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From a new life in spain, to an old life in britain, 'roaming brit' documents uncertain times!

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On 31st January 2016, my partner and I left Southampton to start a new life as Expats in Gran Alacant, on the Costa Blanca. This blog will document our journey, as we navigate the Spanish system, travelling a path untried and untested. With Brexit looming, political turmoil in Europe and an unpredictable future, harsh decisions have to be made. Illness, family bonds and a Change of heart all make for challenging times in a life of a 'Roaming Brit!'

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Nostalgia!

24/1/2019

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I’m getting older; at 48 years old, I never truly believed I would make middle age. Yesterday I was 21 years old, over night I changed, grew older, got greyer, balder and started to recall memories I thought I had forgotten. Tonight I have just watched the ‘One Show,’ a rare thing for me; I don’t often get time to sit down and watch TV. In this topical magazine programme, they had a segment on ‘nostalgia,’ remembering the ‘good old days’ and looking back towards better times. Of course not all of the past was good, but as people we do tend to only remember the happy times and for me I look back with fondness at my childhood, in a way, I never thought I would!

On Roaming Brit, I do write about my childhood experiences often in ‘Short Stories From My Youth,’ it is a part of my legacy, that I want to leave for family and friends to read. I have become far more aware of my own mortality in recent times, especially now, approaching my fifties and I do find myself looking back to the 1970s with special significance. Reflecting is a mechanism I use to feel at ease, comfortable and confident with my own sense of well-being. My happiness today is firmly built around my ability to recall events forty or more years ago, remembering what made me the person I am today.

Everything was so much simpler when I was a wee lad; the days seemed longer, the family was bigger and I had more friends than I can remember. There were so many personalities in and out of my life, I just can’t recall all of them today. Everyone was an Uncle or Aunt, there were Cousins and neighbours, popping round for a cup of tea or a Harvey’s Bristol Cream and there were always visitors patting you on the head, rubbing your hair or kissing you on the cheek, leaving a trail of saliva in their wake. There were so many characters in fact that loneliness was never an option; just fun filed days exploring a brand new World of excitement, new experiences and places yet to explore!

During the 1970s, I built friendships and relationships with others on a face to face basis, there was no social media or computers, smart phones or tablets, there was just good old fashioned talking or a phone box conversation at the end of the road, spending two pence to speak in secret with my friend in Abbey Field Drive. All of my peers lived a short distance away, spending time in and out of each others houses, enjoying the best of childhoods. None of us came from wealthy families, but we all had enough to get by. There were no designer clothes and expensive trainers, just home cut hair and hand me down clothes!

These are the days I remember; much simpler, Christmas lights shining brighter, snow falling deeper, the sun shining brighter. These are the events that shaped my character, taking a trip down memory lane, harking back with thought and fervour, during trying and testing times. These were the special moments so important for me today, these were the beginnings of independence, during the best days of my life.


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Short Stories From My Youth - Cigarettes!

14/4/2018

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I was spending the day with Nan, Mum and Dad had gone out. Outside the weather was cold, I could see the neighbours trees swaying gently in the bitter northerly wind. Sitting in the kitchen, I was warm, sheltered from the January chill; Nan was making dinner, the smell of steak and kidney pudding drifting throughout the house. Rich thick, dark gravy was simmering on the stove, as Nan finished lining each ceramic pot, with a hearty suet pastry. I watched as Nan spooned the meat into the cases, sealing them tightly with a muslin cloth, left to boil as she started to peel potatoes for the evening meal.

Nanny often told me the story of when she worked in Lyons Bakery, during the War, baking bread. She always took great pride in her appearance; even at the height of the conflict, when rationing was in force; she still made the best of a bad situation. In all the years I knew my Nan, I never once saw her without make up; needing dough at Lyons was no exception. A smoker at the time, she would puff on a cigarette, even when on the production line. In Nan’s words, ‘often dropping ash into a bowl of flour!’ Times were very different then and nobody seemed to mind, let alone die from embers in a loaf; if anything, Nan continued ‘it added flavour to the bread;’ looking up for divine inspiration, jesting in fun!

I went outside in the garden with Nan, it was time for a quick cigarette. Wrapped up warmly in her thick woollen cardigan, me in a duffel coat and bobble hat, which Nan had buttoned up to my neck, we stood shivering by the conservatory; I could barely move my head, as she flung a scarf around my chin. Nan always smoked ‘Cadets,’ in a red a white packet; she opened the box, and realised she had none left, tipping the packet upside down just to make sure. She sighed, took my hand and walked back inside.

