GROWING UP IN A PREFAB

                      

In 1945 at the end of World War II Dad was de-mobbed from the Royal Navy, he had been an aero-engine fitter on aircraft carriers.

Shortly afterwards he got a job at Rolls-Royce in Barnoldswick and so, in April 1946, when I was six months old, we moved from Ashton-Under-Lyne, near Manchester, to live in Earby.

   We lived firstly at 22 Warwick Drive with my aunt and uncle, who like my Dad had got a job at Rolls-Royce, then in a flat above a shop at 111a Colne Road, until the day came when we moved into a prefab at 16 Chesford Avenue on The Ranch.

  Northolme Estate(named after a nearby farmhouse), known colloquially as The Ranch, was situated at the top of a hill on Salterforth Lane, a short distance from the railway station. The estate comprised of semi-detached prefabricated (prefab) bungalows which were erected at the start of the war to house “essential workers”. The estate got its nickname from the community centre which looked like a ranch house.

   The community centre was a large prefabricated building, it had a bar, a small stage, snooker tables and one room at the end was a library, which on Saturdays was used as a cinema where films were shown. It was run for a long time by Phyllis and Bill Brookes whose son John tells me he used to help change the beer barrels and serve behind the bar at age twelve.

PREFAB

   The prefabs were constructed from asbestos sheeting with a corrugated roof.

Very basic, they had asphalted floors (“The lino’s coming today”), a black leaded range in the kitchen and a small fireplace in the living room. My initial memory is of it being so cold. There were three bedrooms and a separate toilet and bathroom (bath day was Sunday), which for the times was quite posh. Each prefab had a large amount of garden on all three sides and many people grew their own vegetables. Each house had a marked out garden and the land in between was a communal area. One day I picked Mum some flowers from the garden only to be told, at my cost, that they were strawberries.

   Times were hard and nobody had very much money so the house was very basically furnished, I can visualise in the living room a table,  peg rug, two chairs and a sideboard on which Dad had a fish tank, and in one of the drawers (the left-hand one) was “the strap” which my Mum, who I love to bits, used to administer what we would now call corporal punishment for my any misdemeanor. Parents were strict in those days but we were basically treated as young adults and were given more freedom than today’s parents would do. My bedroom consisted of a bed and a wicker basket in which I kept my worldly goods, clothes, toys, and my treasured books. There was a small porch at the side door which housed a mangle. Mum says that in “The Winter” of 1947 I crawled out of the porch and into the deep snow.

ENVIRONS

The estate was developed on a green field site on land requisitioned from two local farmers, and was split in two by Salterforth Lane, which basically led to there being two separate communities.

   It was a wonderful place to grow up in,  there was only one car I can remember, so no problems with traffic and the roads were ours to use as we wanted, to play football and cricket on. On all sides was beautiful countryside which we used to roam and explore as we wished. Many times we would pack sandwiches and take a bottle of sarsaparilla and walk up into the hills overlooking Earby and not get back home until it was almost dark

   I have a recollection of walking up the lane to the first farm with Dad to collect firewood. In the field across from the farm was a  large windmill, now gone but the spring is still used to water the cattle.

RANCH EVENTS

The Ranch was a very close-knit community and as was usual in those days everyone would join in. Every year there would be a bonfire which was built on the land between Chesford Avenue and Kenilworth Drive. We used to hollow out the base of the bonfire to make a den, one year we even lined it with plasterboard which we “stole” from the new houses that were being built. All the mothers would do their share of baking toffee apples, parkin, treacle toffee, and potatoes would be roasted in the embers of the fire.

   1953 was the year of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. Tables were set-up along the length of Chesford Avenue and cakes and jelly appeared from out of nowhere. Bunting was put up, paper hats were worn and for the first time in my life I watched television. A family called Nuttall had the only tv (and car) on the estate and we all took it in turns to gaze at a very small glass screen at a black and white fuzzy image of the queen being crowned. After the party sports were held on the Bristol Tractors football field.

   Other events I remember were, a mobile fish and chip shop that came round quite often, a converted van with a large fryer which had a chimney attached to it to get the fumes away, I can’t remember what the fish and chips tasted like but canyou imagine what is was like driving a van with a vat full of hot fat.

    Most days in summer Dixons’ ice cream van came round, they were based in Foulridge and the taste of the ice cream still lingers. The van is still around, owned by a gentleman in Kelbrook.

   The “Pop man” came round most weeks with large brown, stone-bottles of Sarsaparilla, lemonade, limeade, Dandelion and Burdock.

Very occasionally an Indian man (the first coloured person I had seen), who wore a turban, came selling dusters and brushes from a large brown suitcase.

