doll’s House to see that my prowess in this area knows no bounds and my interest is easily roused.

The phone beeped.

“Steampunk Goggles –Google them if you like,” came back the short reply.

I needed no second telling. I Googled them. (So glad that dream I had about technology disappearing did not turn out to be true).

A plethora of definitions and explanations landed on my screen.

Did you know immediately what Steampunk Goggles were? I did not, I have to say, though once I had Googled the term, I realised that the phenomenon of Steampunk is all around us in one or another shape or form.

See these pictures of Steampunk Goggles:

Steampunk Goggles

Steampunk Aviator

Wikipedia says:

“Steampunk is a genre which came into prominence during the 1980s and early 1990s and incorporates elements of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, horror, and speculative fiction. It involves a setting where steam power is widely used—whether in an alternate history such as Victorian era Britain or “Wild West”-era United States, or in a post-apocalyptic time —that incorporates elements of either science fiction or fantasy. “

Further reading up on the subject tells me that there is a wide range of definitions to choose from but that the genre covers literature, TV, film and more. Of course, you probably know this already.

One thing more though, is it just me, or do these Goggles closely resemble the glasses that opticians stick on one’s face when trying out different lenses?

Mad Max (not strictly steampunk apparently) has nothing on me!

One site I found claims that the Steampunk movement is about to move above ground. Has it been underground then? Visions of leather clad, goggle wearing, Top hatted ladies and gents climbing out of Victorian sewers  that spew steam into the atmosphere, come to mind.

On reflection, the whole concept is a little too unsettling for me but then I was never a fan of Punk when it arrived in this century, never mind a steam based version from the 19^th Century.

It has been an interesting foray into something that was hitherto unknown to me though and for that, I thank James, my intrepid nephew who will doubtless flourish a pair of hand-made, uniquely crafted Steampunk Goggles at me, on our next visit or greet me at the door whilst wearing them. This I can forecast without doubt for only the other day when I phoned him, I was confused as I did not recognise his voice,

“Can I speak to James please?” I asked, thinking I was in conversation with his support worker.

“This is James,” he retorted.

“Oh, I didn’t recognise your voice, you sound…far away, different!” I said.

“That’s because I am wearing a gas mask auntie Debbie – hang on, I’ll take it off,” he said in his normal, matter of fact tone. No further explanation was forthcoming.

I’d love to arrive on his doorstep sporting a pair of Steampunk Goggles!

I wonder if my optician will lend me his?

A World Without…

I dreamt I had had my iPhone and purse stolen, two possessions integral to my daily life and needs. The dream was surreal, as most dreams are, in that I was stranded at Waterloo Station, without means to propel myself home again.

As is the way with dreams, I soon found myself in a taxi worrying how I would pay the fare. This worry was compounded by the driver appearing to lose his way. I duly noted that there was no SatNav in the car and the driver relied on a walkie-talkie for communication with his base. It was all, most strange.

Stranger still, when I eventually arrived home, (Taxi driver must have been very kind) I seemed to have walked back in time as though the disappearance of my iPhone and bank cards signaled the end of technology as we know it. Hence, my husband appeared circa 1990, super slim with hair flopping onto his forehead in place of his normal grade 3 cut, wearing clothes from the last century. My children, also considerably downsized, ran around happily enough. I began to wonder what had actually happened to my mobile and looked around for another, surely there was one here? Alas, there was not. Worse, there was not a computer to be seen and certainly no iPads. I did not immediately think how wonderful it was to be back in the days when the children were small and the wider family circle might be intact, though this would certainly have been the case had I stopped to think. I was more concerned with finding my iPhone for I sensed that this alone could return me to the present.

Thankfully, I woke up from this nightmarish experience at this point but the dream stayed with me all day. It caused me to muse on the amazing leaps in technology that have happened in the last ten or twenty years. I pondered on how dependent I have become on these developments.

The dream, it seemed, had removed all from me in one fell swoop.

What would it be like to go back to those times now? How would we cope? Would we adapt easily? I sit at my computer and type. I suppose I could still be doing this at my typewriter with little or no regrets. But no internet? Only a few short years ago we all wondered at the coming of internet shopping – that too would be gone.

How would I communicate so quickly with the outside world? You don’t miss what you have never had but I fear I would miss all that I have grown used to.