‘If I write you a note, will you go and see the lady down the road and get me another packet?’ Nan asked. I nodded my head, looking forward to going out on my own. I suppose I couldn’t have been any more than ten years old at the time and knew the lady in the Newsagents well. She always seemed happy to see me and gave me a few penny sweets as I passed by. I often walked the short distance to the parade of shops in Highlands road, on my own, without an adult in tow! There was no fear or paranoia from an over worked Mum, not letting their child out of site. We were safe and able to walk unaccompanied, an altogether unfamiliar childhood by today’s standards.

Nan wrote a note on a piece of paper:

“Please can you let my Grandson have a packet of 20 Cadets, From Mrs Frampton at number 8 Coppice Way!”

She folded it neatly and placed it into my top pocket with a crisp one pound note. “Don’t lose it!” she said, as I ran out the door. Jumping up at the side gate, I managed to lift the latch. Nan followed close behind, securing it as I ran around the corner into Fareham Park Road. “Ring the bell, when you come back,” I heard her shout, as I enthusiastically waved goodbye.

I waited patiently behind the Man in front, as he bought a packet of Woodbines, coughing all the while. He paid for his cigarettes, turned and walked towards the door, patting me on the head as he left; mumbling something as he did so. “Hello there!” said the lady behind the counter, “what can I do for you?” she asked, leaning down towards me, trying to catch my eye. I placed the note on the counter, which she duly read. “Ah for Poppy,” I heard her say. Everyone knew each other in our little town!

She put a packet of twenty, four rhubarb and custards and the change into a white paper bag. Finally she scribbled a message onto the back; taking stapler from the counter, she secured the parcel tightly; gently she placed the package into my hand. “Don’t lose it; Nanny wont be happy.” she shouted as I skipped out the door.

Nan was waiting for me, when I got back, standing on the drive. I handed her the bag, she smiled as she read the words; probably a few lines of encouragement to help her give up smoking, which thankfully she eventually did; carefully removing the cigarettes, she positioned them in my hand. Nanny knew I liked opening a new packet, I loved the smell of the tobacco, as I removed the foil tab, tipping it towards my nose, enjoying the aroma. “Don’t you ever smoke like me,” Nanny always said; of course I never listened and Nanny was always right!

33 years a smoker, finally nicotine free!


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Short Stories From My Youth - School Dinners!

28/3/2018

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Mrs Brooks class was a hive of activity; each table had their own projects to complete. Paints, Crayola crayons and multicoloured pencils were laying haphazardly across the desks; all of us chatting with each other. I was in a mischievous mood, flicking paint at the girl sat next to me. By the end of the lesson, we were both covered in an assortment of acrylic, not even the plastic aprons would save us. Mrs Brooks walked over, she looked angry, the frown on her face revealing. Taking us both to one side, she gave us a good telling off and a smack on the back of the legs. I’d been spanked before, standing outside the headmistresses office for the rest of the day; I was an old pro, so hardly reacted; the young lass shed a few tears and we were both ordered to the toilets to clean up before lunch. By the time I had finished, I was in a worse state than before, soaking wet, dripping all over the floor. Cautiously I walked back into class, hoping to avoid catching Mrs Brooks eye. Sheepishly, I sat down at my desk, looking away from her gaze. My friend sat next to me facing the other way, so I did the same; friends no more!

It was dinner time, the bell sounded in the hall. Everyone started to tidy their desks. ‘Quietly, do it quietly!’ shouted Mrs Brooks, trying to make herself heard over the commotion in class. ‘I said quietly!’ she repeated once again. Suitably calm and composed, sitting in our seats, we always said a little prayer before dinner. ‘Close your eyes, hands together,’ shouted Mrs B:

‘Thank you for the world so sweet,
Thank you for the food we eat.
Thank you for the birds that sing,
Thank you God for everything.’


Everyone queued in two neat lines, boys one side, girls the other, holding hands as we made our way to the hall. We were on the last sitting today, the canteen was running a little later than usual; the queue unusually ending outside the door. Children jostled for pole position, pushing in front of their peers, wanting to get their food first. I was leant up against the wall, patiently waiting my turn. Mum had always taught me how to behave and never to bulldoze my way to the front; it wasn’t the right thing to do.

