"WHEN I SHUFFLE OFF THIS MORTAL COIL"

Sat at my desk in my study I am attracted by movement through the window.

I live across from a church and am able to look down on all that happens in the large car park at the side.

Over a year I am able to watch the full gamut of life, christenings, weddings, funerals and, if I crane my head far enough around the corner of my window, I can see (on Saturdays at 9-30am and 5-00pm by appointment only) The Sinners, creeping surreptitiously through the side door into confession with a quick furtive  backwards-glance.

Today is the weekday early morning service, not very well attended this one, most people have other/better things to do.

"Father", a quietly spoken man (I have passed the time of day with him on a few occasions) can be seen striding purposely across the car park from the gate in the wall which separates his private life from his public one. Dressed in long black flowing robes he can (forgive me father …) on a dull morning look quite menacing, very different to the glitz and bling of special occasions.

One morning soon after he came to live here I spotted a plume of white smoke snaking up from above his garden wall. I rushed to turn on the TV news-channel expecting to see the news that a new Pope had been elected, only to be told later by a parishioner that Father smoked a pipe.

It's Sunday morning 10-29am, the bell is tolling, the car park is full of cars, not a soul (pun intended) to be seen except, and here he comes now, the one who is always late, always running in at the last minute. A sight for sore eyes, hair uncombed, shoe laces undone, tie askew but with a look of grim determination on his face, a look that seems to say "forgive me Father for I have had to feed the cat, water my tomatoes and 12 down in the Sunday Mail crossword totally stumped me".

It is easy to tell the devout ones, they are the ones that “volunteer”. These are the ones that water the flowers, cut the grass, clean the windows, the ones that will surely get “there”.

BREAKING NEWS: Just seen Father rushing across the car park towards the church, jeans, lumberjack check-shirt with sleeves rolled up to just under the elbow.

He has just returned with a piece of paper in his hand (list of hymns, today’s sermon?).We’ll never know.

It’s Sunday morning and from 10am onwards cars arrive in dribs and drabs until the car park is full. People dressed in their Sunday Best stand hovering around the entrance to the church (one last cigarette for a while for some of them) until as if at a command they slowly parade into the church and all is quiet until a car draws up and from within gingerly gets out a woman, possibly in her middle twenties, clutching in her arms a tiny baby (why do we say “tiny baby”, aren’t all babies tiny?) dressed in a long white gown. The driver of the car takes the hand of, and this is only an assumption, his wife/partner and together they walk into the church.

DEAR READER: There will now be an interlude of approximately two hours.

You may feel free to go and put the kettle on, to brew a cup of tea, have a wee or possibly prep the lunch.

DEAR READER: Quick they’ve finished (I have had a cup of tea, been for a wee twice and prepped my bacon sandwich for my lunch).

The crowd mingle (a welcome cigarette for some) around the car park but the centre of attention is a “tiny” baby, like a Queen Bee in a hive. Lots of cooing and cries of “Isn’t she lovely” (I feel a song coming on).

Adjacent to the church is what was once a school, but is now a parish centre, and slowly everyone gravitates towards it, stomachs are rumbling and with one  last cigarette for some they all disappear.

DEAR READER: I feel I must apologise, I have had my bacon sandwich, fed the cat and been to my allotment to water my tomatoes and when I returned the car park was empty. The only sign of a christening being a dozen squashed fag ends in the car park.

“Ah bless, doesn’t she look lovely”?

It’s Saturday 1-55pm the sun is shining, there is no wind, and it’s a perfect day for the wedding. The Bride arrives in an open top 1920’s car bedecked with cream ribbons and flowers. She alights, carefully smoothes down her dress (“what a beautiful dress”), her bridesmaids carefully arrange her train and they all walk slowly into the church, a scene of complete serenity. But if only she knew!

I have, at intervals, been watching the scene unfold, absolute chaos at times.

It’s 9-00am, rain is pouring down and the florist’s van pulls up outside the church door. Head bent against the wind and rain two people jump out of the van open the back doors and make numerous trips into the church laden with armfuls of flowers. Two hours go by and it is now 11am and the florist’s van draws away their work done (we can now send in our invoice).

