The Written Word Group

The first Christmas I remember was in 1951.  I would have been 4 and a half.  My father was away in Malaya (I learned later) with the Royal Navy and my two youngest siblings had yet to be born.  So it was just  my mother, my older sister and me who went to stay at my grandparent’s house that year.    I don’t recall a Christmas tree, but I do remember a festive atmosphere, so I think the living room was dressed with holly and laurel and mistletoe - this latter I recall because much fuss was made when visitors called and a great deal of laughter ensued from under it. My grandparent’s house was a two bedroom, mid terrace house built just after the First World War, following Lloyd George’s ‘homes fit for heroes’ pledge.   The one living room must have been quite large because there was by way of heating a large, black range,  in front of which was a sofa and an armchair at either side.  Behind the sofa was an  oak dining table and then against the wall an upright piano.   These, of course,

                                                        Reminiscences.  🌲.  🎁 Well, once again the Christmas Holiday Festive season is hurtling towards us like an out of control train.  Difficult to believe when we are still enjoying the Sunshine and the temperatures. I see the Christmas lights going up in the village and probably in the towns too, ready for the switch on around the 1st of December, while TV ads have been running on the UK stations for a few weeks now.  At this time of year, my thoughts inevitably return to my childhood. Christmas was a special, magical time with the excitement building in the weeks leading up to The Day itself. My Mum and my Aunt would take me up to London to Gamages Department Store to see Father Christmas. For some reason I believed he was the Real Santa, just there taking orders.  Before the actual meeting there was always a ride of some kind. I remember a train carriage which never actually moved except to shake a little, while scenery went by t

  Christmas with the Provident. I have been working this round for over 15 years.  In many of the houses that I visit I am considered one of the family.  I don't have to knock on those doors.  I give a tap and shout “It’s only Pearl” I am always ready,  wondering what hat I need to put on. The friend.  That means a long chat, a couple of cigs and a cuppa. The Counsellor. Tissues at the ready, this could be long and emotional. The Peacekeeper. I’ve helped calm down a few difficult situations. The steady voice calling 999 when things are getting scary. The Nanny. Quietly and quickly moving children to a safer room. My customers are mainly council house tenants. Saying that, I also have a few ‘posh’ clients. Things are never as they seem on the outside. Christmas is  big for us at the Provident. Weekly payments start in January. A new payment card begins. Date. Amount paid. Signed: Customer. Signed: Provident Rep. Sky high interest rates. I have to forget that part.  You see, for some

The Joy of Friendship and (limited) Achievement  Today I was moved to feel incredibly fortunate in my life here in Spain. Nothing amazing occurred other than the joy of spending time with good friends and indulging in mildly intellectual pastimes.  When I say mildly intellectual, I mean just that.   A friendly game of canasta taken to a new level with conversation in Spanish. Again, when I use the words conversation and Spanish, I use them very loosely. One of our group is a native Spanish speaker,  the rest of us have simply slogged away  for several years to attain a dubious level of competence, but the feeling of achievement is so rewarding and the corresponding boost to our confidence -  and confidence is what it’s all about - makes the effort so worthwhile.  I suppose these days with the news so terrible, the agonising images filling  our TV screens every night for almost 2 years now, it’s tempting to think that any of us not in a  war zone should be grateful. But that is so depre

The names of current World Champions, Adam Taylor and Annie Mitchell don't immediately spring to mind when looking at England's sporting achievements, but they are champions indeed....in Welly Wanging. No it's not a euphemism, it really is an event. I came across it when I was thumbing through a copy of “Unusual English Pastimes and Traditions”, you know the kind of thing, Morris Dancing, Bog Snorkelling etc. (which has nothing to do with shoving your head down the toilet). No, Welly Wanging is the act of chucking a standard Wellington boot as far as you can. Apparently, launching it off the end of your foot is a variation which is frowned upon. The World Championships takes place, annually, in the town of Upperthong, (you couldn't make this up could you?) and the rules are enforced by The World Welly Wanging Association. Legend has it that it started when a farmer, having a quiet drink in his local pub, had a pint of beer spilt down his trousers and thereby filling hi