   And best of all with cries of “Ragbone”, “Ragbone”! The rag and bone man on his horse and cart.

MEMORIES

  One of my jobs was to go on my bogie and get a sack of coke from Victoria mill

which used to stand across from what is now the bus station. Going there was a wonderful trip, going down the steep hill on my bogie (once again thankfully for not many cars about) and quite often crashing into the hedge that surrounded the field in front of North Holme farm. The trip back was quite different. With a heavy bag of coke on my bogie and having to pull it up the very steep hill it would take me ages.

   My Dad's first car was a green Riley, he was joint owner with Jackmans & Robinsons. During winter it was shut up in a garage, chocked up on wood blocks and the wheels taken off.

   When I was twelve (by law I think) I got a paper round with the newsagents which was part of the small buildings next to Doug Hornby’s barbers’ shop by the railway crossing. The round included Kelbrook and Sough so I had to do it on my bike and every Friday I was paid my wage of two shillings and sixpence.

 Misc:-

Sweet rationing ended on 5^th feb 1953, ration books had little orange coupons in them.

Didn’t like milk much, Mum put blue colouring in it to entice me to drink it.    

A family called Betts had a large pink Cadillac, I have vague memories of it being in a bad crash.

Hid outside the bedroom window where brother Les was born and heard his first cry.

The family who lived across from us had a hen hut.

There was a single track branch line to Barnoldswick from the main line and I would sit and watch out of the bedroom window to catch sight of the bellowing smoke which signaled the approach of the train.

PLAYING/ENTERTAINMENT

  No TV or computers in those days, all entertainment was self made.

We would play out in the streets as late as we were allowed, street lights would

enable us to continue playing until the dreaded cry “time to come in now”.

The list of games we played was endless:

Marbles

Relieve “o”.

Kick-the-can

Carts/bogies.

Hop scotch.

Telephones made from tin cans and string etc

   A family called Purdey had an old black car which stood broken down for ages. A gang of us would push it to the top of Tysley Grove, which had a slight incline,

then jump in and steer it back to the bottom (and still live).

   My brother Les and I had a tent and we go camping by the beck side in the fields at the back of the estate by the railway bridge. Not very waterproof we

spent many a wet night in it.

   The only “playing in” I can remember was with my collection of lead soldiers (heads/arms/legs fixed back on with a matchstick and some  plasticine) and associated toys, dinky tanks etc. I would go round to a friends house and we would make forts out of cardboard and cellotape. Many battles were enacted, I won some, I lost some.

    Summer time would be spent playing on the Bristol Tractors football field, two fields down from the estate towards Sough. Football and cricket matches which could be fifteen or more a-side were played for hours on end. The Dell, an old stone-quarry in the field at the rear of Kenilworth Drive, next to the railway line, was a favourite place to play hide and seek.

Winter was spent sledging in the fields or skating down the ginnel path to the fields.

   Always  keen on football I first played for Salterforth primary school team against teams from schools in Barnoldswick. I then played for the estate junior team in the local league where games were played on Saturday mornings. I left Salterforth school and went to Ermysteds Grammar school at Skipton where we went to school Saturday mornings so my chances of playing football were very limited. Lads from Earby who went to Ermysteds had formed a team who played their games on Saturday afternoons, I went to play for them, we wore our black and white rugby shirts so were called the Humbugs.

   Later I played with Armorides who played their games on The Rec, we got changed in a building behind the Armorides factory and then walked through the street to The Rec. I also played for Earby who played their games on Sough park.

   The egg packing station on the estate lay empty for some while until a group of us helped by a man called Walter (Wally) Thornton “did it up”, cleaned and painted it and started a Youth club(1957, Paul Anka, Diana). Mothers would take it in turn to supervise us(but we would still take a sneaky drag of a fag in the toilets).

   We had a table tennis table, dart board, refreshments counter with pop and crisps. There was music from a record player which we used to “bop” to.

I took my record player across one night with my prized collection of 78rpm shellac records and promptly dropped the lot and ended up with a pile of cracked and chipped records. Along with Michael Crearer and Keith Munton we entered, and won, the West Craven under 14’s table tennis championships and I won the under 14’s singles.

   When I was eight I joined the cubs whose meetings were held in New Road school. The cub leader was Veronica Nash who lived on The Ranch on Tysley Grove. We wore a green jersey and a yellow kneckerchief. The scout group leader was Herbert Lumb(who smelled of pipe smoke) who had a saddlers business in a shop on Colne Road.