There now appears one of the “devout ones” armed with brush and shovel and within minutes the place is spick and span

DEAR READER: See above and instead of “tiny” baby insert “bride”. (That’s saved me a lot of writing).

A cold and rainy Saturday morning and am looking down from my study into the church car park when slowly appear car after car, from which alight people dressed in black. Sad looking people, some crying, all hugging and kissing each other. And then “The Hearse”. Everyone’s last trip. The coffin is wheeled out and into the church.

DEAR READER: I don’t think I need to say anything more do I?

Will anybody be looking down on me “…when I shuffle off this mortal coil”.?

THE XBOX

“KNOCK, KNOCK”

It’s Friday night, 6-30pm, our eyes lock in a look of resignation, we know who it is. Every Friday at this time there is a knock on the door and there is stood

THE XBOX.

    “Hiyah, come in”.

“Sit down. How’s things”?

“Ok thanks”.

“Any new games lately”?

“Don’t spend too much time on that you will strain your eyes”.

“Fish fingers and chips”?

“Yes please”.

“Do you want a drink”?

“Yes please”.

“Night night Xbox”.

“Night night Pingu”.

“Night Grandma, night Granddad”.

...HEY UP

“Hey up”!

“Hey up”?

What’s that about?

I spend a lot of time walking and quite often walk along the canal bank, it’s easy walking and beautiful countryside.

It can get very busy at times, with walkers like me, dog owners who walk no more than a few yards from the bridge to “empty” their dog and then the cyclists (who henceforth will be known as They or Them).

“They” are all very serious nowadays, the bright lycra, the streamlined helmets, cycling shoes, cycles that cost thousands of pounds but what do many of them not have? A bell! That’s right, nothing to warn you “They” are about to flash past you at 20mph or more seriously “They” are going to collide into you from the rear.

“A bell”. A thing of beauty really, small and delicate, matt black, shiny silver or even colourful plastic and, best of all, cheap. I have just checked the internet and for a mere £2-85 I can get a (and I quote) “Huge 65mm chrome-plated 2 tone ding-dong bicycle bell by Coyote” postage extra. For customer review see below.

I always walk in the middle of the path on the canal bank and wait for them to arrive. It is ok when they approach you from the front you can see them and make your stance. Like a scene from High Noon the distance between me and “Them” diminishes. I stand my ground and slowly with each step I make I gradually walk nearer the canal forcing “Them”, with terror in their eyes, to steer nearer and nearer to a watery conclusion.

It is when “They” come at you from behind it is very concerting, for although having  a very keen sense of hearing sometimes “They” do slip past the radar with a shout of “Hey up!” which, depending on my mood at the time receives a reply of “Want a bloody quid for a bell?”

CUSTOMER REVIEW: I do like the look and the sound of this bell. I suppose I shouldn't have expected too much for the price. The bell is cheaply made and rings whenever my bike is in motion (and gets especially loud when I hit potholes). The sound when not being rung isn't as loud as actually ringing the bell (it sounds kind of like wind chimes). I've tried tightening and loosening the casing, but neither method solved the problem 

Overall, nice sound when it rings. It just continues to make sound at other times too. (honest, I’ve not made that up).

16th JUNE 2011

Fed up! Been painting since 7-30 this morning and its boring old magnolia. Must have used gallons of it over the years. Nearly finished, might just have enough paint left in the tin. Did get a new tin yesterday at B & Q. That drove me mad, miles and miles of racking full of paint. All I wanted was a small tin of magnolia matt emulsion, could I find it? Could I hell. Satin? Yes! Silk? Yes! A ten-gallon tin of matt? Yes! Being one who doesn't like to ask for directions when in the car I also dislike asking where I could find a small tin of magnolia matt emulsion, as I take it as a personal failure. Finally gave in and asked a man in an orange pinny where I could find the elusive aforementioned tin of paint.
 "Right behind you sir."

Last brush full of paint and I still have a square yard of wall to paint. Nope not enough. Up in the attic now and open the new tin of paint. "Bloody hell, it's WHITE"!