My new Clark’s sandals were rubbing the heals of my feet; lifting each one up in turn, I tried to ease the pain. Someone kicked me in the back of the legs. The procession of school children was so long, I didn’t see who it was. Turning, I faced the front, standing up straight, arms folded in protest. Scuffing my shoes, backwards and forwards (The mark of a petulant child, Mrs Brooks always said.) Trying to pass the time, I eventually reached the front of the calvalcade; picking up my mint green coloured plate. Today, soggy roast potatoes, lots and lots of cabbage, boiled to within an inch of its life and minced meat in gravy. Funny enough, I still cook this today; comfort food if you like. For desert, chocolate pudding with thick, lumpy pink blancmange; another dish I look back on with fondness.

The noise in the hall was deafening as I hesitantly walked to the table at the back of the hall, where my friends were already sat. I took the chair at the end, leant back and waited for the Dinner Lady to appear. I can’t remember her name now, but she always came over and helped me cut up my food into bite sized pieces and filled the large metal water jugs on the table, that needed two hands to lift. I precariously charged my glass, most of it spilling over, quickly wiped away by another monitor; dressed in a pink and white tabard, wearing a small white hat and hairnet, that really did nothing to stop hair falling into the food. Part of the course when you ate school meals.

Dinner over it was time to return to class, each of us waiting in turn, to be escorted back for an afternoon of ‘Drama and Dance,’ my favourite lesson. ‘Time to work off all that extra energy after lunch,’ said Mrs B! ‘Time to get big and strong!’

I always have fond memories of school lunches; plain, basic filling food, typical of the time; in contrast the lunches of today. As a product of the 70s, we appreciated the simpler things in life; as children we had very little, none of us any more than anyone else. School Dinners are a reminder of the happy times, spent with friends, enjoying those first steps into childhood; a period when peoples values were different; a time of innocence in a changing World!


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Short Stories From My Youth - Options!

20/3/2018

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I was always a worrier, about everything and anything. At thirteen years old I had more to worry about than most; my sexuality being at the forefront of my thoughts. The beginning of my teenage years was also important in the academic sense; it was time to pick options at school. At such a young age, I was expected to know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, electing subjects to study for the next three years. The forms were duly handed out to the class; it was time to decide our destiny.

As I sat there at my desk, my mind preoccupied, I drifted away to a better place. A feeling of despair was descending over me; I closed my ears, blocking out the voice of my form tutor Mr Campbell, not wanting to hear another word. Looking down towards the paper in front of me, I just saw a jumble of words, none of them making sense. In my head I was sat at the bottom of the school hill; it was green, the sun was out, shining brightly overhead. As I looked left, my cat Ben was jumping through the long grass; a faint summer breeze, blowing through his newly combed coat. In my hand, a cheese and Marmite sandwich, between my knees an ice cold glass of orange. This was my safe place, away from the troubles life always threw my way.

As a sufferer, the weight of the World was firmly on my shoulders; my emerging homosexuality, the threat of nuclear war, death and dying, the newly discovered AIDS epidemic and how to be popular at school, all areas of concern; no wonder I turned to cigarettes! Picking options was just another trouble to contend with and it was right at the bottom of a long list of difficulties. In truth I wasn’t interested in my future at such a tender age, I was too busy fighting my own demons. In my clouded mind, I didn’t have a destiny; not a good one anyway, so I might as well just give up now.

Looking around the class, there was feverish excitement in the air, as my classmates chatted to their peers about what they should do; their favourite lessons, the ones they never skipped and the subjects they never tired of learning about. Others wanted to choose the same courses as their best friend, not wanting to be split up or being seen as a bit of a ‘boff,’ exercising judgement that may be at odds with the mainstream. When you are in your teens, you don’t want to be seen as different, certainly not taking a module that would make others see you as ‘gay’ or ‘odd.’ So as a budding conformist, trying to blend in with the crowd, I chose the courses I felt would be most acceptable to friends and family.