TOWN & DISTRICT

  There was a large park at Sough which was a long walk away if you went down the hill from The Ranch and then along the main road, or went through the fields at the back of the estate so we would walk through the field to the dell and then run across the railway lines. There were swings etc, a paddling pool, and sometimes Earby brass band would be playing at weekends.

   Colne baths was a Saturday morning treat. We would catch the cream coloured Ribble X43 bus. Two wonderful hours were spent, swimming, diving and jumping in the bath. On the way back to catch the bus we would call in at a shop near the baths and buy a hot meat and potato pie for our lunch

 Socials were held in the Baptist church on Water Street.

   A fair came a few times each year and was sited where the bus station is now.

There were the usual side shows, swings and dodgem cars. A rock and Roll competition was held.

   The Empire cinema, two films I remember going to see were Rock Around The Clock and The Ascent Of Everest.

   The Band Club on New Road had a rock and roll night to which many teenagers from Colne came on a double-decker bus. We would creep up the stairs and peep through the door.

   The recreation ground known as The Rec was,  reached by going under the railway bridge at the side of the garage on Skipton Road. It was where the gala day parade finished. It was also a football field.

   The large enclosed bus waiting room by the Station Hotel (early courting days).

  The Waterfalls near the youth hostel on Birch Hall Lane was a favorite spot to go to, we would explore the waterfalls, paddle in the paddling pool, there were swings, an “umbrella” and plenty of room to play football In. When I was younger my mum would take me and my brother(in his pram) and we would have picnics.

  Haircuts were done by Doug Hornby who had a shop in the rear room of the sweet shop on the corner of Colne Road and Rostle Top Road. You had to walk through the shop to get to the barbers so most times a haircut cost a shilling plus a quarter of sweets.

Doug then acquired a shop (still a hairdressers) in the small buildings next to the railway level crossing. There were seats in the shop that had come out of The Empire cinema when it closed down.

  At the first house on Salterforth lane at the bottom of the hill to The Ranch was a general store owned by Harrisons. I am told that even up till fairly recently they would put together food parcels, to send to local people who had gone to live abroad, which would contain food items that the people missed and could not get where they lived.

SCHOOL

   I was three almost four when I started school. Mum would walk me there, about a mile, and then come and collect me when school was finished. When older I would walk or ride there on my bike and when brother Les started at the school I would sit him on the saddle until he was old enough to go on his own three-wheel-bike. Later on there was a bus service started.

  Quite often in summer we would walk, along the lane to Klondyke, or through the fields and onto the bridle path called Mucky Lane.

My brother and I would have meals at school until the price of the meal went up to 6d a day and my mother either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay it, so we went home on our bikes and I would make us a fried egg (only 9 at the time) I didn’t like yolk so being the biggest I had the white.

I enjoyed singing and would sing solo at the harvest festivals. Along with some friends, at one concert we sang Rock Around The Clock which was all the rage at the time, so it would be 1954/55. We had practiced for some weeks in one of the unused garages in “The Dip” on Warwick Drive.

Teachers I remember, Miss Longbottom, who was the headmistress, Miss Fawcett who I adored, Miss King, Mr Edmondson headmaster, Miss Petty.

A memory that still makes me laugh was the whole school sat in the hall listening

to a commentary on the radio of the eclipse of the sun. The internet tells me this was on Wednesday the 30^th June 1954. My first girlfriend, Sandra Hewitt who I still see sometimes.

  A friend of mine at school was Howard Southwell who lived at Spen Head farm at Klondyke and during summer I would go with him to the farm and we would help his dad with the haymaking, his mum would bring large jugs of tea and lemonade out to us with sandwiches and scones.

I sat and passed my 11+ exam and went to Ermysted’s  Grammar School at Skipton. We went to school by train which set off from Barnoldswick, I would watch out of the dining room window to see it coming and then I would run down the hill to catch it. Not the happiest days of my life, I was the only one from The Ranch there, and it was made quite clear that I was not in the same league as the lads from posh Grassington, Gargrave and even Thornton.

  One happy memory, when I was only 14/15(I looked old then) I would sneak into the back room of The Station Hotel through the door on Rostle Top Road and one of the older lads would get me a beer, a pint of Massey’s mixed, until one day I got off the school train and was spotted by Eddie Wood the landlord who was stood on the steps at the front of the pub, which curtailed my illicit drinking at The Station Hotel for a few years.

BUILDING NEW HOUSES

  The prefabs were built originally as a temporary measure to house workers until the cessation of the war. The houses were falling into disrepair when finances allowed new replacements to be built.

  The new houses were built partially of prefabricated walls which were stacked up all over the site awaiting being erected. We would wriggle our way down from the top of the pile through doorways and windows and make the inevitable den.