Going for a walk, a bit of exercise, fresh air and no sign of any magnolia matt emulsion.

Boots on, camera, book and pen in pocket, off for lunch and a walk.

Twenty minutes and I am at one of my favorite pubs:-

    SLATERS ARMS, BRADLEY

I order a pint and a beef sandwich and even though it's quite cool I sit out in the beer garden wanting to maintain my macho image:-

"Good afternoon sir, enjoying the Great Outdoors are we"?

"Enjoy your lunch".

("Stupid sod").

Look at the thickness of that beef, fairly tough. Why do they always have to put tomato on a plate, I hate the things.

Doing a circular walk today, along the canal bank and then back round to the pub.

That looks like a nice spot for a spot of lunch and feed the ducks.

I keep whistling this same bloody tune. I must drive everyone mad. And I can't for the life in me remember what it's called.

 Elderflower. Once made some fritters from them. Very nice with sugar and lemon juice on.

What is this tune called? Must have heard it recently.

Quiet now just the faint hum of the traffic and the bleating of the sheep.

That beer has soon gone through me, will get behind this bush...that's better.

 

Look! A butterfly and a damselfly on the same bush. Butterfly brown with white spots, need to look that up when I get home. Damselfly blue, so small in contrast to the dragonfly

Bluebell Wood. I wonder if that couple can see anything going on in there?

What is this tune called?

Hip's hurting now, better not stop or will never get started again.

A memorial to some Polish airmen who crashed nearby during the war and were killed. And now we want rid of them all because they get "our" jobs and "our" houses.

This is steep, used to run up things like this. Hip killing me now.

Got it! "Who's a fool now" Tim Hart, one of my folk-music favourites

  

Lots of flowers on the brambles. Nearly autumn!

Just gone through the worst winter for years and summer is never going to happen.

What's this tune I'm whistling now?

End of the walk. 

Must be nice to live somewhere like this. Do people who live in places like this appreciate it?

Shall I? No, better not.

Home now. Been a good day.

Good the paint's dried.

("Bet nobody will spot that bit I missed if I don't say anything").

ps. the name of that butterfly is Dingy Skipper

pps. and I know at least two tunes.

THE THING IN THE CORNER

Am in the house alone sat looking at it standing there in the corner staring at me, just a little red light at the bottom of it is the only sign of life. It's been there for years. Gets dusted once a week and costs me £145.50 every year, even if I don't switch it on. If I turned off the colour could I get away with just paying £49? They wouldn't believe me, would they?

Can never outstare it for it never blinks and I need to move now and then, to get a beer or go to the loo (you can't have one without the other).

Don't know what all these buttons do on "The Remote".

"The Remote!"  A thing of wonder, but more of that later.

Although being a bit of a history buff there are only three dates I can remember, my birthday ( I even struggle with that now at my age), the Battle of Hastings and the first time I can remember watching television. It was 2nd June 1953, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. So I was seven knocking on eight when "the thing in the corner" loomed into my life.

I lived on a housing-estate, one of many built during and after the war to alleviate the housing shortage, bungalows made of asbestos (no Health & Safety Executive in those days). It was just after the war and nobody had any money, not that we knew we did not have any money, except "The Smiths". The Smiths were the only family with a car and the only one with a tv.

A TV? Still to this day I am not sure I understood what it was all about that sunny day in June. A large wooden box and, at the top, a small glass square on which was a black and white moving picture. I had seen moving pictures before at the cinema, but this one was different, this one was in someone's house, very intimate, although the room was packed with people who had come in from the street party to watch it. Don't think I stayed long, there was cake and jelly to eat and games to play and of course "God save our gracious Queen..."

We "upsized" when I was ten. The bungalows were demolished and fancy new houses were built for us. Still had no money and hence did not have a tv. But things were changing now, people were getting more affluent and it wasn't only "The Smiths" that had a tv the people next door had one as well.

"Does Kenny want to come round and watch television?" To true Kenny does, so every afternoon I would go next door and sit on the floor in front of the tv and be entranced for an hour. Muffin the Mule, Andy Pandy, Wooden Tops, delights without end.