Mum and Dad had said that computers and business were the future and I needed to get a good job when I left school, so I immediately picked ‘Information Studies.’ This was actually a decision I regretted over the years. It was the first choice I made, that proved to be disastrous for my eventual attainment. As a young boy, I was creative and wanted to express that creativity in writing. I enjoyed English language, but never felt satisfied with the lessons. I wrote short stories from a very early age, as I continue to do today. Back then I also wanted to be an actor and would have preferred Drama as an option; it wasn’t to be; far too ‘gay,’ for the likes of me. I wasn’t prepared to go through the last three years of school, suffering yet more bullying. The most important thing for me at age thirteen was to finally begin fitting in with those around me.

When I look back at this time of change, I am horrified at the way I acted. Had I been born thirty years later, I may well have made the correct selections for my future direction in life. As a young gay boy, growing up in 1984, I just didn’t have the willpower or desire to be who I wanted to be and my whole life changed as a result. If I had my time all over again, things would be very different; since I don’t have that chance, I must learn to become content with what I have; not keep thinking, what could have been!


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Short Stories From My Youth - Generation Game!

12/3/2018

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It was 4 o’clock; the sun still high in the sky, as Grandad dropped me off at Nanny’s house, after a few hours in the Forest of bere. I had a carrier bag stuffed full of woodland goodies; moss covered sticks, twigs and bright orange leaves; holly, pine cones and large shiny stones; some with holes in, collected from the forest floor. I ran into the side gate, bag slung around my back, excited to show everyone what I had collected. Through the conservatory, narrowly avoiding tripping, on the step to the kitchen; I emptied the contents of the bag on the dining room floor, satisfied with my Saturday afternoon hall!

It took about fifteen minutes to wander home from Nan and Grandad’s, walking up Fareham Park Road, bags of shopping in hand, right to the very top. Fareham was a small place, where everyone knew each other, exchanging greetings as we walked by. Mrs Adams rubbing my head furiously as Mother and Father passed the time of day; a welcome breather from carrying the bags of shopping home; panting, sore feet, runny nose. As we approached our house, children were playing in the street, neighbours chatting over a garden hedge, others were proudly cleaning their cars or walking an unruly dog. In the distance, I could here the faint humming of a lawn mower; Shirley next door pottering down her path, waving us through the door!

On Saturday evening, we would always have a ‘make do’ meal; Mum, having cooked all week, took respite. A Vesta Curry for Dad, a sandwich for mum, a boiled egg for my brother and I; something simple, non taxing, before a large Sunday Dinner tomorrow; my favourite meal of the week. Mum made up a salad, some ham cut from the bone, hot, spicy home made pickled onions and a jar of piccalilli, sat chatting at the dining room table, looking out across the garden. Ben our cat sat at the window, looking in hungrily as we finished our meal; the sun gently fading away as day turned to dusk.

Television turned on, Dad listened to the final half hour of Grandstand; football results displayed across the screen. Familiar music signalled the end of a sports filled afternoon; football, wrestling with Big Daddy, horse racing on ITV. At just gone five o’clock the news came on; Dad and I both glued to the box. Even at ten years old I was a political animal; listening to my Father raging, banging his fists, sighing loudly; Margaret Thatcher on the TV!

All was quiet on the Avenue, street lamps turned on, illuminating the empty road. Mother drew the curtains; lifting the nets briefly, head bobbing from side to side, checking to see who was about outside. Sat quietly, my back against a chair, Mum lit the fire, smoke filling the air. It was a chilly night as the wind whistled, down the chimney, gently rattling the metal framed windows, blowing into the lounge. Running upstairs, I quickly grabbed my dressing gown, tying it tightly around my waste, pulling the collar upwards, protecting my chest, trying to keep warm. Suitably attired, I ran back down, not wanting to miss the beginning of ‘The Generation Game’ with Larry Grayson, who always made my laugh; ‘shut that door,’ his spectacles dangling from his neck on a beaded chain, slightly camp lisp and kick of the heal.

I could hear Mum in the kitchen making a mug of coffee, immediately I asked for a cup of tea; hot, strong without sugar, accompanied by a milk chocolate digestive and custard cream. Dad shouted from his chair near the fire; ‘a plain crisp and brown sauce sandwich please Mary and a cheeky half a pint of beer.’ This was my Saturday night, relaxing with Mum and Dad, talking, watching the TV. Fond memories with loved ones, recollections from times gone by; happy, carefree childhood, full of contentment, precious memories,  with family!



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A Big Thank You To Penelope Wren!

