Herbert Smith...

my much loved Grandfather.

seen here in what would have been an atmospheric

taste of a casbah!

On return from our holiday, imagine my father's feelings on getting the film developed  to find a born and bred Yorkshire man, complete with flat cap 

completing the scene.

This lovely man I have to thank for me never having smoked.

He lived with us in the family home where he worked

as an accounts manager at

Vickers Dartford.

As a small child I would always look forward to his return,

as in his jacket pocket he would sometimes have 
a sweet which he had been given at work.

In his cardigan, grandads wore cardigans in those days didn't they?

He would have a pocket full of these...

Dried peas, yes you heard right!
Dried peas
which he would chew.

I tried it a few times; not a flavour I would recommend.


On lots of occasions, sitting on his lap he would say
'Promise me Linda you will never smoke!'
'But Grandad, you smoke!'
'Yes, I know, but just promise me!'
I solemnly did, and I haven't ever been a victim of the evil weed,
thanks to my lovely grandad's wise words.


***

Scrumping with coz...

off we set... 
 so sweet in new summer dresses,

looking for all the world like we'd just stepped out of an Enid Blyton novel.


Hair brushed to a wavy unruly shine - mine
Coz's sleek mane courtesy of a night in dinky metal curlers,
her looking always band-box pretty -
me just looking - me!


At a loose end we wondered what to do...
'Let's go scrumping'
Off we set...
Apples - No far too early...
far too tart.
The damsons were plump and ripe for the picking.
With tummies full, sitting under the tree
we decided that taking some home would be a very good idea.
Wouldn't our mum's be pleased!
Trouble was, we didn't have any swag bags.
'I know I'll carry them in the front of my dress!'
No guesses as to who said that? 

We made our way home, with the ripe fruit getting squashed
with each step.
On arrival, I looked for all the world like a victim of the chainsaw massacre.
Damson juice ran in rivulets down my legs.


We stood side by side at the back door; 
with a gimlet eye
my mother's gaze grazed over the sight.
Me with a face wreathed in smiles
and legs looking like menstration had come early.
Coz looking for all the world 
Pears soap squeaky clean.


'Bye coz!'
I said as my mum ushered me in,
blissfully unaware of the storm brewing.


My new dress was for ever ruined with the damson juice.
I ran up the stairs crying, as on each step,
 the backs of my chubby legs got a whack.

Travails with poo...

unfortunately not this Pooh!

Poo... you know... that kind.

'Linda's being a good girl quietly playing upstairs in her cot'...

Oh no she's not...

she's doing a bit of redecoration.

This was in the days before ragging & sponging of walls.

Her medium of choice...

Not Farrow and Ball's Mouse Back brown emulsion, nor yet egg tempura;

but a colour charted kaleidoscope of

dinny, brekkie and tea.

***

On a coach trip around the Isle of Wight 

we stopped for morning coffee.

'Mummy I need the loo!'

My father watched as we walked away

transfixed by the small round lump in the back of my shorts,

 that wiggled as I walked.

***

Gardening has always been a pleasure of mine.

My parents just couldn't work out how I went out to play

in a sweet summer dress and invariably returned 

knicker-less.

Scratching their heads they could never get to the bottom 

of this conundrum.

Until one day my father decided to discover the problem 

of the blocked rain water tank.

Soggy, pooey knickers that's what!

Far too busy playing and having fun to answer the call of nature.

I came up with a cunning plan; standing on tip-toes I reached up, carefully lifting the lid of the galvanised tank and plopped in, the offending items.  

Seemed to make perfect sense to me...

Why waste quality time having to come in for a poo?

Let's face it, it is one of life's bores.

“If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. 

It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.”

 Winnie the Pooh.

Lost in France in the Fifties

Ten things I remember of my first foreign holiday

1.  Lost on the beach in Le Touquet.

Imagine the fright wandering back from the sea 

to the tent that you thought your parents were, 

only to find they've disappeared.

The rows of tents all looked the same.

I stayed calm, knowing they were there somewhere.

My bravery held until going up to a couple and saying

'I've lost my mummy and daddy'

they started speaking to me in a language I didn't understand.

The full enormity of it suddenly hit me, I started to cry.

I was taken to the lost property post (lifeguard station)

where fortunately someone could speak English.

It wasn't long before our little family were back together again.

2. Can you imagine,the shame of having to wear my vest under my cossie?  
Worse than that, it was knitted!

Warm admittedly!

3.  Hearing for the very first time as we walked along the prom

the expression...

Red sky at night, shepherds' delight.

Red sky in the morning, shepherds' warning.

Funny the things you remember.

4.  Staying at this hotel and seeing for the first time

the amazing sight of seeing someone eat a

globe artichoke with vinaigrette dressing.

5. Wondrous  French butter on a freshly baked baguette

the taste of which I can still recall.  It haunts me to this day.

I've never tasted the like since.

    

6.  Exploring in Paris with my father,

leaving my mother behind in the hotel with a headache.

She must have been twenty nine, in the prime of life.

With just nineteen years left to live, should we have known

and sort help for her sooner?

7.  Me feeling cheated that my dad only took me to the first level 

of the Eiffel tower...

 I wanted to go to the top, you would wouldn't you?

The higher you went the more money it cost, 

 now with hindsight I understand why!

8.  We did go to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
Happy at last. 

9.  Seeing the Mona Lisa and being singularly unimpressed.

10.  A rough crossing coming home; feeling fine until I saw

everyone being sick...

then you've guessed it, so was I! 

Thoughts of a little girl

My diet started on this day...

in a lovely house overlooking the sea.

How old was I then?

11 or maybe 12 and let's face it, the

yards and yards of Prince of Wales checked wool 

didn't do a lot for my developing figure!

How was I to know then on that carefree holiday

to Teignmouth that my life was about to change forever?

This is Great Aunt Grace

'Battleaxe Extraordinaire'

Even as a young Victorian woman she looks stern.
Imagine how she appeared to me in her tweed suit, hair in a bun,
sensible shoes, you get the picture?


'That gal needs to go on a diet!'


The author of my never-ending quest 
to become sylph-like.


The road home from Devon was paved with good intentions.
Every Friday night after school my mother took me into town
to be weighed at the chemist.


It won't surprise to learn from that day to this...
I've been on a flaming diet!