School days - 2

Later, in 1936, after the death of King George V, we moved to Birmingham to live with my grandfather in Handsworth. This was because my father's accountant had decamped with all the money from our garage business, leaving us in dire straights! So I now went to a school run by an elderly cousin of my mother's.

And once again the process of learning which I went through proved not to be memorable, with one important exception: my little book of 'times tables'. This played a daily part in my life, and I believe I owe my lasting ability for basic mental arithmetic to the emphasis that was put upon it. It was about 3 inches square, in a shiny red cover, and I seem to remember that the tables were beautifully written out by my teacher. No doubt I had to copy and learn, copy and learn, to the point of absolute saturation. I certainly remember sitting at the little desk in my bedroom and poring endlessly over my little red book.

The second school I went to in Brum was a posh one - the Edgbaston High School for Girls. Here for the first time I had to wear a uniform, a gym slip and tie. I wonder how many of you remember the gym slip. I also recall navy blue serge knickers** with elastic round the leg, and a liberty bodice in winter - a sort of long cotton vest with rubber buttons on, to which you could attach suspenders to hold up your beige lysle stockings. Oh joy! Oh glamour! I don't think!

Here too I gathered a memory of misery. I spent my last two terms there in the boarding house, instead of making a daily bus journey, because my parents were in the process of house hunting from London. During one half term I caught mumps and could not go home for the break. I was so unhappy that I poured out all my misery in a letter to my parents. Letters home were, of course, monitored by the Matron - (would this be allowed today, I wonder?) - and I subsequently found myself in the awful presence of both the Matron and the Head Mistress, who harangued me together about being selfish, and upsetting my parents, and they couldn't let me send such a letter could they? Whether I wrote another one or just gave up I don't recall, but I have never forgiven that betrayal.

** Talking of navy blue serge knickers, they feature in one of my favourite rebel memories: In that last summer before the war, when I was 11, we had a visit from a great aunt whom we saw very rarely. I stood beside her at the table to show her something, and she put her arm around my knees. Suddenly, to my intense surprise, her hand crept up under my skirt. I was wearing my knickers with the elasticated legs pushed up as high as they would go – I hated any form of physical constraint – and my aunt was firmly pulling them down again to just above the knee. I was outraged, and made good my escape as soon as I could! How dare she?!

To be concluded ...

Judgment day is today

Interviewed on BBC London Regional News tonight, the Bishop of London was urging people to avoid sin by considering the impact on the environment of such things as air travel and 4x4s. He maintained that care for the environment is a moral issue, because we are all linked, to each other, to the environment, and to God, and we should all therefore take responsibility for our impact on the environment. If we do not, he said, Judgment Day may be nearer than we think.

I believe he is right in what he says. It is a moral issue to act responsibly in this context, whether or not we believe in God. We may reject or deny God. We cannot reject or deny our dependence on our environment. In fact, where all moral issues are concerned, we should act as though our judgment day is today, and every day.

Great ideal! My level of achievement is pretty moderate, but I am conscious of my responsibility at least.

School days - 1

My first school was in Solihull, within driving distance of Henley-in-Arden where we lived at the time. I have no recollection of the lessons learned there, except the hard lessons of life.

There was a disagreeable discipline to mealtimes: no drinks of any sort were given, but we were expected to clean up our plates regardless of likes and dislikes, and of the quality of the food. In my early days there I disliked vegetables, and had a particularly sensitive gorge to fat and gristle – who doesn’t, indeed? With nothing to wash down an offensive mouthful, I had on more than one occasion to get down from my chair and make a dash for the kitchen, hoping to keep my lips closed until a kindly cook gave me a drink to help it on its way.

I was also bullied, and have a lasting memory of being pushed into a clump of stinging nettles – (why was there such a thing in the school playground?) – and feeling outraged to see members of staff observing the scene through the french windows of the classroom, without apparently seeing any need to intervene.

As it happens, I was nettled again before long. In 1935, on the night of the Silver Jubilee of King George V, there was a bonfire on the hill behind the village, and running down the hill on the way home I managed to trip and fall into a seriously big bed of nettles. I remember a much longer-lasting agony this time, and my father attempting to sooth it with dock leaves gathered for the purpose. They are usually to be found growing not far from stinging nettles.

My only other clear memory of that school is of my parents turning up in the middle of a class to take me home, because the King had died, in January 1936. Why it was thought necessary for me to be at home I don’t know, but of course I was delighted! Maybe what they really wanted was for me to start packing, as they must by then have been planning to leave Henley-in-Arden.