  The building company had a night watchman, a very large man and we nicknamed him (and I apologise to any of his kith or kin who may read this)

“Big Jim Seven Bellies”. He sat in a cabin through the night and kept warm with a brazier. We would throw stones at the back of his cabin and run away. Don’t think he ever chased after us.

  There was a lifting rig of some kind which had pneumatic tyres which was being used in the construction of the new houses and was parked near our house. I had, at age eight, believe it or not, a “scout knife” a quite long bone-handled knife. One day I was idly playing near this rig with my knife and I burst a tyre. Some while later came a knock on the door where stood the local bobby. It must have been a Sunday for I can remember getting out of the bath and creeping naked into the living room and watching my precious knife slowly melting away in the fire where my mum had thrown it.

  We moved into the new house in 1953 and my Mum, only a few months before she died, told me she moved us there using a wheelbarrow she borrowed off the next door neighbour (didn’t say where Dad was).

THE END

  The years went on and then as it does when you reach your early teens your life changes. During my teenage years the only thing I saw of The Ranch was the walk to the bus stop to catch a bus to Barnoldswick , Majestic, cinema, “Bop Club”, coffee bars, girl friends.

"TUDAY I GO ON HOLLYDAY"

(Grandad in middle window, brother Les in right-hand window)

The excitement grew and grew, as day by day the days were ticked-off on the calendar, until the morning arrived when I woke up, jumped out of bed and dashed to the calendar, and there it was, written in my eight-year-old’s writing in very large capital letters "TUDAY I GO ON HOLLYDAY."

   Mum and dad were woken up, and younger brother, not yet four, was prodded into life (an event that, fifty-seven years later, he still reminds me of).

And so the day began of the most exciting week of a young lad's life.

   For year after year holidays meant a week in North Wales in a wooden bungalow, on a holiday site a stone's throw away from the sea, beyond the most wonderful sand dunes, accompanied by grandma and grandad (whom I think paid for it).

   The large sturdy suitcase packed, dad would check his wallet(once again) to ensure that the large white, five-pound note was still there that had taken all year to save-up and the short walk from the estate where I lived(known affectionately as The Ranch) to the railway station, was made.

   I stood on the platform as near to the edge as I dare (or my mum would let me), neck craning, watching for the train to appear in the distance. And there it was!

Smoke billowing into the sky, the clickety-click sound of the wheels on the track and the majestic beast ground slowly to a halt in front of me. My heat thumping I climbed the steep step into the train, a posh train it had a corridor and a toilet!

   The suitcase was put, with a certain amount of struggling, onto the luggage rack and all were seated, me next to the window, so I could look out and devour every minute of the trip, and my brother (already asleep) on my mum's lap.

   The guard waved his green flag, blew his whistle and the train, with a great deal of hissing of steam and blowing of whistle, slowly left the station but within minutes was going at full speed. Five minutes into the journey, under the pretence of wanting a wee, I went exploring. At each end of every carriage was a door and the window could be let down with a leather strap, this was duly done and the exhilaration of sticking my head out and letting the steam from the engine flow across my face told me that my holiday had started.

   It wasn't until many years later, as an adult, that I discovered how long the journey took, for the moment I fell asleep was the same instance that my mum shook me awake saying "we're here," and mysteriously my grandma and grandad were now sitting across from me.

   With dad carrying the large suitcase and mum carrying my brother and gripping my hand tightly, a slow progress through the thronged station was made until, finally, we all stood slightly bewildered outside the railway station.

"Taxi!" shouted dad and within minutes we were on our way to our final destiny, "hour hollyday."

   After what seemed an eternity the taxi pulled off the main road, drove along a small lane, over a bridge across the railway line (I was asleep when the train went under this bridge) and there, stretching for miles, were the most amazing sand dunes, almost desert-like they seemed to carry on forever.

   The taxi slowly drove along a rough rutted track which ran parallel with the dunes, (alongside of which were dozens of caravans, chalets, converted railway carriages etc) until it stopped outside a large green wooden bungalow, which was to be my home for the next week.

   Our accommodation was a wooden bungalow which, judging by the other ones around it was quite posh. A short distance from it was a little wooden shed, which, to my amusement, was the toilet, a chemical toilet, which at varying periods of time was carried by two adults (names drawn out of a hat) as far away from the bungalow as possible, a large hole dug (hopefully not in the same place as last weeks) and the contents disposed of.

   At all the crossroads of the tracks throughout the site was a water stand-pipe.

Grandad used to take me to help him fill and carry a bucket of water. They were our precious moments alone. He would ask me how I was getting on at school and, when no one was looking, he would give me a 6d piece out of his waistcoat pocket. I loved him (and still think of him).

