It was about a year before, when I was at a friends house that I realised I wanted one. It was truly amazing, another world and one of the best presents a young boy like me could wish for. In the mid 1980s modernity jumped head long into my life; a technological revolution and the development of a personal computer was firmly planted into the psyche of a generation, just waiting to break away from the past, establishing their credentials as inheritors of the crown. The future was rubber keys, the future was Sinclair. The shops were heaving, customers were pushing and shoving their way around the packed isles. Supermarket trollies were full to bursting with everything one needed for a gastronomical feast. As Mum and Dad paid for their weekly shopping at the checkout in Sainsbury, I briefly wondered outside. Looking past the cafe in the centre of the Mall, I spotted Curry’s electrical shop directly opposite; in the shop window the newest gadget to hit the shelves was displayed, the ZX Spectrum 48K. I ran over as fast as I could, nose pressed against the glass, watching ‘Daly Thompson’s Decathlon’ being enacted on the screen. In awe of the graphics, amazed by the colour, I imagined myself owning one. Looking down at the price tag, 125 pounds, I realised it was too expensive for me to buy, sighed and walked back to the supermarket, waiting outside. Mum and Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I took the chance. I wanted ‘The Spectrum computer’ and hoped they would agree. At first they were a little unsure about what I was referring to, so I grabbed a copy of Mum’s Kay’s Catalogue under the coffee table in the lounge, flicking through the pages until I found what I was looking for. ‘Here it is, this is what I want. It will be the bestest Christmas present of all’ I retorted excitedly. After several minutes of hesitation, confused expression on their faces, they both agreed; I couldn’t wait for Christmas Day. Santa arrived early once again. It always seemed strange to me, that the old man arrived before I got up, never did I catch him, not once, even when I surfaced at 12am. This was a present, delivered directly to the bottom of my bed, placed in a pillow case, rather than being left in the sitting room, as was usual. I guess this was a gift, that was just too bulky to be left under the tree. At 3am I was up and awake, ripping wrapping paper and trying to get to grips with my new toy; a personal computer, the modern age sitting on my lap; shiny, untouched waiting to be unlocked. Setting up the ZX Spectrum on my desk was the easy bit, connecting the wires to the TV, loading games was another matter. One had to place a cassette in a player then wait for it to load; a screeching, wining rendition that sent shivers down my spine; so much so, I left the room, made a turkey sandwich, popped the kettle on, used the toilet on the way back and still had time to spare, before the tape had even loaded. I managed half an hour or so at the helm before everything went ‘Pete Tong!’ Two hours later I was back playing another round until the inevitable ZX Spectrum problems kicked in once again. In the end, I probably used my new computer no more than ten times. Frustration, impatience and annoyance at the cumbersome piece of 80s kit got the better of me. After throwing it across the room, on several occasions, I decided it was best to retire the rubber wonder before it drove me insane. This slice of retro design, remained in my parents loft, until it was sold at a local car boot sale, ten years later. I never bought another PC again until the late 1990s. Sir Clive Sinclair had done what no one else could: turning my love of gadgets into a dislike of the modern world. I remained steadfast in my rejection of all things avant-garde and progressive for many years, although look back with fondness at the little black box that made my life hell, after all if it wasn’t for Clive, I wouldn’t be typing on this laptop today. I am truly amazed at just how far we have come in such a short space of time!