8/3/2018

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A would like to thank Penelope Wren for her guest blog contribution, entitled 'A Very Clear Choice,' published in 'Spanish Views' today. Penelope's recollections on school life in Fareham, where we both grew up, has brought a lot of memories flooding back, as I recall my own school days, spent in the relative tranquility of this small suburban town on the south coast of England. Though not in the same year, we both attended Fareham Park Comprehensive at a time of great change. Penelope was lucky enough to be part of the first intake of pupils, I wasn't far behind.  Both of us have very different lives to the ones we had, growing up in Hill Park. The connection we have is born from the words we write about our shared experiences.

I believe it is important to keep memories alive. I am at an age, where my past is important to me. I really do look back at my school days with fondness now, despite the challenges I faced at the time. My life now is immeasurably different compared to forty plus years ago and I do find writing about my experiences rather therapeutic and life enhancing.

Penelope has also highlighted workplace bullying in her introduction, something I am very familiar with. It is sad that so many people have to suffer the indignity that harassment and abuse brings. Penelope is lucky enough to have a supportive family, as I have an understanding partner; without a solid network both our circumstances could be very different.

Thank you once again for your fantastic entry today Penelope; I hope my readers enjoy your entry, as much as I have. I look forward to hearing from you again, with more memories to share!

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Short Stories From My Youth - The Beach!

6/3/2018

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The sky looked grey, just the odd patch of blue, breaking through the thick cloud swirling around outside. It was a typical British summers day and I was up bright an early; today I was going to the beach with Nan, Grandad and Aunty Pam; Littlehampton by the sea. Mum was preparing lunch to take with me, putting it neatly into a brightly coloured holdall, along with some bathing trunks and my china giraffe. I used to carry the Wade Whimsie around everywhere, buying a different figurine, every time I went to the Post Office on Highlands Road. I was a collector even then and always felt secure when I had things around me. Finally Mum packed a packed of Discos, some orange cordial and a towel in the bag; zipping it tightly, placing it over my shoulder; it was nearly as big as me, slipping off my arm, hitting the floor. Rather perturbed, I grabbed the handle tightly, dragging the offending item into the hall, throwing it awkwardly by the front door; breathing heavily, I fell forwards onto the top of the bag, my head narrowly missing the floor. Angry, frustrated, I kicked it with my foot; it wasn’t going to get the better of me!

I sat patiently waiting half way up the stairs, swinging my legs back and forth, banging the step below with my heal. A shadow appeared in the glass of the front door, impatiently I ran back down, slipping down the final few rungs; the figure passed by. A shrug of the shoulder, I turned away and walked back in the kitchen, sitting miserably at the kitchen table. Suddenly there was a knock at the door; my head immediately perked up, a large smile across my face. I jumped up from the chair and ran forth, followed by Mum, greeting Nan at the door. ‘Come on, come on, hurry up, lets go!’ she said, standing there with her perfectly coiffured hair, kept precisely in place with a purple silk scarf, tied around her neck. She tightly grasped my hand and we headed to Grandads car!

I sat in the back of the brown Cortina with Aunty Pam, laughing all the way to the beach: Pam tickling me, playing ‘Eye Spy’ and naming the colour of the cars on the road. Half way there the sun finally came out, streaming through the windows; sunglasses on we finally reached the shore.

There were four folded up deckchairs in the boot of the car; Grandad took two, Nan and Pam two more. Grabbing a blanket and a small plastic carrier bag; we set off walking to the water front, finding our spot, in front of the jetty. Nan helped me change into my bathers, put sun cream on my face and shoulders and took a Marathon from her bag; half for me, half for her. Covered in chocolate, head to toe, she walked me down to the sea, splashing water on a hankie, wiping me clean; carrying me back to the safety of the beach.

The sun rose high in the sky, reflecting majestically off the waves licking the coastline. I knelt building a sandcastle, bucket and spade in hand, unwilling to venture into the sea. Nan sat on her orange and yellow chair reading a book; Grandad, earnestly flicking through a newspaper; Aunty Pam on her way back from the Winkle Store on the promenade, a cup of crustaceans for all; swimming in vinegar, the smell of the sea. After a second trip for some ice cream and beer for Grandad, we sat looking out towards the pier; waving at the fisherman hanging over the railings, throwing bread to the seagulls, dive bombing the shore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the summer breeze turned cold, wrapped in nan’s cardigan, I fell asleep, eyes slowly closing, flickering; a deep red sunset in full view. I could hear the voices of children, running along the sand, a speedboat pass quickly by and Pam singing sea shanties in the background, as I happily drifted away, warm and cosy at the end of the day!


