Or not, as the case may be. I’m a good starter, full of ideas and beginnings. Sometimes, when I’m really on a roll, I keep on keeping on until whatever it is is complete. BUT, not always. We have a cupboard under the stairs and it doesn’t have room for Harry Potter. In fact it doesn’t even have room for his wand. It contains many unfinished projects, knitting, sewing, embroidery, crochet, you name it. And not only things I’ve started and lost interest, but also stuff bought and never even unwrapped. When I was working full time, I used to go to craft fairs and shows and I would buy kits and/or materials that I didn’t have time to do but would put aside “for when I retire…” Continue reading “Finish what you started”
My cousin and his wife, the ones we went to Winchester and Arundel with a few weeks ago, came to stay last week, so we were out and about in our “local” (within 100 miles) area. It’s one of those things, you don’t appreciate your own back yard until it’s time to think of places to take guests and then there’s suddenly a lot to choose from.
There was a vintage fair in our nearest town, Rotherham, with live music from the 1940’s and 50’s. Unfortunately, this included a George Formby tribute act, which begs the question, why the Hell would you want to pay a tribute to George Formby? Anyway, all his songs have now been added to the “Songs I never liked” category and are henceforth consigned to the flames. There was also a BeeBop band with a girl singer who had a most mellifluous voice, in absolute contrast to the nasal squeaks of the above mentioned torturer of innocent words.
There were vintage cars, which we were all drooling over and motor bikes too, which had the guys doing a bit of mental time travel, back to when they were Yorkshire versions of James Dean, rather than hopeful auditioners for a new series of Last of the Summer Wine. Continue reading “Jet, Dracula and Fish and chips.”
You may have noticed that the loved one and I get about a bit. “Why?” You may ask. England is very beautiful, especially when the weather is good. However, that has not always been the case. I come from what was once the industrial heartland of the UK, where the air was yellow with sulphur from the coking plants, or grey from steelworks smoke. Men worked in the foundries and rolling mills; the pits or the coking plants; the glassworks or the cutlery factory. A job was for life but life wasn’t always long, with asbestosis, pneumoconiosis, emphysema, bronchitis, asthma or chemical related cancers as a constant and the fear of industrial accidents forever hanging over us. We never wanted to hear the siren from the pithead, it could only have meant one thing.
My dad worked down the pit from being a teenager and hated every minute of it. He wasn’t educated enough to do anything else so it was that or the steelworks and the pit was nearer. So he escaped at every opportunity, through books, through films or through travel. And he infected me too. I read from an early age and there were no restrictions on what I read. I was welcome to try anything in the house and ask questions that always got a considered answer. It did cause a little fuss at school once. I was about 10 and had been reading a novel called “the rainbow” by Wanda Wassilevska. We were asked to bring a book we were reading to school and share it with the class. I started reading aloud a passage where a resistance worker in the Ukraine gave birth to her baby hidden in a barn. As the Gestapo officer took the newborn and threatened to kill it, which I thought was really exciting, my teacher thanked me with a rather fixed smile and someone else got up to read. I can remember being mildly disappointed at having to stop but was completely amazed when school contacted my parents and suggested at least a little censorship might be in order. Continue reading “Wrong time, wrong place?”