I am relieved that the dream did not remove electricity or any of the fundamental major advances of modern times. It merely removed personal computers – and my purse for some reason. We wont dwell on the reasoning behind the latter!

Perhaps the dream was triggered by news of the latest addition to the computer stakes: A Raspberry Pi. Yes, we have had The Apple, The Blackberry and even Orange, now it is the turn of the humble raspberry.

The latest concern of the UK government is that the next generation will be so attuned to having electronic devices work for them at the press of a button, that they will not stop to consider how they work or what goes on beneath the shiny fascia. We could be left without anyone to pick up the gauntlet from our current crop of programmers and software developers. My own grandsons seem quite adept at using their parents’ iPhone. The 16 month old can turn it on, scroll through photos and accidentally phoned me the other day. The eleven month old is following in his cousin’s wake and both are fascinated by my iMAC.

Meanwhile, schools stand accused of setting boring and uninteresting computer classes. What was once seen as innovative and exciting, now seems humdrum and mundane.

The Raspberry Pi is a tiny computer without case, screen or mouse. It plugs into an existing motherboard externally and allows the children to experiment with both programming and writing software. It is already a big hit wherever it has been applied.

"The next generation must learn to control computers and not be controlled by them"

The Raspberry Pi Foundation is a UK registered charity who say their aim was to make “a BBC Micro for the 21st century”. They used the technology from smartphones to produce small, low-cost units. A Sky news report suggests it is being sold at £22 per unit. Currently the size of a credit card, the unit will eventually be the size of a small pack of playing cards according to its creators. This incredibly cost-effective computer is capable of word processing, gaming, video playback and internet browsing.

Surely it will inspire a whole new wave of classroom entrepreneurs!

http://www.raspberrypi.org/

http://www.raspberrypi.org/faqs

I cannot wait to see what these young innovators come up with.

Getting back to the dream, what really triggered it I do not know. Dreams tend to have meanings attributed to them. Maybe, deep down, I do yearn for simpler times. I confess to buying a writing pad and a pack of envelopes this week because there are some people in my life who like to be written to still but, on the whole, I am happy to have so much technology within my grasp.

So, welcome Raspberry Pi and may your reign be both fruitful and bright!

Pandora’s Box

 

“Research is a waste of time – get on with the writing” ?

I spotted the headline on the cover of ‘Writer’s Forum’.

If you are like me, you will have read that line and bristled at the idea that all that precious research you have clocked up, might be classed as a waste of time.

I read the article and of course, Jenny Colgan was not saying that all research is useless, rather, her argument was that we are all in danger of getting bogged down in the research at the expense of the writing at times.

Never has this been more true than this week.

In a bid to bring you a post about the great (or great, great) grandmother of mine who was governess to the first or possibly the last white Raja of Sarawak, I was determined to track down some family history to verify it.

Few things ignite a child’s imagination as much as hearing that your great grandmother was once governess to the children of the Third White Raja of Sarawak.

Just hearing those words conjures up an era of glittering Rajas and turbans and flowing dresses. (I am thinking “The King and I” with Deborah Kerr here).

The King and I

Such a tantalizing snippet of information is sure to re-awaken interest when that child has cause to remember it in later life as I have done.

Yet, establishing exactly when my great grandmother took up this position proved to be more difficult than first thought. My family, being much depleted, do not remember the entire story though my mother can furnish me with a few facts (she remembers her grandmother receiving letters from the Raja’s children, well into her old age) and my sister tells me she used to have some of those letters but that my father threw them away when clearing the garage out where she had stored them all those years ago.

Do any others exist?

Without any letters, I turned to the family tree and searched for names and dates that might match. I trawled through passenger lists and censuses to pinpoint the whereabouts of the great, great grandmother whom I know to have been born in Jamaica and her daughter, known to have received the letters from the three daughters of the third White Raja. Their story is intriguing and even without hearing about my own relative’s part in it, I am persuaded to delve deeper.

I think that family archives might throw up more information but to date I have uncovered some other gems of totally unconnected literary worth that need following up – where will it all end?

My week has been spent in research as well as in dealing with the ongoing support arrangements for my nephew who has Asperger’s Syndrome. Between writing emails about care teams, support teams, solicitors and trust funds, I have been writing emails about missing relatives, misspelt records and ploughing through criminal registers (well, you never know).