No 24 hour tv in those days, just a few hours and then "The interlude". Timings of programmes (mainly live) were not very accurate in those day so interludes were inserted to keep the audience entertained. I can remember sitting for 3 hours watching a pair of hands trying to make a pot on a potters-wheel and sixty years later I don't think it's finished yet.

"We are getting a television." A statement from mum which gave me many sleepless nights until the day arrived when I came home from school and there it was, "the thing in the corner", in my corner.

No falling out over what to watch, you watched what was on. You watched for two minutes and then the picture would break-up and dad would jump up with a "bloody-hell not again" and he would spend what seemed like an eternity twiddling the "Vertical Hold" or the "Horizontal Hold" to regain the picture. I never saw a whole programme until I was in my teens.

22nd September 1955 (don't remember this date) the first day of ITV switch-over, we all sat with bated breath whilst dad counted to ten and then turned the dial (expecting the thing to blow-up) to be confronted by "Gibbs SR toothpaste" in large letters.

Got my own home now, no TV, too busy being married and decorating. I did get to see "Match of the Day" at a friend's house after going out to the pub on a Saturday night, and rushing back with fish and chips for supper.

Now got a black and white TV, did watch it now and then, cannot really remember what I did watch.

Walking through the town one day my attention was attracted by a crowd gathered outside a shop window. I slowly mingled with the crowd and made my way towards the front and there it was, Wimbledon, in glorious colour.

And then one day, "Light-of-my-life, the Olympics are on in a few weeks, do you fancy getting a colour TV"?

Growing older now, children arrive, too many things to do beside sat gaping at "the thing in the corner".

Still don't watch much, do not have the patience to sit for an hour watching it and the sound tracks to most programmes are far too loud. But I do enjoy sitting there with The Remote, flicking from one channel to another, much to my wife's consternation.

I still have a little smile to myself every time I see The Remote, for it reminds me of the day when I managed to pluck up enough courage to change channel without asking permission.

DAY ONE

I awake from a fitful night's sleep, my mouth dry and my head spinning with thoughts that this could be it, the day I have dreamt about for many months.

I tentatively put one foot out of bed (the one with the "real" hip), get my balance and limp over to the bedroom window. With sweat dripping from every pore, my breath coming in increasingly short gasps, I peep out of the curtain and my heart almost stops, "is it?", "could this be it?" The limp disappears, and I rush downstairs as fast as I can into the kitchen. With hands shaking I put the key into the lock and unlock the door. I shut my eyes as I slowly open the door and... LEAVE IT OPEN.

Yes! Yes! This is "it" this is "day one".

Day one of a new year, after 6 months of cold, the worst winter for years, cocooned in the house, doors, windows shut.

My cocoon is a large mid-terrace Edwardian house, and even after, in the last couple of years, a major upgrade (with the help of many grants, "because I'm old") of a new central heating system and many rolls of insulation in the loft, it still takes a long time (and many pound notes) to warm-up.

British Gas (bless 'em) arrived one morning some months ago to fit me, not that I had asked for them, "Smart Meters". I get both my gas and electric from British Gas so there was not one meter man, but two! And they are smart (the meters not the meter men). The guy who used to arrive with his torch and clipboard to read my meters (who once disappeared in the "bogey hole" under the stairs for a full week, lost amongst the vacuum cleaner, a pair of stepladders and the grandson's bike) is now conspicuous by his absence. I now have someone sat at a computer (probably in India) watching my every move, they know when my heating goes on in a morning, how many cups of tea I drink. They know when I am in the bath (I did check for a webcam when the meter men left). They even know if my wife is out when Coronation Street is on.

"Sir, I need to show you how to use your "ecoMeter" (couldn't find the trademark symbol on the keyboard). The "ecoMeter" (trade mark) the size of a paperback, with more lights on it than Blackpool Illuminations. A thing of wonderment. "Press button A for gas", "press button B for electricity" (no change back with this button B). You can see you bank account being drained of your very last penny, you watch your gas usage change as the boiler goes on and off. Whilst sat watching it the graph spikes and you rush to the top of the stairs and shout to your wife, "switch that bloody kettle off". It leaves you going to bed shaking, wondering if you can afford to get up in the morning.