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Short Stories From My Youth - Christmas Eve!

27/2/2018

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Laying on my back, barely visible in the garishly patterned carpet, I could see the reflection of the Christmas tree in the television screen; multicoloured fairy lights illuminating the window behind. Mum had decorated it a few days before, real glass baubles, family heirlooms, kept in a black biscuit tin, in the cupboard under the stairs; each one carefully wrapped in tissue paper, stored neatly away for next year. Below the tree, the stand was wrapped in bright orange crepe paper, a row of silver tinsel along the top. At its apex a fairy sat looking out across the lounge; waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Expertly made from a toilet roll, paper wings and delicately placed head, made from paper mache, she looked rather warn, after several years of use; perched precariously leaning to one side. A splattering of glitter and some home made paper chains, multicoloured, produced at school and over a hundred Christmas cards filled the room. The ceiling was full of magic; shimmering lanterns, stars and foil garlands, gently swaying in the heat blowing through the hall. I loved this time of year; bright lights, sparkling decorations, smiling faces. Everyone seemed happy, alive and enjoying the festive cheer.

I could hear Mum in the kitchen, preparing tomorrows feast. The biggest turkey I had ever seen. The smell of stuffing, drifted into the lounge; I sniffed the air, licking my lips. On top of the G Plan coffee table, sat a large unopened tin of Quality Street, as big as a drum. Next to it, a box of Milk Tray and some After Eight Mints. A packet of figs were already open, the cellophane wrapper placed next to the box; a wooden stick, used to pierce the fruit, covered in sweet, sticky, sugary syrup. Rolling over, I made a beeline for a packet of Twiglets, I spied from the corner of my eye. I was always a ‘savoury boy,’ still am, preferring Marmite covered crackers to an orange centred cream. Quickly I placed a handful in my mouth, before Mum walked in the room. Chocking briefly as a stray twig went down the wrong way. ‘Are you alright in there?’ Mum enquired, as a cough turned to a splutter. I replied as best I could, covering my mouth with my hand, placing a cushion over my face to dull the noise. Suitably composed, I hid the open box, behind the sitting room chair; wiping the crumbs from my lap, rubbing my mouth with a sleeve, I laid back down.

It wasn’t long before Mum walked through the door, looking at me straight in the eye. Guilty as charged; I looked upwards, away from her gaze, grinning sheepishly, half closing my eyes. Mum stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, with a twinkle in her eye. It was Christmas Eve after all, nothing could put a damper on that.

It was nearly time for bed, just an hour of entertainment before shut eye. I always loved Yuletide television, sat with family on Christmas Eve. Dad in his favourite chair, me next to mum on the settee. Lights dimmed low, just the flickering tree in the corner and Bruce Forsyth on the box. The tin of Quality Street was finally opened, no longer on display. As a child I loved the multicoloured wrappers, holding each one up towards the lights on the tree, watching the bright colours shimmer through. Golden Cups were my favourite, filled to the top with caramel, which I used to suck out of the middle, after biting off the top.

By eight PM, filled with chocolate, warm and cosy, my eyes slowly started to shut. Carried up to bed shortly afterwards, tucked in and kissed good night. By three o'clock in the morning I would be running downstairs, amazed by the mountains of presents; filled pillowcases, stockings full of sweets; celebrating Christmas day, surrounded by family, party games in the evening at Nanny’s, a sip of egg nog and extra helpings of turkey and Christmas log!

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Nostalgia

24/2/2018

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I've had a very busy few days sorting through photographs. Three months ago I started writing a book on  school life in the 1970s and 80s; a time I look back on with fondness. As I approach my 47th Birthday, I have become somewhat nostalgic for a childhood, spent happily in my hometown of Fareham, on the south coast of England. It wasn't until recently, that I even thought about those first ten years as a child; a lot has happened since that time after all. However, after moving abroad, I have started to learn the importance of my background forty years ago. I have made a lot of mistakes since those early years; my life never really went in the direction I wanted it to. I have a lot of regrets, wishing I had taken different opportunities when they arose, taking the right path instead of the wrong one. I also have a lot of good memories that I enjoy sharing on my blog and wouldn't change them for the World. None of us can alter the past, but we can learn from it!