Have I written anything? No.

Have I had ideas for writing something?

Oh plenty.

What have I done with those ideas?

Why, I have researched them!

So, today, I am putting all research on hold and am writing.

I am reminded of my second daughter when she was just a toddler, who used to spend an inordinate amount of time planning what she was going to do. She would get all her dolls out and arrange them on the floor in a line. She would talk about this as she did it. After a time, she would tell me what she was going to do next, get the teddies out, arrange her tea set on the coffee table, she was going to make some pretend cakes in a minute; she would spend the entire morning planning the things she was going to do once everything was set up.

I would watch it all with a smile, knowing what would come next. Before she had begun to play the game, she would survey everything with a satisfied sigh before curling up on the sofa and falling asleep.

 

Preparation done - and to sleep

 

 

I fear I have reached that stage. One more piece of research and I will just curl up in a chair and sleep, under the false impression that my work is done.

No one can deny that a certain amount of research is necessary when trying to validate facts but sometimes, wouldn’t it be fun just to make it all up? Oh, but hey, that’s what we writers of fiction do anyway isn’t it?

It is doubtful that my relative would have actually dressed in the splendid costumes that Deborah Kerr wore in ‘The King and I’. Indeed, the Third White Raja reigned from 1917 – 1946 and it is his three daughters who appear to have kept up a correspondence with her.

As facts and figures continue to baffle me, perhaps I will throw caution to the wind and write the story inspired by the facts I do know, using artistic license to fill in the gaps.

But hang on a minute – wasn’t Oscar Wilde, along with other actors and literary figures of the time, a regular visitor to the Raja’s London home? Is it not, therefore, conceivable that my ancestor has taken tea with the great man? How did she travel to Sarawak? Was she already in Jamaica or did she travel from Scotland – the place that the family returned to in the late 1980s? Questions demand answers and though I could write this piece and clothe it with imagined facts, I am again drawn to what actually happened.

Goodness, I will just have to research further – I am opening a Pandora’s box to be sure!

Tea with Charles Dickens

This week marks the 200^th birthday of Charles Dickens.

Charles Dickens 1812-1870

Just about everyone knows the name, even if they may have never read his work. We were introduced to his books in school, and some of us retain a life long attachment to them. Who, when reading those books, has not shed a tear at the story of Little Dorrit or Oliver Twist or been at once saddened and enchanted by A Christmas Carol? Disney may have made A Christmas Carol, his own but the original story lives on. These gems, Pickwick Papers, Great Expectations – all are favourites of mine.

There was of course, more to the man than just his literary successes but we can only know him now through the pages of his letters, memoirs and biographies.

Dickens’ 200^th birthday has been marked universally but with even greater fervor and celebration in Portsmouth where he was born. Living not many miles from Portsmouth, I watched the spectacle with interest as it was aired on the local television news.  Dickens’ Great, Great Grandson, Ian Dickens, was speaking on behalf of the now ever-expanding Dickens family. Charles Dickens had 10 children of his own to start the DNA rolling of course.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-16914295

As I watched the celebrations, I had the strangest feeling that I would have liked to have been there too. After all, one of the greatest stories passed down to me, comes from my own Great, Great Grandfather, John Faulder.

According to my most reliable of sources, my Grandfather, Charles Dickens frequently took tea with my Great, Great Grandfather, John Faulder. John Faulder was not, so far as I am aware, a writer. Indeed, research shows him to have been a jeweller though perhaps he wrote in his spare time.

As a child, the story was told to me thus:

“Your Great, Great Grandfather used to often have tea with Charles Dickens at his house in London.” There was undoubtedly, more in the way of padding for this tale but I confess to only having remembered that vital part.

I do not know if this ‘taking of tea” was carried out in Dickens’ home as it was told to me, but I fancy, that it could have taken place in one or more of the many London tea and coffee houses that were popular in the 1800s. Who knows what they discussed or where their thoughts led when they sat, as I picture them, each in a high-backed leather chair, either side of an ornate fireplace, smoking a pipe and drinking tea?

Whenever I heard this story, I imagined my Great, Great Grandfather, wearing top hat and tails perhaps, climbing the steps to Dickens’ house and raising the brass knocker to signal his arrival. I imagined them cosied up by a roaring fire in the winter, discussing the finer points of London affairs and swapping anecdotes, truly, gentlemen at leisure.