Now, if you turn the thermostat down a notch or two, wear three sweaters and keep jumping up and down all the time you can keep warm and keep the graph on your ecoMeter (trade mark) fairly still. That is until Friday arrives and in bursts "The Grandson". The Grandson, love him to bits, cannot close doors, learnt to tie his shoelaces when he was three, but cannot close doors. In through the front door, muddy footprints along dining room carpet, and out of the back door, and, the only time I swear, "shut that bloody door." But it gets worse, the grandson comes back for a drink and some cheese stringythings and leaves the door open, so I shut it, but then mate number one appears, comes in for a drink and some cheese stringythings and leaves the door open, so I shut it, but then mate number two appears and I... the grandson has a dozen mates!

The game so far: It has taken nine hours to get the house warm, the ecoMeter (trade mark) is close to meltdown and my bank account is shot at.

It is now seven o'clock and I am freezing, so I am going to go to bed (with one last lingering look at the ecoMeter (trade mark) ) with a hot water bottle. But before I go just let me whisper to you whilst no one is about, there is someone (name withheld for fear of reprisals) who spends hours talking with friends, hairdresser et al, and then sees them to the door and spends another hour talking with the door open.  

p.s. should I have put the ecoMeter (trade mark) in the brown bin or the grey bin?

I'VE JUST BOUGHT A KINDLE

"I've just bought a Kindle".

"A what"?

"A Kindle"!

"What the hell's a Kindle"?

I've always loved reading, books were my friends through a lonely childhood. Didn't need a friend if you had a book. It was always there when needed, you could take it with you anywhere you went. It didn't need feeding or walking.

I can remember being taught to read, the  second-class at Salterforth Primary School. Miss Fawcett, the first love of my life, taught me to read. We had a spelling book that we would take out to her if we came across a word we could not spell, I was the only one in the class that couldn't spell "a", "it", "of".

The years dragged by in the second-class, for, at every opportunity, I would go and stare through the window in the door of the top classroom, for there in full view, was an "enormous glass-fronted bookcase," full from top to bottom with books, unknown books, books that I longed to touch and feel, books, that when I eventually went into the top classroom, I coveted and finally made my own.

Arithmetic, geography, religious knowledge, all these lessons came and went, but all the time my eyes were drawn towards the "enormous glass-fronted bookcase" and finally it arrived "Reading" and, if we had behaved, we were allowed to go and select a book from the bookcase.

PRIMARY SCHOOL REPORT

Salterforth school year ended 7th July 1955

Subject        Marks                                     Remarks on subject

Reading         VG                             Reads well, knows how to use 

                                                           books to good purpose.

No need to ask what I wanted for a birthday or Christmas present(finished by Boxing Day), there was always a book, The Black Arrow, Tale of Two Cities and of course  Biggles.

Whilst watching Antiques Road Show one Sunday tea time, when books like these were being sold for a small fortune, my mother, with eyes downcast, admitted to having thrown all my books away.

Mother was an avid reader and she used to take me to a small library located in the community centre on the estate where we lived, I don't remember there being any books of interest to me but it introduced me to libraries.

Leaving primary school and going to grammar school I found my first "real" library, with "old" books, books that smelled and felt used.

These were the days of growing up, looking for the naughty bits in Lady Chatterley's Lover.

I would go the local library every week and bring home three books.

History and the English language had always been my favorite subjects and there came a time when there were no more books for me to read, novels did not interest me so visits to the library became very rare.

The advent of the Internet brings a whole new dimension to reading, you don't have to walk up to the library in the pouring rain to select a book, you just sit at your computer, click a few buttons and within a couple of days the postman will be knocking on your door with a parcel.

And then: The eBook!

A sleek, tactile electronic gadget, that can hold many hundreds of books, is a pleasure to hold, is easy on the eye and best of all you never lose your page.

It has its drawbacks, you can't read it in the bath. If you dropped your book in the bath you ended up with many dried-up wrinkly pages, which were still readable, but if you drop your eBook in the bath it's gone forever.