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It was Christmas 1980 and I was excited; I had asked Mum and Dad for a tape recorder this festive season, an expensive present back then, but something I had wanted after seeing one in ‘Tandy,’ the electronics shop of the time. Early Sunday evening I would religiously listen to the music charts on radio one, as they announced a countdown, of the top 40 songs that week. It was a part of my routine, something I looked forward to every weekend. Being able to record the chart show would be an added bonus; I spend six months persuading my parents to buy me the latest technology, a Bush, single dec cassette player. Fingers crossed I would get one on Christmas Day. I was up early, probably four o’clock in the morning, gently creeping down the staircase, trying to avoid treading too hard. Step by careful step I finally reached the bottom without a sound; then as my right foot hit the last step, there was a loud overbearing screech. I slipped briefly, as the sound echoed throughout the house; recovering my composure briefly before falling head long into the wall in front; a thud so hard, I hit the floor, laying there, stars in front of my eyes! Spread-eagle on my back, confused, tired and a little sheepish, I listened for any sign of movement upstairs, luckily there wasn’t any; I jumped to my feat, heart pounding hard and ran into the lounge. The Christmas lights were still on, flickering gently against the wall behind, directing me towards the presents underneath the newly decorated tree. I made a beeline for the box I thought contained my Cassette recorder, low and behold there it was; brand new shiny, black, just waiting to be used. Next to the recorder a packet of C60 tapes and some large brick size batteries. Gingerly, keeping as quiet as I could, I put the batteries in the back of the player and inserted a tape into the dec; starting to record my thoughts for the day, there and then, rather like I do now, blogging my heart out. I went back up stairs, this time making as much noise as I could, waking Mum, Dad and my Brother; switching on lights, banging doors and generally causing havoc, finally launching into my parents bedroom; tape recorder in hand, documenting events. Laying on the bed, everyone finally awake, we opened the rest of our presents, talking and chatting away to each other, laughing and joking, as families do. These were the special moments in life, the ones I will always recall. Luckily I still have that first tape recording, transferred into digital format, to keep and cherish forever. My life was complete, recording Sunday afternoon radio in the days before video camcorders and mobile phones; also charting other important events of the day. Myself and a friend from School set up a ‘TV/Radio’ station called JDTV, we would spend hours pretending to be presenters, guests, newsreaders and actors. In the afternoon, when television went into recess, playing light easy listening music, testcard firmly fixed in the background, I would lay in front of the screen, sound on low, recording my thoughts; mimicking famous personalities of the era, pretending to be that presenter from the telly or generally daydreaming, disappearing into another World, away from the stress and strain of daily life at school. When afternoon television restarted once again, Falcon Crest on ITV, I was a member of the cast, acting for dear life, wealthy, successful, a lifetime away from who I really was. Escaping to greener pastures was always a thrill; innocent times full of hope and wonderment, where I could be whoever I wanted to be. These are the memories I take with me wherever I am; remembering with affection the little things, that seemed so insignificant at the time, but worth all the tea inn China today, as I reflect on a childhood, long since gone!
I had just fallen asleep; no more than half an hour ago. I remember looking at the clock before I drifted away, it was 10.24pm. I could see the bright hall light at the foot of my bedroom door. Even then I had to have the room dark, no luminescence at all, covering anything up that interrupted my line of sight; I just couldn’t sleep otherwise! Despite my need for darkness, I was always scared of the night, often diving under the covers at the slightest hint of something suspicious in the room. Like the story of my life, I was contradictory in every sense of the word; most definitely the product of a bipolar mind. I woke up panicking twenty four minutes later; another bad dream. I often experienced those strange reoccurring visions that never went away; I still do. I was standing in a newly ploughed field, not a soul in sight for miles around. Behind me was a small white house, rather dishevelled, leaning slightly to one side; broken windows, broken door; holes in the roof, illuminating the abandonment inside. The number on the letterbox, held on by a single screw, was 24. In front of me was a tall white picket fence, with no gate, a barrier yet to cross. This was the first time I remembered this dream and wouldn’t be the last. The details changed a little over the years, but essentially the theme was always the same. I could feel the warm light of day on my face, eyes still tightly shut, avoiding the early morning sun; Mother banged on my bedroom door. ‘It’s time to get up, you’ll be late for school!’ she shouted firmly walking back downstairs. I laid there for just a moment remembering the night; once again the number twenty four popped into my head. This number meant something to me and I didn’t know what. I was always a young lad who thought too much, reading significance into the most ‘matter of fact,’ ordinary events. Last thing in the afternoon, before home time, it was double mathematics. I hated it despite getting an O level in the subject. I would often day dream, thinking about what I could write in my journal, my passion, even at eleven years old. In front of me, sat my orange coloured exercise book, pristine and clear, not a mark or blemish anywhere to be seen. I picked up a black biro and began doodling on the surface. The number twenty four, enclosed with a ring of ink; again and again I wrote the number down, heavier and heavier each time, marking the pages inside. What was that number all about, what did it mean to me and why was it still in my head. I sat there glazed eyes, shook my head, trying to shake the number from my mind. I got a smack across my knuckles that day for defacing my work book, but was worth it; a reminder of things to come. As a young boy growing up, I always remembered the dream, the time on the clock, the number in my head; it remains with me to this very day. At twenty four years old I met my partner, in 1995; the most significant moment in my life. I’m expecting great things on our twenty fourth anniversary next year. The first house we bought together was, yup you guessed it, number twenty four; a beautiful stone cottage on the Lancashire Yorkshire boarder and the house we moved to in Spain, when we left the UK was once again the number twenty four. I am a firm advocate of fate and believe this number runs through my life line, playing a major role in my destiny. Mumbo jumbo, I hear you say, well maybe you are right, but maybe you’re not. For me it is special; a reminder of my childhood and a suggestion of my future as yet unknown. It isn’t until it pops up again that I recall its importance, just like today, at the checkout in Mercadona, 24,24€!
