Piglet

I've a poem that goes well with him HERE, and this quickie post is simply to let you know my time this week has been busy with other concerns. I thought Piglet could make my apologies for being conspicuous by my absence. Tomorrow will be Life Drawing Class No. 2, so watch this space for details!

N.B. Life Class No.1 is chronicled on Alias Jinksy

Short, But Not Necessarily Sweet

A Microfiction Monday offering  from a Stony River prompt - told in 140 characters or less.

Now she understood. Ships that pass in the night may leave waves that linger, causing more damage than a tsunami.

Brrring, Brrring !

She talks of a school reunion, when I answer the phone, it is to be the final one, the last of its kind. She is a bustling woman, aery-faery mixed with a degree of organisation, who has been resposible for keeping track of former pupils and teachers of a school long since shrouded in mists of memory. She has a high pitched, breathy, little girl voice which belies her grey locks and ample stature, when you meet her in person, a good hearted, if somewhat misguided soul, who has apparently chosen to make it her life's work to keep a flag flying for her schooldays...

I had already politely declined her invitation to attend this year, so her phone call just now took me unawares. I was pleased with myself for remaining adamant in refusing, for I could tell she was fishing for me to change my mind.

Last October, for the first time, I had rallied to her call, and did rediscover one fellow pupil, and one school secretary who had been part of my world between the ages of six and eleven. After almost sixty years, I was surprised at recognising anyone.

So, because it is Saturday and Sepia calls, I will share with Blogland my one remaining image of that long ago schoolgirl, me.

A Day In The Life

 Today’s shopping occupies my mind, but below the surface. I feel I should dredge practicalities into the light, or risk arriving home with my trolley still empty.  I have no list of items to which I could refer –only an awareness, as my eyes regard rows of goods on offer, of those which are in need of replenishing in my larder.  It won’t be an organized collection by the time I reach the checkout, I guarantee.

Sometimes the urge to allow myself free expression with some kind of creative work overrides the need for living in the now of everyday life. I would have done better to stay at home, perhaps, and let the muses win the battle for my attention today… I feel them hovering behind my back, willing me to finish the task in hand.  “I know you are there, and I promise to listen to you soon.” I project a thought in the way a mother might reprimand a bothersome infant who demands too much attention.

With a colourful selection of fruit and vegetables teetering in the basket, I decide I have enough, and march resolutely to the checkout, before I spend any more time or money in Waitrose…

Then I begin to understand the muses' insistence. As I approach the slatted bench beneath my favourite plane tree, I know I have to take time out to sit and write for them, drawing a word picture of that particular time, that particular place.

Dappled shadows waiver on bricks-
muted red-brown, dust covered-
beneath the plane tree's canopy
of rustling, summer's-end leaves.

In blocks of cool grey, shading to umber,
the bark flaunts a rich, textured surface,
while one bright spot of gamboge
draws the attention like a beacon.

Specks of eau-de-nil moss, or fungus,
are embroidered in a sparse pattern
down one side. They lift the colour palette
into another dimension, alien to the tree,

whose branches spread a benison of calm
over all below. The day's breath
slows at the approach of dusk, until
a sudden crescendo sends a few dry leaves

spiralling to earth, where they scutter
over the cobbles, rasping, brittle, whispering,
as they scurry across the road's surface
in a wind-whirled dance of Autumn.

Thank goodness my purchases had included a spiral bound notebook…

Okay - Here's The Others!

As the wedding subject seems to have brought out the curiosity factor in more than one of you, I'm letting you see all my attendants. From left to right they are Susan, Peter, Nicola, Cynthia, Jeremy and Amanda. Jeremy's expression is only due to the sun in his eyes, not disgust abut hs outfit. He was actually pleased as punch with such sartorial elegance!

The hectic aspect of the day continued after the reception. The new Mr and Mrs went on a tour of friends and relations who hadn't been able to make it to the ceremonny, bearing (naturally) pieces of cake for them all, and managing to scrounge a couple of pillows from Mr and Mrs P (parents of the best man), because said bride and groom hadn't remembered to buy any to go with their brand new bed linen!