How did they meet? With four years between them in age they could have gone to the same school at some point. They could have visited the same coffee houses, frequented the same drinking establishments. Perhaps Charles Dickens purchased jewellery for his wife from my Great, Great Grandfather. Perhaps John Faulder read some of the work in progress and gave comments. Or did Dickens keep that under wraps? Was their friendship based on a mutual interest far away from literature? Such questions are unlikely to be answered except by guesswork.

I have a romanticised view of their friendship of course but then, perhaps it really was like that. Who is to say?

Naturally, I would like to know if my own Great, Great Grandfather played any part in the stories that became so well known. Did he feature in any of them as a caricature or achieve a cameo role? It is well documented that Dickens did base his characters on the people he encountered. Given that the men’s friendship would have been cemented by their own similar family lives – John Faulder having eight children of his own, they may have had much in common. In Dickens’ wealthier times, he may have indeed visited my grandfather in his jewellery shop or did they meet when both were down on their luck?

I feel slightly frustrated that I can no longer go to my Grandfather and ask more but even without any further information, I cannot help but wonder if John Faulder is mentioned somewhere, in the annals of literature, if not by name then by nature making him a vital cog in the workings of that great, literary mind!

Now, wouldn’t that be something?

NB: This tale gave me inspiration for my novel in progress “Tea with Dickens”

I have no photos of John Faulder to date but I do of my Grandfather – here is Victor Gordon Faulder, in the 1900s looking very suave!

Victor Gordon Faulder - my Grandfather

With the best of intentions…

They say the way to Hell is paved with good intentions…so too is the way to a writer’s keyboard! This morning, I am determined to finish and publish the post I have earlier prepared.

The morning begins in its now customary, crisp, cold, February way with temperatures way below freezing. The perfect weather for a bracing walk in the woods with the dogs, I think. This, I am sure, will set me up for the day’s writing I have promised myself all week.

A solitary winter walk

Things do indeed start well. We arrive early, before the main stream of dog walkers and after the really early birds. The temperatures allow one the luxury of wrapping up warm and walking fast and we only meet one elderly, lone runner as we hurry along the woodland paths. Flossie decides it will be fun to run with him. He is not much impressed and she soon gives up. I daresay he is now telling his wife that he didn’t meet a soul except for a mad golden retriever who fancied herself as the long distance runner.

There is something soul-refreshing about a solitary, winter walk in the early morn’. Indeed, I have high hopes for the day ahead as far as inspiration and personal application are concerned as we pile back into the car and drive home. I have the post, already partly prepared, to finish and publish, the half finished novel – needing a new perspective which I now feel able to give and an empty house without distractions…

There is a bonus to the extreme cold of the day. The streams and puddles are frozen and Flossie has not found any murky water to bathe in. We do not have the usual tumble of dogs and towels to contend with. Instead, I can let both dogs run into the house and take up their places beside me at my desk.

I have been writing for a short time when I notice that Keano is missing. I investigate. The living room carpet looks a little red in places. Keano has retired to his bed.

What is this? Blood?

Yes, Keano has managed to cut his paw and has trailed spots of blood all over the living room carpet.

Tracking down which paw is hurt can be difficult in a dog whose idea of standing still has yet to take root and whose agility is suddenly vastly improved when faced with a worried human trying to grab his ankles. Still, I identify the injured paw eventually. First aid box to hand, I clean it and bandage it, wrapping tape round the limb carefully to secure.

Leaving both dogs in the kitchen, I grab a wet cloth and dab and scrub at the living room carpet with a modicum of success.

Returning to the kitchen I am met by Flossie, looking guiltily up at me, half a bandage hanging from her mouth as she gently unravels the rest from Keano’s paw.

Nurse Flossie?

Time to separate the dogs!

I check the paw and re-bandage it, forgetting I have left the kitchen door ajar. Keano totters out when I am not looking. By the time I find him, he has licked the bandage off and has dripped blood through the dining room, through the hall and up the stairs. Flossie looks at me as though to say,

“I told you so,”

I bandage the paw and fit a trainer sock over it – Keano has dainty, cat-sized paws – and confine him to the kitchen where he is currently lying, feeling sorry for himself.

 

I am still not talking to you!

 

An appointment at the Vet has been made and I have cleaned the carpets and washed the floors.