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!
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 crêpe 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. She was expertly made from a toilet roll, consisting of paper wings and delicately placed head - made from paper mache. Appearing rather worn, after several years of use, she perched precariously leaning to one side, looking every inch her age. A splattering of glitter and some multicoloured home-made paper chains, 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 tomorrow's 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, pierced with a wooden stick, 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 8 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 and stockings full of sweets. Celebrating Christmas day, surrounded by family was a joy; party games in the evening at Nanny’s, a sip of eggnog and extra helpings of turkey and Christmas log, are enduring memories of an idyllic childhood, bringing finality and closure to the best day of the year!
The television set took ten minutes to warm up, once it was turned on. In the meantime, it was time for a hot, strong cup of tea; lose leaf PG Tips, sold in small boxes with collectable cards inside; I had been accumulating the cards for a few years, drinking a mug whenever I could. I sat with my back against the settee, knees brought up to my chin, occasionally taking a sip from the mug at my feet. Mother came into the lounge, with a plate of Rich Tea and Custard Creams, to dunk while watching the evening news. Dad was stood by the lounge door; he wasn’t happy. “That bloody woman,” I heard him mutter under his breath. This was the day Margaret Thatcher won the General Election, on the 4th May 1979. Dad had been up most of last night watching the election results roll in and was feeling kind of cranky. When Dad was in one of those moods, I knew to leave well alone. I was aware that he didn’t like Mrs Thatcher, but had no idea why; I just laid there fixated on the television set. I realised early on Mrs T was going to be special; as she got out of her car and started waving at the waiting crowds, you could see the leadership qualities in her eyes. Margaret Thatcher was Britain’s first woman Prime minister and I grew up with her on my television, nearly everyday. She was there throughout my childhood and teenage years; she was a big part of my life. Dad had always been an activist, who made me understand the importance of civic duty and voting year after year. He was a candidate in local elections and canvassed tirelessly, delivering literature, come rain or shine. We lived in a predominantly Conservative area, where my fathers views were not appreciated; always a source of contention at home. Like Dad, I inherited his love of politics, though we didn’t always see eye to eye. From an early age, I would sit up until the early hours of the morning, relishing the excitement on Election night; even attending ‘the count’ with my father at the Town Hall, in Fareham where we lived. It was April 2nd 1982, once again I was glued to the TV set, this time for a very different reason. Margaret Thatcher and her Government had declared war on Argentina, for invading the Falkland Islands. I was perched on the rug in front of the fire, unable to speak; I thought the World was coming to an end. The only war I had ever heard about was the Second World War and I mistakenly believed we were heading for another gargantuan conflict; I couldn’t believe what was happening. I could hear Mum and Dads voices in the background, but my mind was else where. Everything appeared fuzzy; I felt aloof, in a place of my own. I could see the Prime ministers face on the television, but I couldn’t understand a Word, blocking out everything she said. The occasional shout and cheer just about audible over my own dismay and worry, as I tried to comprehend just what was going on in my own head. Slouched to one side, cross legged, head bowed low, still and motionless; I periodically looked up for divine inspiration. This was it, we were all going to die and I was more scared than I ever had been before. Of course we are all still alive; there were countless challenging times ahead and Mrs Thatcher stayed in power for another eight years. Many more evenings would be spent sat in front of the Television, listening to the other woman in my life; apart from my Mother and The Queen that is. As a child I was surrounded by independent, outspoken women and I admired Mrs Thatcher for her robust fighting spirit. I didn’t always understand her politics, especially as a young boy, but invariably looked up to her; beguiling, dazzling in a World on the brink. Margaret Thatcher was a leader like no other; her enduring quality a link to my childhood. Whenever I recall events from this time, she is the catalyst that jogs my mind; the formidable and strong, invincible, never wrong; the woman, who lived, in the Television set.