Then it was back to the ongoing party at Mum and Dad's, and a great packing-the-car-with-wedding-presents, until we eventually set off to take up residence in our sparsely furnished new house at Havant. The kitchen cooker and  bedroom furniture had been delivered earlier, as in both these rooms the flooring was down, but the Ercol table, chairs and sideboard, and the three piece suite, were still being stored at the shop, until we could get the carpet fitted in the open plan lounge. Mum had lent us some old, black and yellow kitchen cutains for the lounge window at the front, until I could make up the arty material I'd bought, so the only luxurious thing that night was the great fire in the closed in stove with the back boiler, which provided gallons of hot water and had heated the house to an almost tropical temperature.

We discoverd that this had its drawbacks, too, as the cover to the ashcan was not quite in place, with the result that the stove reached almost white hot heat, gave an enormous retort, and the fire bars and back of the basket lining both cracked, vociferously! Thus the day ended wth a bang...Would you have expected anything less?!

Has Your Halo Slipped?

I wish I could claim this photo as my own creation - sadly not. But when I noticed it in the same folder as the wedding cake picture, it made me smile all over again, just as I had when I first set eyes on it. I don't know which bit I like best; the lopsided coronet, which had difficulty sitting straight on such glossy hair, or the cosy vest and petticoat straps peeking out the side of the neckline!

This was not the fourth-slice-of-cake bridesmaid, but her younger sister, and you'll have to use your imagination to supply the colour of the dress and headdress. A deep, pinky-red, shimmering chiffon over a slightly darker taffeta, made this adorable infant look like a tiny rosebud herself.

The November day was particularly cold and windy, and I even had a thermal vest and long johns (red ones) on under my dainty gown, as did my attendants. The family had rallied round, with everybody helping to prepare the food in advance for the reception, which the groom and best man set out in the church hall while us girls were putting together the bridal bouquets. Because I'd chosen to have chrysanthemums, my cousin and her husband went rushing around on his motor bike early that morning, looking for white ones, as our combined gardens had only been able to produce flowers in autumnal shades. Bearing in mind the wedding was scheduled for 2pm, you can imagine how busy we all were! I remember making at least 100 buttonholes, of various types and colours, so's people could choose one to tone with their outfit, as they arrived at the church.

When Dad and I finally pulled up to the church entrance, somewhat early, (both he and I hated being late!) we were shooed away, as either the minister or the registrar hadn't arrived.  So I ended up having an unplanned trip all along Southsea seafront,  waving royally to curious folk who were out and about that busy Saturday. Good job the Taxi Driver was a friend of the groom, and quite happy to take us on a circular mystery tour, at no extra charge!

Still On The Wedding Kick

I thought it only fair, after the previous somewhat traumatic post, to let you see a happier side to the day! The following photo of Me and Mine preparing to cut the cake, has several funny tales associated with it. When I made the cakes, I didn't realise the shelves in Mum and Dad's oven were not necessarily as horizontal as one could have wished...When the three tiers were assembled on 'The'Day', my cousin had to use silver threepenny bits on top of some of the pillars, to stop the ensemble looking like the leaning tower of Pisa!

I was a novice at wedding cake production in those days, though rich fruit cakes were my speciality, and I used to be roped in to cook them for all family occasions.

I owe my success to a free, Stork Margarine Cookery Book, which was given away as part of an advertising campaign when the product was first launched. The recipe never fails, and only needs doubling or trebling to accommodate the required size and shape of cake tin.

So, just three weeks before the wedding, there were the cakes (slightly wonky) ready for the marzipan. No ready made, shop bought stuff, but proper, home made almond paste. Yummy. 

I was so inexperienced, I didn't know any of the tricks of the trade - like allowing plenty of time for the paste to dry out and harden to support the weight of the tiers above. Nor, when it came to the Royal Icing, did I know that fresh egg whites will stop it ever beating to a stiff enough consistency to  pipe! I have learned by my mistakes!

The result of my lack of knowledge was, that when I tried to pipe a design around the sides of the cakes, the icing slid slowly but relentlessly in the direction of down wards... I finally got round the problem by buying several yards of silver lace to wrap around them, instead! The end result was quite pretty though, don't you think?

And one of my very young, exceeding slim bridesmaids sidled up to me during the evening party, and asked if she could have another piece of cake. My  "Of course! Help yourself!" brought back the rejoinder "Thanks - I've had three already - this will be my fourth!"