  Last month I bemoaned the fact that I had little or nothing to write about due, in the main, to ‘The Virus’. That wasn’t strictly true. In the early days of the lockdown I had come across a couple of amusing stories which I could have included but had half-forgotten them. Uppermost in mine and most people’s minds then was concentrating on staying safe, observing the rules, wearing the gloves and mask, social distancing etc.  That’s my excuse anyway. One of the stories concerns a British Institution, Rolls Royce. However, since they sold off the Car Division to the Germans awhile ago, they are probably now only half a British Institution. For some reason that has always rankled with me….I believe  the remaining Aero Division is still doing pretty well.   Anyway, their Engineers were asked by the Aero Industry if they could develop a means of testing Aircraft cockpit windscreens. A major problem for airlines is bird strikes which cause not only untold damage but has led to crashes and

  Arimanius stood on the departure platform, as the shuttle landed. It would take him up to the Cixin Moon Orbiter. Where he would catch a larger shuttle back to the Jingkan Sky-Lift, and then the four day drop down to Earth. They where inviting him to a celebration about his father. Who had lead the team that had created the Mazz-Drive. That would enable the human race to extend their reach beyond the Solar System. Of course it had ultimately killed him. The Niels Bohr science centre on Ganymede, exploding in a ball of fire,   due, they said, to some minor calculation gone wrong. But curiously all the teams previous calculations were flawless. The Mazz-Drive worked, so everybody was delirious with joy. The George Soros Gold Medal of Achievement, was to be awarded to every member of the deceased science team. Arimanius was happy the award ceremony was in London as he had business there. Not unconnected with his father. In the great purge of religions, the Catholic Church

AGE IN A WARM CLIMATE                                                                  When did age start to matter so much?  When did I realise that I had become old?  Or have I yet - realised, that is?  The dawning that here and now are the sunny uplands, the future no longer a vast territory of limitless possibilities, but honed into an ever-narrowing tunnel, is at times a frightening and saddening experience.  Living as I do in a vibrant Spanish village shared with a few thousand  retired expats, mostly with a ten to fifteen year spread and all very purposefully pursuing a rewarding and useful life, it’s easy to forget that this demographic is not the norm.  Only when I return to England , to my children and grandchildren and their dizzying, frenetic pace of life, are my fast and ever growing shortcomings thrown into pitiless relief.   How I love their energy, their ambition, their constant juxtaposition of exuberant optimism and tragic despondency.  How I remember those intense fe

A CHRISTMAS IN BLEAK TIMES Lisa’s eye caught the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall.  15th of December.  Of course, she had two electronic devices plotting more or less all her movements, but she found  a wall calendar reassuring with all the important dates clearly highlighted.    Her stomach knotted, and she felt the all too familiar feeling of panic and hopelessness  causing her chest to tighten.  10 days to create a miracle,  10 days to find a way of providing her three children with a Christmas somewhere approaching their expectations . Money had never been so tight. Tight? Better to say, scarce, non-existent even, once the bills had been at least partly paid.  In Lisa’s mind there seemed  to have been an explosion of costs from the rise in mortgage rates, the  ridiculous increase in fuel prices,  and the spiralling cost of food.  It had been impossible to put away even a few pounds towards a Christmas fund .  How had this happened?   Both she and David had what she had once tho

I heard the strains of guitar music coming from a nearby bar. The sound attracting lots of folk from both near and far. It was a tablao putting on a popular flamenco show. Real and authentic it was said by those in the know. I squeezed inside and pushed my way through the excited throng. I reached the bar just as a girl began a plaintiff song. A couple stepped on to the stage, he dressed all in black She in red, a traditional dress, frilled and ruched at the back. They stamped their feet and clapped their hands in true flamenco fashion. Twisting and twirling as the music rose, filled with fire and passion. Their dance told of lives and of so much more Of families torn apart by the tragedy of war. Brother against brother, father against son. The struggle to rule and the Dictator who won. The years of oppression and the misery which came For ordinary people, life was never the same. Then the mood of the music and the dance became lighter Full of life and excitement for a future much brig