It is now past lunchtime and I still have some way to go with the original post and the novel lurks in the recesses of my Mac, calling me in vain. It must wait.

Thankfully, memories of that early morning stroll linger on…and let’s not forget that tomorrow is another day!

The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award

Many thanks for the Award! The rules of acceptance mean that I must now tell you 7 random facts about myself...

It’s been a while since I received an award of any kind but what a lovely way to start the New Year! Thank you to Teresa Ashby who has passed this award to me though, I confess, I have never thought of myself as being irresistibly sweet. I have been told I have a sharp tongue at times (I call it wit) and perhaps that is why my blog describes itself as a wry look at life.

It is an interesting thought, though, being irresistible. I suppose everyone is irresistible to someone or something, in some way.

I was evidently irresistible to the young man with Down’s Syndrome who approached me in the hospital café last November. My eldest sister and I were taking a break from keeping vigil at our middle sister’s bedside. As we sat there, probably red eyed from crying and looking decidedly miserable, I dithered over what to do with the tray on which the waitress had earlier placed two hot cups of tea and coffee with some dubious looking pastries that neither of us really wanted. We felt we should eat them for lack of anything else edible to hand. Having placed these items on the table, I was left holding the tray.

The young man smiled across at me from where he sat at his table.

“I will take that!” he said, beaming and was by my side in an instant.

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” I smiled back.

He looked pleased and I thought he was going to turn and take the tray back to the counter. Instead, he moved closer and bent to give me a hug.

One 

This is the first thing you may not know about me – I am not particularly ‘huggy’. I hug my family, my children and some friends but strangers? Not usually!

However, I had no choice but to accept his hug as he said happily,

“Aah, I love my new friend,” and began stroking my hair.

“That’s nice, it is lovely to meet you,” I replied or something similar. I was relieved that he had stepped back a little, though his hand was still on my head.

He moved in for another hug and repeated the words before slowly walking away, stopping to wave and smile as he went. I waved back and my sister raised her eyebrows at me.

It reminded me of the days when I used to take the bus to town when living near London. Nine times out of ten, I would be listening to someone’s life story as we stood at the bus stop waiting…and waiting…and waiting.

Two

This is perhaps the second thing you may not know about me, I am incredibly patient at times.

It was whilst taking the bus to the cinema one evening, in the seventies, that an elderly gentleman, we shall call him Fred, boarded and sat next to me. He was smartly dressed in a dark suit with a ribbon of medals pinned to his jacket. It was quite a cold night.

“Chilly!” he said.

I nodded and smiled and probably replied politely as I always did.

“I’m going to the British Legion – meeting lots of my old war buddies.” ( World War One for those who may not be familiar with the time span here)

“I am 84!”

I murmured that he did not look 84 (indeed, he did not). He then proceeded to regale me with tales that covered his lifetime from birth to the present day. I was not bored. I was about eighteen and he intrigued me.

He got off at the same stop as me and I watched him walk down the road, head held high, a spring in his step – no, he really didn’t look 84.

The following week, I was again catching the bus to town when Fred sat down next to me. I greeted him with a smile but he clearly did not remember me. I sensed what was coming. For the rest of the journey he regaled me with more tales, or the same tales as the week before and again, I listened and chatted as the bus trundled on. As we reached ‘our’ stop, he turned to me and said proudly,

“I am 86 you know!”

“No, you don’t look it!” I parroted.

Two birthdays in one week? I don’t think so. I watched him walk down the street to the Legion – no, he certainly did not look 86.

Three

Being irresistible to dogs – now that was one of my attributes as a child, not a lot of people know that!

The attraction was mutual and I was determined to own a dogs’  boarding kennel when I grew up – the idea of dozens of four legged friends being under my care was extremely attractive to me. I was so taken with the idea that despite having a perfectly lovely family dog of our own, I was constantly on the look out for a stray to adopt.

I would stand at the bus stop (not always listening to someone’s life story) when I was about twelve and wonder if a little dog would wander up to me and practically beg to be taken home. I’d see straggly-haired mutts meandering up and down the road and mentally wish them to come pawing at my door.