Old Photo, Old Memory

I well remember the date I got married -Saturday, seventh November nineteen sixty four.No honeymoon, or wedding night pictures are stored in my mind, only tragedy,for late on Sunday morning, the eighth,my father came to our door bearing news of death. Auntie Glad was pronounced D.O.A.at the hospital after a motorcycle accident while she was crossing the road for Morning Service. A great churchgoer, was my Auntie Glad...

 And this picture shows Gladys May in her younger days, before life

had left its mark...

The Poetry Bus this week set challenges for passengers, which included the option to write about a person at a wedding. The first photo was taken at my wedding reception, on the last full day of Auntie Glad's life, so I hope you forgive me for not actually producing a poem, as such, for this bus journey. However, there is a second, more romantic offering on Alias Jinksy.

The inclusion of two old photos will also let this qualify as a late, Sepia Saturday post - I'm nothing if not economical! LOL

Life Drawing

The class was scheduled to start at 1pm. I arrived in plenty of time to get myself  and my odd assortment of folders, pads, pens and pencils organised, ready for off. The whole escapade was a last minute whirl, as I'd only found details of it a couple of days ago. With Havant being limited in available artist's supplies, I'd cobbled together anything already to hand that I could use -a piece of hardboard, a plain, A4 pad of dubious quality and a couple of clutch pencils with the softest leads I could find.

Don't be fooled by the photograph. There was no chance of making a detailed drawing of this pose, or any other. The object of the whole exercise, apparently, was to 'capture movement'. The young model is a dancer, and was asked to perform a sequence of steps, A, B, C, which she then repeated   in sequence, over and over for the next twenty minute or so, before the 'organiser' ( I use the term loosely) of the class, called a halt. We were expected to produce lightening sketches of this beautiful, but blurred, activity, like demented Leonardos.

To begin the class, the model held a pose for exactly three minutes, which was supposed to allow us to 'get our eyes in' , as the 'organiser' put it. The only thing mine got in was whirl of frustration... There was this delightful girl, who made every artistic bone in my body want to capture every one of hers on paper ! Fat chance. I was told 'all life classes are like this now'. Thank God that the life classes I attended were 'Then' not 'Now', or I'd never have been able to hone my skill as much as I did, which is still not as much as I would like. Can't see much new honing going on unless the timing is better structured, and the movement less phrenetic during the next class in a fortnight's time. Thank goodness I took my camera...

P.S. I've been valiantly trying to scan a couple of liittle sketches, but scanner is obstreperous, and I have threatened it with a visit from my son, who will beat it into submission at the weekend! LOL :) 

Thanks to AC's suggestion, here are photos of some of my lightning sketches, bearing in mind they were either  done as the model was moving, or at most, in 3 minute windows of stllness.

Autumn

Leaf Drop

My thoughts fall like Autumn leaves;
grown in my unconscious mind,
they bloomed in my awareness,
their substance feeding my imagination.

Now they flutter to rest on this page,
their dried remains rustling skeletons
which adorn the paper beneath my pen-
the only produce from their parent tree
which remains on offer to the reader.

I shall be linking this to Mr Knowitall's 55 blog on Friday. Okay, it's a little ahead of  its time, but better that than being behind the times, or even in my case today, on time. I need to be punctual this afternoon, for I'm treating myself to ten pounds worth of Life Drawing class, which is something I've not done since I left college. It remains to be seen whether I can still wield a pencil as opposed to a pen...

Late Edition Addition! as Willow's Magpie #35  of 6th October is all about Autumn leaves, I thought I'd use these ones of mine, which had already fluttered to the ground some time ago. I do like getting the most from the least!

Now I recommend you go HERE, to read my good friend Mrs T's interpretation of the same subject- it's well worth a visit...

Radio 3

Mozart is dancing in my ears, and I've decided to post another doodlypic-mostly because I can!

I call this 'Italian Fountain' - but then you all know I have an odd imagination.

This answers  RWP and Jabblog's comments!