Laying in bed, I could smell the joint of beef cooking in the oven; potatoes boiling on the stove; it was Sunday, not my favourite day of the week, with school coming up the next day, but I did love my roast dinner. Mum was a great cook, spending most of the day preparing Sunday Lunch, while Dad and I went to the pub with Nan and Grandad, when Grandad was on shore leave that is; he was in the Merchant Navy and away quite a lot. At home, he always liked a drink or two in ‘The Club,’ a short distance walk from their house. ‘The Club,’ was a C.I.U working men’s club; It looked like a tired, warn industrial unit, perched on the side of an Edwardian house; a meeting place, where membership was a must. Drinks were cheap, conversation in abundance; a welcome break from the drudgery of life. I could barely see in front of me, the air was thick with smoke; the smell of stale beer, cheese and onion crisps, Old Spice and cheap perfume punctuated the air as we walked in. Music was playing from the stage; voices chattering, laughter, children running around the tables. Holding Nan’s hand, we approached the table between the bar and the hall, separated by a plastic screen, facing a long wooden bar. People were sitting on stools, pint in hand, talking about football, politics and the state of 1970s Britain. As a child I hated being there, holding my nose, trying to avoid the smoke, being blown from every direction. Dad and Grandad stood at the bar, talking to people as they waited to be served, waving at others who walked past, shaking hands with this person or that. Hill park was a small place, everyone knew each another, even if they didn’t always get on. Like most small towns and villages, it had its fair share of drama! Nan was talking to Aunty Pam; she wasn’t a real Aunty, but we always referred to her in that term. Pam had a large booming laugh, that echoed throughout the bar; the more she drank, the more she laughed, the funnier she was. I had a lot of Aunties and Uncles at ‘The Club,’ Aunty Jean, Uncle John, Aunty Vera, the list is endless. All of them would come over, kissing, wet saliva all over my cheeks, the smell of alcohol on their breath, rubbing my hair, throwing me up in the air, bouncing me on their knee. It was a brave new World for a young boy - faces everywhere, the clinking of glasses and those foul-smelling ashtrays in front of my face. It was a place so different from the security of home; smells, tastes and sounds all merged into one, in this mayhem of Sunday life. I sat at the wobbly table, playing with beer mats, flicking them up in the air, bored waiting for my bottle of coke and crisps to arrive. Looking left occasionally, Nan made sure I was OK, as she continued talking to Pam and Uncle John. Dad and Grandad returned with a tray of drinks, poised to put them down. Nan lent over, taking a beer mat from my hand, folding it into quarters, placing it under the offending unsteady table leg, before the drinks were handed out. Finally, the table stopped moving, and the tray was emptied. I always had a fizzy drink and packet of salt and vinegar Rock ‘n’ Rollers, my favourite crisps of the time. Nan would have a packet of ‘Big D’ peanuts and probably a gin and tonic, although I can’t quite remember what her tipple was. Dad had a pint of Skol or cider and occasionally a cigar, the smell of which I loved; Grandad a very large whisky! Wearing a lime green turtle-neck, short orange skirt and fur coat; Nan would dance the afternoon away; her perfect back combed hair standing tall, Windsor style, just like The Queen. Her manicured nails and high heel shoes gleaming, under the lights of the hall; laughing, joking; a social butterfly. This was my Nan, not sat at home knitting or reading a book, but part of the fabric of ‘The Club.’ A place full of fond memories, spent with people long since gone; happy times celebrating, family milestones, Weddings and coming home parties; ‘The Club,’ where their laughter lives on!