This was not an entirely ridiculous wish. I could clearly remember a beautiful, black and white, rough Collie wandering through our back garden in the school holidays, when I was about 6 or 7 years old. Dad allowed us to invite him in when he had been seen wandering around the nearby gardens for some time. The dog displayed no desire to leave and Dad said we could keep him until we found the owners. Dad, being a policeman, put the word out. Mum, asked around. (Her own childhood seems to have been run along pretty much the same lines as far as dogs were concerned – she has told me she often turned up at home with a waggy-tailed stray attached to a piece of string, trailing behind her.)

We children fell in love.

The dog was gentle and well trained and he answered to the name of ‘Prince”. To me, he was a prince among dogs. He watched my little brother empty his Smarties out on the floor and did not move to eat them. He sat patiently while we petted and cuddled him and was happy to play ball or just follow us around.

When no one had claimed him after a fortnight, Dad said that he could stay. Prince became ours. He stayed with us for about 6 weeks. He was waiting by the gate when I came home from school and followed me up to bed at night, sleeping at the foot of my bed until he was called back down to the kitchen by Mum or Dad.

Sadly, all good things come to an end and at the end of the second school week, my eldest sister, who attended the local secondary school, came home with the news that a girl in her class had lost a dog. The description fitted Prince. Dad went to investigate.

With aching hearts we had to say goodbye and Prince was returned to his rightful owners who were, it has to be said, overjoyed to have him home. We had to ask what his real name was, was it really Prince? The owners said no, the dog’s name was Bins. Now, was that Binz or was it Bins? We never did find out. I preferred ‘Prince’.

I suspect that ‘Bins/z’ enjoyed his short stay with us and his Royal title. I suppose, despite the fact that we then adopted a gorgeous Golden Labrador, as mentioned before in this blog, I always wanted to replace Prince.

To get back to the bus stop or the vicinity of the bus stop, I should say that my wish was not in vain. One afternoon, my Father parked the car by some scrubland close to the shops. A car pulled up in front of us. The car contained two small children and two, adorable little puppies. The driver opened the door and let one of the puppies out for what we thought was a toilet break. Indeed, the puppy ran straight to the area of long grass and we smiled before making our way to the shops.

On our return, we saw that the car had gone but the puppy remained, looking lost and confused, at the side of the road. We all tried to coax the puppy to come to us as it cowered, shivering with fright but it refused. Only when the others stepped back and I knelt down, did it crawl onto my lap and lie there. Once again Dad put the word out and we drove around for a bit to see if the car was parked elsewhere. Maybe the puppy had been left behind by accident.

No one claimed her. Dad wanted to take her to Battersea dogs’ home, we wouldn’t hear of it. We kept her. Bess, first cross of a welsh collie, with the same nature as Prince and very pretty, was with us for the next twelve years.

Four

I am also irresistible to people with clip boards, you know the sort, the ones who try to catch your eye as you walk through the precinct and jump out in front of you if you dare walk on. I confess I now look straight ahead and side-step them wherever possible.

Five

I have discovered that it is ok to step on the cracks in pavements but I don’t – just in case.

Six

I do not believe in meddling with the paranormal and I would not go near an Ouija Board, but I have seen ghosts.

Seven

My first love is writing but I am also both an artist and craftswoman – I sew a good seam. I once supplied a private dental surgery with twenty four small cloth figures and several giant-sized versions of the same, to grace their waiting room. My eldest daughter, then three, is pictured with a selection of the smaller of the figures. Oh, and I cannot wait until I can build another doll’s house!

A Motley Crew! Circa 1984

Well, the rules of acceptance of this award are that I must tell you seven things about myself that you did not know before, or have forgotten, or about which you are too polite to say,

“Yeah, we knew that!”

This I believe I have done.

Once again, thank you Teresa for bestowing this award on me and allowing me to bestow it on others who, I feel, are far more worthy than I of receiving it.

So, without further ado, I nominate 7 of my own favourite blogs for the award:

• Catbird Scout
• Go Ask Alice – when she’s 94
• Of Hills and Heather
• JPLanewrites
• Katie Gates: Stories and Opinions
• Patricia’s Wisdom
• Positive Letters

I hope you all enjoy each other’s blogs as much as I do and I look forward to reading them all.

For those I have nominated, the rules, as I understand them are:

1. Thank and link to the person who nominated you.

2. Share 7 random facts about yourself.

3. Pass the Award on to some of your own deserving blog friends.

4. Contact those friends and let them know.