Pea Soup

No, not a recipe post - though if I'd had my wits (and camera) about me, I could have taken a delightful photo of our lunchtime soup before we scoffed it... My friend was in Havant to visit her dentist, so it was natural for me to 'do' lunch. Being aware that some dental appointments limit the food chewing capabilities if the patient, I decided soup was a safe option. As it turned out, the weather was on my side - chilly, windy, dull and dismal enough to make a hot soup a pleasing prospect while we chewed the fat, as the saying goes.

Now she has pootled off home, I have the afternoon to let my fingers tap dance a blogpost into existence, and Pea Soup remains on my mind, as well as in my stomach. It is a most homely, unpretentious foodstuff, but I equate it with the very essence of hospitality. It uses natural ingredients which need to be lovingly prepared  and cooked well in advance of the coming meal, as split peas cannot be rushed - they take their time. The advantage to this is, when a guest finally arrives, the cook can relax and enjoy their company to the full. What more could you ask of a menu? Soup with some tasty granary bread  and a little sweet treat to follow is the perfect accompaniment to a friendly lunch date. When can I expect to see you? Just let me get my diary...

And for seconds, I give you...

The Mock Turtle's Song 
by Lewis Carroll


Beautiful soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup.

Oh, What A Grey Day!

Is your Monday Morning glum?
Lacking any sense of fun?
"Dim and colourless", you say.
Well folks, follow me this way >
the colours will come out to play!

Click on the little arrow to see more colours in a poetic form, thanks to today's Poetry Bus. 

It's A Funny Thing

Inspiration. That's what's funny. Having recently joined in with various Blog sites which provide prompts for aspiring poets, I've realised the jinksy "I" is  beginning to feel a tad stifled. This is a bit of a conundrum. To start with, I thought prompts would serve to nudge me into writing more - which I suppose in one way, they have, and are to be applauded.

But in another, I'm beginning to feel the constraints on the jinksy imagination, which is used to roaming freely where it will. Do you think this is simply down to my being an ornery, born awkward critter, or does it go deeper than that? Am I contemplating my navel too much? (On which subject pop over HERE if you have a moment.)

For instance, today I feel like this doodle which I made a while ago, and which seemed to call to me this morning.




Bubbles float skywards,
ephemeral spheres bearing
a glowing rainbow
circumscribed around each shell
of living, dying beauty.


Sometimes I need adjectives to float my boat.

Bang The Drum!

It's Sepia Saturday again, and after letting you see my paternal grandparents last week, with their young family, I thought I would gradually post photos of the children in later years - much later, for the most part. This picture intrigued me when I came across it, for the boy looks so young! He had to be one of my uncles and I hazard a guess at George, but here he is anyway, in all his finery.

If I get bitten by the muse later on today, I might come back and add a suitable poem, after using the drum picture as a prompt, but I make no promises...

Having finished lunch, I suddenly thought  to look for a drum poem, ready made, on the Internet. How could I not have done so before?
There follows one from The Cambridge Intelligencer of August 3, 1793.
It was written by a Quaker, one Mr John Scott, and entitled, appropriately enough ...

The Drum

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace and glitt'ring arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To fight and fall in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill a catalogue of woes.

It is hard to imagine in these days of sophisticated weapons of war and modern communication systems, that young drummer boys were used in the armies, or indeed navies, of long ago, to drum signals to the men. There's an article on the subject HERE that you might like to read if you're interested.

More Havant

In this morning's sunshine, this was the rear of
St Faith's Church, which featured in my previous post, and whose earliest parts go back to the eleventh century.

The whole area feels old, especially the path where I stood to take the photo, although it was not my 'time out of time' spot.  That lies further to the right, and would not have given such a picture postcard view of the scene had I stood on it.

There is no connection between this illustration and the lines I'm inserting next - I simply thought it was a pretty picture to share with you.  From here on, I'm going back to the subject of clarity, or not, of much of the writing on offer in Blogland...

Hidden Meanings

Words behind a veil of mist
swirl in vague allusion
as comprehension hides beneath
illusion of intelligence.
What purpose does this serve?
Beyond Confusion's urge
to cloak a poet's dreams
with a secret manifesto, lies
a creed whose images could birth
an undisputed presence
in the world of fact not fiction,
were they but given clarity of truth.

Please Adjust Your Vertical Hold...

I seem incapable of taking a photo in which verticals are vertical! But I thought I'd let you all see this delightful pub anyway. 'The Old House At Home' has the date 1339 inscribed deep in its outside wall, and centuries of memories enfolded in its heart, no doubt.