   At the rear of the bungalow was a swing on which was spent many happy hours.

   Every morning, very early, a van from the local newsagents/grocery store would drive slowly along the rutted track that ran along the length of the site by the sand dunes. My job (and my first paid one) was to go and get the daily paper, a loaf of bread and a pint of milk for which I was given my daily wage of 6d. I would take with me a small wheelbarrow to carry back The Wagon Wheel which in those days were 18" in diameter and weighed one and a half pounds and would get the comic of the day. After taking the bread and milk back to mum I would escape into the dunes and sit on my own to read my comic and savor every last crumb of The Wagon Wheel.

   Grandad's job was to peel the potatoes, he would sit outside in the sun, even though the temperature was (as it was in those days) 90^o F. He always wore a jacket, pullover and tie. A very quiet, gentle man, he would quietly puff away on his pipe as he methodically peeled away. Grandma on the other hand was always cold and had a hot water bottle in bed throughout the summer much to grandad's consternation.

   Dad had relations, aunties, uncles, cousins, who lived in Liverpool which was only an hour's drive away, or in some instances a four-hour cycle ride away, and most days there would appear some of them, all happy to have a day out at the seaside and the hopes of a free lunch (I was cynical even at that tender age).

   It was always sunny so tea was had on the beach. No one had swimsuits in those days so the men took off their sweaters and rolled up their sleeves whilst the ladies hitched up their skirts to just above the knee, apart from grandma who loosened her scarf and took off her gloves. But there was one uncle who took all his clothes off and put his underpants on back to front "in case it popped out".

Sandwiches, cake and buns were carried across the track to the dunes and a sheltered spot found. A large brown teapot was carried back and forwards throughout the meal with a fresh brew.

   There were other kids about and I soon made friends. One of them was my age who had a brother the same age as mine. We would spend hours every day on the beach (photos in album) and by the end of the week we would be black with the sun. Sun cream? And what a sight when stripped off for a bath.

He was staying in a converted railway carriage, of which there were many, and we would often go in and play cards with his mum who, to my downcast eyes, had only one arm and I watched with wonder as she dealt out the cards with only one hand.

   Despite the basic accommodation and, I suppose, not having much money (think grandma and grandad were comfortably off) meals seemed to be quite formal, all sat around a large table waiting for my mum’s contribution to haute cuisine, “Fray Bentos Steak and kidney pie in a tin”. It’s still a standing joke that my mum’s pastry came out of the oven whiter than when it went in.

   A walk along the beach to the nearest village set me off on a lifelong love of pubs. Neither mum or dad were big drinkers but twice during the week we would sit outside the pub on wooden benches and wait for dad to appear with a tray laden with a half pint shandy, a bottle of Mackeson, two glasses of lemonade and two packets of crisps (only potato flavour in those day with a small blue packet of salt).

   And then one year we had a car, well a quarter share in a car as they did in those days and we went “on holliday” in it. The contents of “the large sturdy suitcase” were stuffed in the small boot, sandwiches were made and flasks of tea made to sustain us on our epic journey, which nowadays would take one and a half hours.

   With everyone seated (brother asleep already) we set off and as soon as we got around the first corner the car spluttered to a halt. Out of petrol! Dad was always loath to spend money and always waited until the dial on the fuel gauge disappeared from view. And who had the job of carrying an empty can and walking a mile to the nearest garage, which was at Salterforth?

  Year after year until I was ten this happened, the same week every year but the calendar now said “Today I go on holiday”.

Many wonderful memories remain, photographs(which I still have), plastic  triangular stick-on badges "We've been to Prestatyn" filled up the car windows until you couldn’t see out, and the garage I walked to with an empty can has long since been demolished but I still smile when I drive past where it had been.

WHAT A WAY TO GO!

Barnoldswick 
      & Earby Times

                                       KEEPING YOU IN TOUCH

NEWSFLASH!

GREAT FREEZE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM.

FORMER  EARBY POP STAR FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH.

The emergency services were called to the home of Kenny Ranson at 25 Gisburn Road, Barnoldswick, in the early hours of this morning after Mr I.Deliver, the local milkman, rang them in a state of panic saying,  “I always see Kenny wandering about when I deliver the milk and when I did not see him I felt very worried because he owed me two weeks milk money.”

Kenny was found sat rigid at his computer and written on the screen were the words:

“Would someone please water my tomato plants when I’ve go…………….ne”.

The coroner's verdict will be posted on Kenny’s Blog sometime this afternoon.

All contributions to be sent to BUGGER (Buggered Up Gardeners Great Exhibition Revival)

"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.