Living in Spain has afforded me the luxury of being able to write, in a way I haven't been able to in the past. As I look out of my sitting room window, I can see miles and miles of scenery in front of me; peace and tranquility; the perfect environment in which to write. Living away from the distractions of city life, I have been able to reflect over my history and just what it means to me. Until I moved here, I lived for the moment, day by day and never reflected, or imagined what could have been. Most of the time I wanted to block it out, preferring to put the bad memories to the back of my mind. For a time, I really thought my youth was that bad.

It was difficult for me growing up gay, a fact I was aware of at age eleven. A realisation that I was different from my peers was arduous and awkward at best, disturbing at worst, causing me much anguish. I spent most of the time on my own, away from others, because I didn't fit in, not because I didn't want to but because I thought it was best. When you are carrying around secrets, the last thing you want is people around you, who could blow your cover, or discover who you really are. From eleven years old, my life was terrible, the worst and I had no end of problems to contend with. I never followed my dreams and ambitions, because I didn't know how; I was too busy hiding who I really was.

The years before eleven were good. I had a very normal, almost idyllic childhood, spent with a wonderful Mother and Father and extended family. It was the 1970s, we didn't have a lot as a family, but I never went without. I had many friends at school, spending quality time in their company, playing outside until the sun went down, enjoying the newness of life. Away from the muddle and confusion of the past, I am able to see through the pain and anger now and start looking back at the happier moments. Writing 'Short Stories From My Youth,' as part of my blog, has given me the motivation to write a book about this particularly enchanting period, between five and eleven years old; finally understanding the importance of recalling events that made me who I am today.

Thankfully I have been brought into contact with many old friends and others from the schools I attended. I have enjoyed reading their impressions of life four decades ago and have been amazed to see many old photographs from the era; jogging my memory further, I have been able to reconnect with my upbringing. Embracing all of my adolescence is going to be challenging. I have at least started the process of recalling carefree and joyous experiences, producing a story to be proud of; so many people playing a part in its conception. This will be a book about my life and many others who played their part; a history of the time; the sharing of memories, deeply rooted in the foundations of the past.

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Fareham Park School - Appeal For Help!

23/2/2018

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I am currently writing a book about my school days, living in Fareham. In 1976 I started at Fareham Park Infants School in Tewkesbury Avenue, Hill Park. I was a pupil for two years assigned to Mrs Brooks class.  I then moved up to Fareham Park Junior School, just a hop skip and a jump away from my first institution.

Sadly my two old schools are no longer there, well not in the same guise, so getting information on the period 1976 - 1982 is proving a bit of a challenge. I have been in contact with the new academies, who have promised to do help dig out old records and photographs from the time.

As part of this book, I would like to ask pupils and teachers who were in attendance at Fareham Park Infants and Juniors during the six years I was there, for their help. I am looking for anyone who has old photographs and doesn't mind donating them, for the inclusion in this new publication. Of course I don't mean physically handing the photo's over, but scanning them into a PC and sending me a digital copy. Also I would like to ask ex pupils and friends, if they have any stories and recollections they would like to share. I want to include personal memories from you, the readers, throughout the book and will of course be delighted to include a reference to you, or not, depending on your wishes.

As a writer I think it is important to document every aspect of my attainment; I write about many different subjects but find real life the most rewarding. With your help I feel sure this book will get the recognition it deserves.

If you want to take part in this 'school project,' please send your digital copies and comments to:

lukemartin.jones@gmail.com

You can also fill in your details, leaving a comment in the box below and I will endeavour to get back to you as soon as possible.

Thanks to everyone for taking the time to read this blog entry today, I know how busy you all are. In my blog 'Spanish Views,' there is a section entitled 'Short Stories From My Youth.' I am currently showcasing various aspects of my life, growing in in the 1970s and 80s; my own personal account of the time. Please take a look; it may give you some ideas for your own anecdotes, jog your memory or just take you back to an altogether innocent time. Whatever you do, please keep reading 'Spanish Views,' you make the blog the success it is today!
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    51-year-old Author and professional blogger. Expat formerly living in Gran Alacant on the Costa Blanca! Currently, residing in my adopted home of Perth, Western Australia.

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