I first visited it in my student days, before it had been 'modernised' (dreadful word), There was a huge open hearth in the main bar, a stone floor, a slate shove-h'appeny board and a wooden, table-top skittles game with which local yokels could while away the evening as they quaffed their beer. The bar room was tiny, and it didn't take many bodies to make it feel like a rugby scrum. Modernisation saw internal walls removed between it and the next cottage to the left, and now there's enough space for groups of small tables where good, plain but tasty pub food is served.

You can see the top of St Faith's Church clock tower nestled among the trees round the graveyard whose ancient graves are at shoulder height - level with the top of the encircling brick wall that leads your eye into the picture.

Between the pub and the church, a short fight of stone steps lead up to a narrow, dirt pathway  (dividing line between God and Man ?) which has now had flagstones laid along its length, and thereby lost some of its magical appeal. Wrought iron railings of the church boundary were overshadowed by graceful old trees - beech or sycamore- and there was a certain spot roughly half way along this path, where I always had to pause and savour the 'time out of time' awareness that it held.

The first occasion that my brother visited me, after emigrating to New Zealand, I led him along this pathway, but made no mention of  'the spot'. I walked slowly ahead, but suddenly he called me back. 'Stop! Pen, wait!' and I looked round at him and smiled. He grinned back at me, and said 'You know, don't you?' and I nodded. There was no need for words...

Any Visitors...

Who think I'm still asleep, can find me taking a trip on the Poetry Bus here, but I may be back home before bedtime if the journey is a short one! TTFN, folks...

Afternoon! I have popped back long enough to explain that this photograph is one I took of my TV screen, during a programme about China. I was curious to know how such an experiment might turn out.
I now have proof that the results could have been  extremely satisfactory - if only I'd put the camera on a tripod. Clicking the shutter while holding the camera in my hands, was enough to make many of the shots a little fuzzy, which was a pity, as this one proves how effective they might have been, had I taken a little more care.

This got me thinking about some of the poems I've been reading around Blogland, over the past few days. Many struck me as having similar fuzzy edges to them, and I've been wondering why.  I think often, a disregard for basic rules of language contribute to the feeling of unease, coupled with what seems to be a deliberate attempt to 'be clever' poetically. Sometimes this seems to me, to push the meaning of a poem into obscurity. Should meaning only depend on the reader's interpretation, by-passing the poet's intent completely? The corollary would appear to be, it doesn't matter what a poet writes, as only the reader gives it life...Wonder what you think?

Only Just Made It

...In time for Sepia Saturday! These were my paternal grandparents and offspring, but I can't be sure which of their children are in the photograph, so my father may or may not be amongst them.You may recognise Grandfather from the 'Horse in the Tent' photo I posted a while back. Don't they all look solemn?

Overheard

Do you listen to what people are saying as they pass by in the street? I own, I do, and that's where the germ of an idea took root and resulted in this motley assortment of phrases:-

Snippets Of Conversation

He hasn't had a bath since last October... 
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
Do you think I need to change my outfit?...
That IT bloke just hasn't got a clue...
Will this train take me to Wolverhampton?...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

Don't talk to me about the price of basics...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
She said, 'You'll never shift a stain like beetroot...
and I think this needs a spot of super-glue...
The blue light on the trembly bit's gone out...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

I never do that ever on a Monday...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...
why don't you go and ask your blooming Father?...
Well, shall I buy just one of those, or two?...
Now the Doctor thinks he'll have to snip it...
I ask you, what's a girl supposed to do...

Today,  Big Tent Poetry is asking for submissions created from random words or phrases taken from life, so I've chosen to offer these verses as my reply.

Which Noise Annoys?

No, not an oyster. Me. And yes, the answer is a noisy noise, but what from, is the question? Well, okay, apart from screaming kids at the checkout, war time sirens, or fingernails scraping down a distempered wall, it's water pipes that judder like pneumatic drills.

 After paying a plumber an exorbitant amount to investigate the cause, he announced it was due to a leak in my water meter, which was allowing air into the system. He advised me to contact my water company, which I did- on 16th August.