We lived in a close community, on a small social housing development, in the relatively affluent town of Fareham, in Hampshire. Me, my brother, Mother and Father resided at number 6 Nashe House, a bottom floor, two bedroom maisonette, in a development of 16 dwellings. Today was Silver Jubilee day, June 1977; it was windy and raining, typical English weather, and it was one of the coldest, wettest June's of the twentieth century. It was twenty-five years, since HM Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne, and the Country was celebrating in typical British style. Jubilee Day was exciting, it felt like Christmas; hearing crashing and banging outside, shouts and laughter, people milling about, talking and chattering, I ran to my bedroom window. The small lane in front of our block was a hive of activity; people outside preparing for the day's festivities. Different tables, all shapes and sizes; wallpaper, trestle, brown wooden, gate leg, modern 70s Formica, all being laid end to end, creating a slightly unsteady, unsightly looking workbench; odd, mismatched, all different heights. This was a stage for the events ahead; this was our homage to the Queen, our street party surrounded by neighbours and our chance to play a small part on this momentous day. The tables were duly covered with a sea of table clothes, the Queen's face emblazoned on each setting. Union flags, red white and blue bunting, banners and lanterns began filling the space between each flat, in the small gardens and in the washing area in front of the building. A sea of colour on an otherwise drab, grey day. I sat looking out of the bedroom window, nose pressed against the glass, elbows on the window sill, hands supporting my chin, peering down looking at the mayhem outside. With butterflies in my stomach, I made my way downstairs to join the growing crowd. The tables were decorated with balloons tied to the back of each chair. Children and adults sat side by side, on the table nearest their door. Local residents started bringing out plate after plate of food and drink – a buffet fit for a Queen; sausage rolls, biscuits, cakes, jelly and ice cream, Swiss rolls, all piled high in front of our eyes. As children, we were awestruck, open-mouthed, exuberant; we had never seen anything like this before. Party hats were handed to each of us, followed by a flag with a photo of the Queen, fluttering with gusto in the unseasonably high winds of the day. The wireless was playing in the background; patriotic music, old school party songs and the National Anthem. We began waving our flags, throwing streamers in the air, cheering and shouting; ‘God save the Queen, God save the Queen!’ With party games in full swing, our glasses were topped up with orange cordial. Face covered in chocolate and a plate of pink blancmange in front of my eyes, I leant back on the squeaking wooden chair, swinging my legs back and forth, satisfied at the day's accomplishments. I don’t recall seeing Mum or Dad, I was too busy playing with friends. I can remember the fun everyone had and the Silver Jubilee mug we were all given; something I haven’t seen for many years. Also, I remember how tired I felt, as evening turned to dusk, and the sun set over the school fields in front of our flat. Finally taken to bed and tucked in by Mother, others older than I, partied the night away. As my head hit the pillow, eyes slowly closed, I could still hear voices and singing outside. I felt happy to have been a part, of such a memorable day. The Silver Jubilee was over forty years ago now; we have had a Golden, Diamond, and Sapphire one since. I can still remember this day so well, because it was special. It was the first street party I ever went to and wouldn’t be the last. It was the beginning of my life outside the security of home, during my first year of school. Above all it was a joyous time spent with friends, neighbours and family, a part of me so sadly lacking today. Laughing, enjoying the most carefree time in my life; so different, so long ago, the memories remain as vivid as ever, a precious part of childhood, at an altogether different time!
As a child, I gave each day of the week a colour; Wednesday was blue; a happy hue, vibrant and full of life. Blue reminded me of a summer sky; dreamy, bright, sparkling in the warm glow of the sun. This was my favourite day; sausage and chips for lunch. Slouching, slumped on my desk, arms folded, supporting my head, watching the clock tick slowly by; a momentary glance out of the window, told me it was nearly time to go; the caretaker opening the rusty gates at the end of the school drive, to herd the throng of children running quickly home. With one minute to go, I began to pack away my pencil case, haphazardly throwing it into the dark recess of my bag, hanging from the back of my chair. Finally the bell sounded, chairs noisily scraped backwards, as we all scrambled towards the door; unruly, disorderly; ignoring our teachers plea for quiet! On the way to Nanny’s house, we took a slight detour, stopping at the local takeaway on Fareham Park Road. The smell of fish, battered sausages and chips, steak and kidney pie, pickled onions, pickled eggs, pea fritters, everything fried; wafting up the street. Salivating, licking my lips, I anticipated my lunch. A leisurely walk turned into a hurried sprint, as I tried to reach the head of the lunch time queue; skating, precariously around the glass door, briefly tripping on the front step, hands firmly gripping the frame, stopping my fall. I made it, I was first; standing proudly waiting to be served. Barely able to reach half way up the counter, I shouted my order, jumping up and down, waving furiously. The lady smiled back warmly, a wink from her right eye; she knew me, like everyone else who came in each day. She was large, with red rosy cheeks, booming voice, imposing laughter; jolly, jovial and jaunty; hands folded, tucked neatly under her chest. It was a short walk to Nanny’s house; running in the door; hands stretched outwards a big hug my reward. Nanny was a remarkable, extraordinary woman with blue and purple hair, bright red lipstick, perfectly manicured nails. She always wore high heeled shoes, a string of pearls around her neck, sparking rings on her fingers, immaculately dressed. The plates were warming in the oven, as our newspaper packages were handed out. Climbing up the stool towards the breakfast bar, I always sat in the corner, next to the green rotary phone, that hung on the wall. I could see the television from the corner of my left eye, in the sitting room beyond; perched neatly on the end of Nan and Grandads stone fireplace, quietly talking away to itself. Leaning slightly backwards I would try and watch ‘fingerbobs,’ ‘Charlton and the Wheelies,’ ‘Rainbow’ or ‘Button Moon,’ occasionally taking a bite, more often not, distracted, preoccupied! Everyone was there on a Wednesday; my Uncle and Aunt who I went to school with, Mother and younger Brother; everyone chatting away, in the middle of their own conversations, discussing the latest local gossip, the price of groceries or which member of our rather large family was pregnant again. These were indeed happy times, spent in the comfort of my Nan’s house; innocent fun filled days, where a fish and chip lunch was enough to satisfy all my dreams and aspirations. Wednesdays were a special part of my life, because the memories are still there, burning strong. As I write these words down, I am immediately transported back to 1978, listening to the voices chattering around me, the smell of ‘proper chip shop chips,’ magical children’s television and Nanny’s face peering lovingly down towards me, chuckling to herself as I ate my meal. My blue day was never quite the same again, faded into the past. As I moved ever onwards, far from my home town, Wednesdays have become a tradition once again, remembered fondly, whenever I eat fish and chips. Memories come flooding back, as I sit, thinking about those happy School days, spent with family at Nanny’s house. Memories are precious; I’m glad I lived the life I have; I wouldn’t wish for anything more, just time, to go back and relive them all!