The Kindle is a thing of beauty but will never replace the act of deflowering a sensuous virgin book.

"...CRYING IN MY BEER"

NOTICE

RE: THE FANNY GREY HOTEL HIGH LANE

SALTERFORTH BB18 5SL. ("the premises")

TAKE NOTE that we, Enterprise Inns Plc the freehold owner of the Premises, have today entered the Premises for the purposes of making them safe AND NOT to bring the lease to an end.

Anyone with a lawful right to entry should contact 07990 550175 to gain access.

Enterprise Inns plc

3 Monkspath Hall Road

Solihull

B90 4SJ

TELEPHONE 0121 733 7700

SIGNED FOR AND IN BEHALF OF

ENTERPRISE INNS PLC

J.Wrenall

DATED

27/07/2010

The end of an era! My local for nigh on twenty years has, like many other pubs in the locality, closed-down and will probably never open again.

Pubs! Wonderful places which, for many years, have played a big part in my life. Where else could you go, and, for the price of your drink, park your car safely, be warm, have lighting at night, sit comfortably, spend as much time as you like over your drink, read a book, do a crossword, listen to music(if you were really desperate) be entertained by people-watching/listening. Play a game of darts, cards or dominoes. Buy a raffle ticket for the local village hall roof-fund. Be offered (and this is just between you and I of course) half a lamb for less than thirty pounds. "Anybody want to buy a mobile?" There would be Quiz Nights, New Years Eve parties, Bonfire Night, Bingo Nights, the list is as long as the imagination of the Landlord.

You can have free use of the toilet and, hopefully, hot water and soap to wash your hands and then a towel to dry them.

You would take your family, friends, work-mates for a meal. I spent many idle hours just sat at the end of the bar (on MY stool) just quietly contemplating everything/anything/nothing. There would be the chat and the banter, the righting of the worlds wrongs.

If you live on your own and are feeling lonely, you can walk in a pub and within minutes(at least where I live) you will be engaged in conversation with someone as if you had known them all your life, failing that the Landlord will try and tease-out your most intimate secrets.

My first contact with a pub was when I was about (and this is true) seven, just ask my mum. When my mum took me to visit my Black Grandma (she always wore black, didn't know her name. My other grandma was my Grey Grandma) she would ask me to go and get her beer for her. So, white jug in hand, I would walk past three rows of terraced houses to my granny's local, knock on the hatch which was the "off-licence", pass up the white jug to "the hand" that appeared out of the hatch and say "Granny Castle's beer please."  A 6d piece was handed to "the hand" and the white jug was handed back, now full of foaming, frothing beer**. The next twenty minutes were the longest in my life, walking slowly back to Black Granny's without spilling a drop of the precious liquid in the white jug. Mission accomplished Black Granny would give me a 3d bit, a wonderful chunky coin, which was a fortune to me at the time and had me wishing (only joking of course) that Black Granny was an alcoholic.

**STOP PRESS

Mum just told me it was Guinness and cider.

 The early 50's saw holidays to North Wales, a long train journey and then a taxi ride to a "wooden hut" close by sand dunes on a wonderful sandy beach. Mum and Dad weren't drinkers but we would have a walk to the nearest pub and enjoy the delights of "pop and crisps" sat outside.

Age 14(don't tell my mum, but I did look old for my age) saw me creeping in the back room of a local pub with... (the names have been withheld to protect the innocent) to make a pint of bitter last all night. This went on for quite a while, until one day I was getting off the train coming home from school, when the landlord of the pub, which was directly across from the railway station, was stood on the front doorstep and spotted me.

My 18th birthday came along and my first legal drink. A party was had at a local pub, many beers were drunk (and so was I). I staggered home on a frosty September night and fell asleep, the whole room whirling around me, with mutterings of "please God make me feel better and I promise never to drink again." And I didn't drink beer again! There arrived on the scene a new drink, Lager! And believe it or not we drank it with lime. It doesn't bear thinking about now.

Courting days were next, a night out was a walk (no car in those days) to a local pub.