As we are now galloping into September and the noise has not abated, I 'phoned to check whether Portsmouth Water had made any attempt to sort the leak. According to the customer service doyen, a report had been made that part of the meter had been 'tightened'. Hmm...

Next Tuesday another 'operative', as the jargon goes, will call to inspect it further, and to get my personal report of the problem. What a joy that will be. I can hardly wait...

Meantime, I daresn't turn a hot tap on beyond a measly trickle, or the pipes sound as though the wrath of the gods is upon me. Perhaps it is...

Maybe, when I wrote the following lines a while back, I should have known  it might not be not be the end of the matter.

The Gurgler 

There's a Gurgler in my sink
and I think he wants a drink.
When I slowly shift the plug,
that is when he starts to glug
as the water's rushing down.
I do hope that he won't drown.   
It can't be very nice to swallow
soapy water from a hollow
gushing, waterpipe (so gloomy!)
in the sink of my bathroomy.  

Ravages Of Time

This was the sad apology for a garden a year or two after I moved in here. Originally, there were flagstones and a whirly line, and nothing else. Every tub, urn and flower pot needed bags of compost laboriously carried by hand - mine. In summer the heat was unbelievable, and in winter a green slime would grow over the slabs when water was unable to escape down the spaces between them.

Over the years,  the filling in these cracks disintegrated, and now at least I'm spared the slime. No, the green now comes from another source - my urban jungle! It proves how nature is prepared to accept the most meagre of habitats as long as it can sustain life.

 
I have posted the following verses before, but not with accompanying photos, which I think give an added je ne sais quoi to the whole subject!


Alternative Garden

The garden was totally concrete,
its chequerboard flagstones a sight
to dampen the gardening spirit,
though bathed in a warm summer light.

No flora or fauna enlivened the view,
no  shade from a tree or a shrub;
not a solitary  leaf, nor a stem, nor a flower
sustained an unfortunate grub,

if it dared to put in an appearance
by wriggling under the gate,
or scaling the slatted wood, vertical fence
in its unending search for a mate.

I bought a few tubs and containers,
plus some compost  in colourful sacks,  
all providing a small splash of colour
as they stood in their teetering stacks

awaiting  the hesitant, first  potting up
of the trays full of tender young shoots,
all eager (like me) in their spacious new home
to established some permanent roots.

MUCH, MUCH LATER- This has turned out to be a perfect offering for the Poetry Bus due on 6 September, even though I posted it before this week's driver had chosen the destination, as you might say! ESP rules, Okay?

Present Perfect

Okay, you can stop thinking this is going to be a lecture on grammar, or even an advertisement for one of my staunch followers (they will know who they are!) . It's merely a way of introducing this:-

Fireblossom emailed the picture to me, after she'd discovered my poetry only blog, Alias Jinksy, for it exactly matches the tongue in cheek description I added after my Blog Title.  How kind and thoughtful was that?
If I were ever to be inveigled into a duel at dawn, I'd far rather  the chosen weapons were pen and ink, as opposed to épée or pistol.

Choose Your Weapons

There was an old lady called Pen
who liked to indulge now and then
in a battle of wits
with other odd twits
in a poetic duel - D'ye ken? 


N.B. Comments received in limerick form will be awarded with gold stars and putty medals.
This is a direct result of a plea made by Maggie for a return to the Verse and Worse spot so beloved of the one and only David McMahon...Remember that, folks?

Oh, and here's one more etheree for the pot that crept into my mind a while back:-

A
day off
on Monday
can play havoc
with your usual
routine, and alter time
as perceived by inbuilt clocks,
until body is uncertain...
Which day of the week it is today?
It's Tuesday, masquerading as Monday.

Tales My Mummy Told Me

After the photographs, I thought should come a tale or two.  I have posted some, if not all, of these before, so sorry if longtime followers get a déjà vu  view feeling.

Ink, school and toilet tales

Because Dorrie had very long hair, worn sometimes in plaits, the boy sitting behind her in class used to take great delight in dipping the end of one of these into the inkwell, and flicking it at her frilly, white, starched apron.

The resulting mess brought scoldings galore from Ada, who was busy enough washing for her large family, as well as others, without this added hassle. (After being widowed, Ada eked out her money by taking in washing, as her Mother, Sarah had done before her.)