The old railway line was full to bursting with blackberry bushes, laden with plump, ripe fruit. Negotiating ones way through the bramble and stinging nettles, was always a difficulty; arms stretched out, hands filling an old ice cream container full of produce, on the way to the village. Growing up on the outskirts of Titchfield was idyllic. This was my families home; small, traditional, oak beamed Tudor cottages, centuries old church and memories from a childhood, spent peacefully playing in open fields, as far as the eye could see. I always enjoyed the gentle stroll, past ones school, under the Victorian arched bridge, along the old railway line, long since gone; stopping at the local Public House opposite Titchfield Abbey. This is a journey I haven’t undertaken for many years; my life too busy, taking me to far away places, a life time away from the village, where I grew up. My brother, Mother, Father and I would sit outside ‘The Fisherman’s Rest;’ Dad would have a pint of cider and my Mother, who never drank, a schweppes tonic water, with a slice of lemon. My brother and I were happy with a bottle of coke and a packet of Golden Wonder; In front of us, a panorama; a vista like no other. Here was situated, the glorious historic Abbey of the White Connons; a large country house visited by Charles I and frequented by Shakespeare; writing sonnets from the battlements, towering above the village below. Averting ones eyes to the left, Abbey Gardens came into view. As a family, we would frequently walk up to the estate, where we could pick our own fruit and vegetables, often eating more than we harvested; face covered in sweet sticky strawberry juice, fingers a deep shade of red, clothes stained, shoes muddy. This was our pitstop, just a short walk away, from the place I still call home, even to this day. Today, our family no longer live in this characterful Hampshire Hamlet; an oasis surrounded by urban sprawl. As a child my Great Granny Light, lived in the centre, in a cottage many hundreds of years old. I remember fondly visiting her, sat on her knee. She had a hairy chin, that tickled my face, as she kissed my cheeks. Great Granny would always produce a pressed glass bottle from the kitchen. I swear it contained alcohol; a little nip of something, even for me, as a very young boy; I recall the taste distinctly and have never savoured it since. Great Granny’s lounge was small, dark, cosy and beamed, hunting scenes on the wall; tiny cottage glass windows, reflecting the dancing light of the fire; warm and inviting. This was Granny’s house, part of a local community, where everyone, knew each other; neighbours passing the time of day and children playing in the village square. A short distance away lived my Great Aunty Peggy, in a tiny terraced house; Edwardian in style, outside toilet, perfectly manicured back garden, always clean and tidy. When Granny died, we would visit Peggy often, especially on Carnival days. Titchfield Carnival was colourful, vibrant, encompassing everyone who lived in the village. Taking place in October each year, we would stand outside our Aunties house; warm woolen mittens, scarf, bobble hat, waving a Union flag. Peggy would bring out home made cakes, orange juice and an extra layer of clothing in the winter chill. Fireworks and a bonfire would end the festivities, acrid smell in the air; finally retiring inside, falling asleep, curled up on the sofa, covered in a rug from the bed. Titchfield has changed a lot by all accounts; not the village of my youth. Memories of this period grow vaguer, as time passes quickly by. I am grateful for my upbringing, surrounded by a large family and friends; I am thoughtful recalling events, when others have forgotten; I am hopeful I will return one day, to visit my old hunting ground, as I like generations before me, tread the cobbled streets of Titchfield once again
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