This was the era when pubs were "Pubs". The days when pubs had many rooms, each one dedicated to something different. The Tap Room(male only) with darts, dominoes and cards. The Music Room, which always had a piano and hopefully a pianist (though they came in many degrees of competency). "There's an old mill by the stream Nelly Dean..." rang out all through the pub, much to the annoyance of the people in "The Lounge". This was the room for the posh people, complete with waiter in white jacket, with tray, and towel over his arm.

The Bar area was lined with bar stools which were all "owned" by someone and woe betide anyone who dare sit on a stool that was not theirs.

"A pint of lager-and-lime, a Babysham and two bags of crisps please".

A typical order for a courting couple in the 60's. No need to state what flavour of crisps you wanted there was only potato flavour and they came with a little blue packet of salt which you sprinkled on the crisps to your taste. An alternative would be a packet of nuts.

If it was a special occasion you would study the menu which would read as follows:

Pie and peas with raw onions in vinegar, with mint sauce 1/-3d

Stew and hard (a cold stew and oatcakes) 1/-6d

Sandwiches. Cheese and onion, ham, beef.1/-6d

Chicken and chips in a basket  2/-6d

Scampi and chips in a basket  5/-0d

DING DING

"Last orders please".

The ringing of a bell at ten-minutes-to-eleven was the signal to buy another drink if you wanted to, followed ten minutes later by:

DING DING

"Time Ladies and Gentlemen please".

Many a drink was rushed down in the last few minutes unless the Landlord, as many of them were, was prepared to close the doors and curtains and allow you to finish your drink, and possibly many more, in a civilised manner.

Courting days were followed by "married days".

Saturday was "The" night out and the night would be spent in a pub, the only alternatives were a small number of restaurants, which were far too expensive for us, and a few, but growing in number all the time, Chinese restaurants.

Every pub was packed, literally, standing room only unless you went out very early. This wasn't the days of going out for a quiet drink, it was so noisy. No "Drink driving" or "No smoking" problems in those days.

Most pubs had a jukebox, usually a wall mounted one, which would be fed with sixpenny pieces and you could play your favorite all night long if you wanted to.

The drive home was usually a scary event which ended up with twigs and leaves from hedgerows entangled in the wing-mirror, a call to the fish and chip shop for supper and a dash to watch "Match of the day" on TV.

Holidays with kids was usually me going to the pub early after tea, having a couple of pints and a chat to the locals, which one year ended up with me in a pub in Wales with it being "my turn" to take home the rather inebriated local Methodist minister, and then taking back pop and crisps for my kids.

Friday nights were special, providing there was enough money left, the whole family would go to the pub for a meal. We would all get dressed-up and the kids would walk in the pub trying to look grown-up with a big grin on their faces.

Not a drinker in these days, the highlight of the week would be a walk up to the town on Saturday night to the off-licence and come back with  a can of lager and pop and crisps for kids, I could see them stood in the window watching with anticipation for me to get back with their special treat.

I worked at Rolls-Royce for most of my working days and they had a "Welfare Centre" a super place really with a bar and large snooker tables and this was my equivalent of a pub. I would go every Friday night with two friends, play snooker, darts and dominoes and we all buy a round each and that was my drinking for the week.

Every local pub had a darts team and my brother and I played for one of the town's pub team. Every Thursday night, through the season, we would meet up and go to whichever pub we were playing against. A wonderful memory of these nights was one of our team (won't embarrass him) was throwing at the dartboard and the room was showered in sparks, he had thrown his cigar instead of the dart.

No kids with us now on holidays, so the whole week was planned around pubs, not wanting to cook, lunches would be a walk to the nearest village pub and hopefully would be had sat in a beer garden in the sun which was always my favourite way of eating. Dinner at night would be a trip in the car to some pub or restaurant.

And then it happened! My daughter and wife started working at a local pub and I would run them on in the car and then go and bring them back home, so much of my time now was spent leaning against a bar having a beer waiting to take them home. More and more time was spent at the pub, quizzes, treasure hunts, even bingo nights and we became part of the furniture at the pub

But as all good things do it came to an end and the pub was sold, things changed and time to move on.