Since the Sunday joint's leftover cold cuts solved the problem of getting dinner  ready,  washing day was always Monday.  With the copper boiler in the scullery doing sterling service all day, not to mention bars of soap, washboard, blue bag and starch,  Mum remembered Gran always being less than cheerful(!) at the end of yet another steamy, marathon washing session. . .

Children at school with Dorrie sometimes took their lunch with them, like they do now,  but I don't know that she did, as she lived close enough to go home lunchtime. Anyhow, one of the boys earned the name 'Buppy-Shoog-shoog'  because of his predilection for  bread and butter sprinkled with sugar, for his sandwiches. Dorrie pleaded with her mum to do the same for her, but Ada was firm - 'No such rubbish for you, my girl.'

I do believe the boy's real name was Horace Bumpstead, as many years later, Mum recognised him, working as a conductor on the buses in Portsmouth, and pointed him out to me.  A small, insignificant little man, with old fashioned, round, wire framed glasses, slightly pot bellied (no doubt due to all those sugar sarnies) and what you might call a 'prunes and prisms' mouth - i.e., tiny and puckered. He stammered a bit, and used to repeat everything more than once in a hesitant way, his voice rather high and squeaky, but rusty sounding at the same time. In fact, just as you might expect one named Horace Bumpstead to sound.

I've mentioned elsewhere the 'piano game' Mum played with the meat skewers, but another of her favourites was to take a candle into the outside loo, (don't think there was an indoor one too - there wasn't)  drop gouts of  hot wax onto her hand (painful - I once tried it too) then 'operate' with a blunt knife to remove them.

The earliest memory I have of this loo is a bit traumatic, as I managed to bolt myself in, even though I'd been told not to,  then couldn't work the bolt properly to get back out… Not too disastrous, as the green -or was it brown?-, wooden plank door had a hole right through where the latch was, as well as decorative openings across its top, so a passing grown up easily heard my panic-stricken pleas for help, and gave calm instructions as to how I might get out.

The wooden seat went from side to side of the back wall, and the round hole must have had chinaware below it, but my memory doesn't stretch that far. I was too small to worry about the mechanics of the thing. The water tank was fixed on brackets high on the back wall.  Its chain was long and swinging, and loo paper was squares of newspapers, cut up and threaded onto a loop of string hanging from a hook on the side wall. 

My cousin, Peggy remembered that, as a child, there  were occasionally squares of tissue paper instead, if  our Auntie Glad had brought home some of the sheets used as packing for the fabrics delivered to the factory where she worked.

The well scrubbed, wooden seat was warmly comforting to sit on - about the only thing in the loo that was, as howling draughts were the norm on chilly days. It's  sad, when the toilet was updated in later years, that this seat met its demise in favour  of a more modern, much chillier version...

Monday Bank Holiday. I must add a little more for the benefit of any late comers - Gran's loo was a proper, brick built edifice adjoining the kitchen and attached to its mirror image for the house next door. No thunder box cans to empty! I might have known even the mention of a loo would dredge up some questionable reminiscences in the comments box !

 

Dorrie, Dos or Dot

That's three of the nickname versions that Doris Lillian, my Mum, had during her lifetime, and the first photo, which is the earliest one I have of her, shows what a little dot she was! She was born in 1911, on the 25th July, just about a month after her father, William, died of a fever. When she started school, she scandalised my Gran by telling inquisitive children that she didn't have a father, when they asked about her Mum and Dad.

She was used to being the baby of the family, and her elder brothers were always inclined to spoil her. Here they are in a group portrait, taken in about 1904, which shows William and Ada, William Jr (from William's first marriage) then in order of age Arthur, Dorothy, Albert and Archibald. 
After the time of this photo came two more girls, Gladys May and lastly my Mum, Doris Lillian. Another son, Victor, born in 1900, didn't live long enough to make it to the 1901 census.

The photo was taken in the back garden of the same house that I knew as a child, when the widowed Ada still managed to rule the roost, all those years later!

And if you'd like to hear some stories from way back when, look at my Sunday's post...

Alan and Kath at Sepia Saturday gave the impetus for this post.

Water Water Everywhere

Water droplets fall;
flowing rivers flood in spate. 

A whole country mourns.

Live And Learn

I've just discovered something interesting. Have you ever felt cheated that you can't scroll to a post you know you read on a blog in the last few days, but which can only be found after a laborious search though archives? It's taken me a while to cotton on to the fact there is an option for letting many day's posts appear on your home page.  This makes it easy for readers to scroll down to ones they may have missed, or to recap on one they want to read again.

It remains to be seen whether this will slow Blogger down, but until that becomes obvious, I shall be giving everyone the option of scrolling through a month's worth of posts from my home page.

The brightly coloured image above is there just to wake you up, and is a detail from a larger Paint doodle I called 'Jazz'.  Have a good day, as the saying goes...

Although I've now come to the conclusion that today is a slow day in Blogland, and I've penned a few lines on the subject...

Not A Lot Happening

Deep in the heart of Blogland, nothing stirs.
For once, there is scarcity of words.
Have people reached the bottom of their well
of bubbling inspiration? Who can tell...
Maybe a multitude of cats that roam
have bitten lots of tongues? Shall we bemoan
this sudden lack of posts? I shall aspire
to light a match or two beneath the fire
which may ignite verbosity, in time,
so the only tongue that's wagging isn't mine...

More Of Life's Rich Tapestry

Thanks to GW for the title!

Flenny Noyders 

Ten Flenny Noyders
went for a stroll,
stumbled on a dillytow
and started to roll.
Uphill and own dale
they stroodabompy went
until their tiny totypills
were screwfilously bent.
They ran home to Mummy
a-rooning all the way,
and she laffatedly cobbed them
and told them ”Go away!”





Late Edition Extra! I have just created a new blog called  Alias Jinksy, where I hope to post more of the poetry, and less of the waffle. So why not come and take advantage of my two for one offer today? No charge for admission!

Tickets Please

Time for another ride already? Goodness, how the days fly. Here are the details of the depot from which the Poetry Bus trundled this week. It's destination? Early morning, in various disguises, so I've manufactured two for the price of one... 

Sunday Morning, 1st Edition
  
I Like It

As dream turned to reality at sunrise yesterday,
which song was it, do you suppose, that I heard start to play?
Was it music of the spheres, melodious or merry?
No - it was a pop song by some fellow name of Gerry!
Gerry and the Pacemakers were singing in my mind,
complete with memory of words I thought I'd left behind.

"I like it, I like it!

I like the way you run
your fingers through my hair,
and I like the way you tickle my chin
and I like the way you let me come in
when your Mother ain't there,
your Mother ain't there!

So I had to go to YouTube and watch an ancient clip
of Gerry's actual pop group who'd made my mem'ry flip
by infiltrating through my dreams the instant I awoke -
I never would have guessed a 'lectric guitar playing bloke
would choose to haunt someone like me, a blogger, (name of Napple)
who's fond of many silly words with which she likes to grapple.

Sunday Morning, 2nd Edition

Thoughts On An An Empty Inbox

Once, morning smiled with messages;
now, it creeps into day, its face solemn.
Once, joy would illuminate my mind
as beloved's name greeted my eyes,
the bold black characters forging
a ferrous bond with my emotions.

But the screen remains silent too often.
No longer amongst the favoured few,
I wait for any chance snippet of comfort,
perhaps a sentence, to be tossed to me.
How do I explain the loss I feel
to one who gives it not a second thought?

Words, Words , Words

Where would Blogland be without them? Yesterday morning, Poet in Residence was in playful mood, with ten non-words which he asked you to incorporate in your own 250 word tale, and I'm sure he'd be delighted if you decided to participate. Being a woman of very few words (am I kidding?) I only managed a sixty four word offering, which was so short I merely left them as a comment.

But with words on my mind as a subject, here's a selection of them, rearranged into a poem, this damp and dismal Sunday.

More Of The Same

All words are recycled.

They never wear out,
but sometimes we wonder
what they are about.

The mind of the writer
always has its own view,
but it may not be what
those same words mean to you.

For experience alters
the links that we make
through our synaptic sparks,
and the routes that they take.

A brain's a computer
of unrivalled design,
for it keeps body running
as well as the mind...

And to round off the day, here's a Paint doodle that I called "Circuitry", for it reminded me of the convoluted way our minds make and store memories.