I started to go to another local pub the landlord of which I knew from primary school days, and got very attached to it, part of my life for seventeen years, I had my own stool at the end of the bar. There was the quiz on Tuesday night and the Thursday-night-craic with the lads around the bar.

The years came and went lunches and dinners were had at the pub with family and friends, until one night:

"We are leaving Ken."

The landlord and his wife had spent seventeen years of their life, possibly eighteen hours a day, working hard in the pub, and had had enough.

From there it was all downhill, different landlord, different ideas:

"Quizzes don't make me any money"

"Don't sit there, that's for diners."

The Thursday night gang disappearing one-by-one.

Until one Thursday night I walked in and...

"I threw all the bar-stools away they were looking a mess."

R.I.P

VILLAGE LIFE GONE BY

Now village life is not the same,

As once it used to be.

The pub's boarded-up all around,

'tis a shame you will agree.

The Old School House is lived in now,

Its name aside the door.

The playground sounds no longer heard,

Only traffic's mighty roar.

The village shop sells arts and crafts,

To view you've got to 'phone.

No carrots, beans and lettuce now,

That used to be homegrown.

No pension, stamp or parcel now,

The post office, it has shut.

Just one of many services,

To us that they have cut.

The village hall is all that's left,

It gives us all a hub.

It's where we all have meetings,

To say "give us back our pub".

SPRING'S ON ITS WAY

The days are getting longer now,

'tis clearly plain to see.

The pain of Winter's nearly gone,

That hurt both you and me.

The mornings frosts don't last long now,

The Sun's high in the sky.

The Fair Maids of February,

They'll flower and then they'll die.

The Daffodil's the next to come,

The portent of Springs bright days.

The joyous yellow flowers,

Are so welcome to my gaze.

Green sprouting in the hedgerows,

There's buds upon the trees.

Birds are singing in the boughs,

There's the buzzing of the bees.

BATH TIME BLUES

What bliss, life's most wonderful luxury, a hot bath.

Am in the bath now, a beer perched on the end, writing pad and pencil in hand, and a blank mind.

I love to write but always need a catalyst to start me off, but just lately I have dried-up.

Laid here, mind a blank, gazing at the light bulb, one of the new energy saving types, get more light from a Dale Winton smile.

Boilers going a long time, wife must be using a lot of hot water, will adjust the thermostat, it must be costing me a fortune.

The corner of the wallpaper is peeling off just above the tiles, must get that fixed.

"Who the hell painted that ceiling, there's bits missed all over".

Water getting cold.

New taps with levers on as part of an ongoing battle against my arthritis, I can turn  them on and off with my toes.

"I better get some more toilet rolls tomorrow".

Transfixed, almost hypnotised by the constant flickering of the green light on the carbon monoxide alarm, gasman who has just been to service the boiler said I don't need it, didn't ask why.

Been here almost an hour but still nothing comes to mind, getting bored and running out of beer.

"That bloody sink tap's dripping, another job for my list".

My List! nothing on it about about lazing about in the bath trying to think of something to write about.

Amazing what you see when laid horizontally:

Cobwebs in corner of room, that light shade needs dusting, and look at that! Forgot to put wallpaper on the underside of the window recess.

Whoops! A few bubbles there.

Used to have a big old-fashioned cast-iron bath, that was wonderful. Used to have swimming races in it with my grandson, more water on floor than left in bath, he loved it, but he can't remember it now he's twelve and hasn't had a bath for weeks.

I could write a poem I suppose? Nah!

Just counted 15 bottles/sprays on the cupboard shelves(the shaving cream is mine).

Will get some paste tomorrow and stick that paper down before it gets any worse.

"God it took me weeks to paper this room!"

"I put this paper up by hand,

And then I..."

What rhymes with hand?

Water cold again.

Cut to:

Elderly gentleman, laid in bath, stretches out foot and turns tap on.

Can't even write a decent script.

A bluebottle there, you don't see many nowadays and why do you never see them on the outside of a window?

That boilers still going, what on earth is she doing?

Had enough now, will get out of the bath and try and write a story about trying to write a story in the bath.