To be continued ...

Magazines for oldies

..... or wrinklies, or seniors, or pensioners, or young-at-hearts, or grey power, or however we are classified.

I must put in a word here for my favourite, indeed, my only magazine. Over recent years I have subscribed to a number of magazines for the retired and those who are “getting on”. The only one which has a balance of editorial and advertising matter which I find bearable, which has an intelligence and interest level which holds my attention, and which for me justifies a regular annual subscription, is The Oldie, edited by Richard Ingrams, previously of Private Eye. There are those who take issue with its politics from time to time, but I think this just adds to the interest, and gives rise to stimulating correspondence. It’s website is at www.theoldie.co.uk.

I tried to upload a scan of one of my favourite covers, and a couple of cover pictures I found on the web, but none of them would upload. Maybe they carry some sort of inbuilt copyright protection. I am sorry not to be able to use one for my promotional blog.

More about blogging

On Friday BBC London did a feature on ‘blogging’ on the 6.30 pm regional news. The presenter was talking to one of the writers for The Oldie magazine, whose name I unfortunately didn’t catch. She was suggesting that blogs are just filling up cyberspace with boring rubbish. I wouldn't be here if I shared that view, but I did agree with her that if blogs are not about something of real interest, they should at least be entertaining, and I do work hard at that.

Some good points in favour of blogging were made by other speakers too: that blogs enable people to try their hands at writing without need of a publisher; and that people form communities through blogs and their regular followers. Both of these apply in my case, and as I get older and more sedentary, I find that the second of these advantages becomes more and more significant for me. I know I have some regular readers and some of them leave comments on my blogs from time to time, which is great.

But I found myself decidedly piqued at the end of the interview when the presenter asked “Is blogging all done by young people, then?”, and the answer from a corporate blogger was: “Oh no! We have a team blogging for us ranging from 18 to about 30”! Well! Having got to 78 myself I do not think much of his concept of 'not young'. If I thought that all the 30-somethings out there considered themselves to be no longer young, I should feel extremely sorry for them. Please tell me they don't!

Early learning - 2

I have belatedly remembered another valued companion of my early learning experiences - Mickey Mouse! Mickey was 'born' the year after me, in 1928, (created as we all know by Walt Disney), and so we grew up together. The Mickey Mouse comic came out in 1936 and ran for 920 issues until 1955. It was, so my researches tell me, the first comic to be printed in full colour photogravure. It cost 2d or 2 pence which is .80p, ie less than 1p today.

My mother began buying the comic for me from the very first issue, and I can remember how, on returning from the shops, she would throw it through the open window to me, so that I wouldn't have to wait those extra few moments while she walked round the corner of the house to the door!

I have been lucky enough to find a picture of the cover of that first issue, and so that you can assess its value as an instrument of learning, I have transcribed here the words in the speech 'bubble' underneath Mickey and Minnie in the cetral star:

“FANCY, MINNIE, A TABLE WITHOUT LEGS”
“WHAT KIND OF TABLE CAN THAT BE, MICKEY?”
“THE ‘TOOSA’ TABLE, MINNIE –
YOU KNOW, TWO TOOSA FOUR, THREE TOOSA SIX –"

The house where I was born ...

Not strictly true, as I was born in a nursing home in Birmingham, but this is the house I was brought home to as a new-born infant in 1927. It was known then as The Corner House, in Henley-in-Arden in Warwickshire. By the time I was born it had been converted into a garage and repair shop, The Newcombe Garage, and my father was running it as a business. I inherited a number of postcards, photos and artists' impressions of the house and the village, and I recently acquired some more, thanks to my sharp-eyed friend Pam Archer scanning the offers on eBay.

This picture was taken prior to 1907, and is the earliest I have. Its arrival brought to light an interesting discovery. Note the position of the first floor windows over the grocer's shop, and the appearance of the front of the building. Then compare with the next picture.


In this picture taken in 1925, when my parents were living there, the upstairs windows have moved together, and there is a lot of timbering that was not visible before. I reckon some restoration work must have been done, perhaps stripping off some plaster work to reveal the timberwork. But I wonder if the 'new' windows were really restored, or were a modern addition.

A big leap forward here to the 1960s. We were forced to leave the house in 1936, when my father's accountant made off with all our money, so we moved to Birmingham to live with my mother's father. Many years later I was astonished to see this picture in a magazine, showing that my old home had become a branch of Lloyd's Bank.

In the 1980s I found myself driving through Henley and decided to stop and visit. The bank staff welcomed me most kindly and gave me a tour of the house. Always a mixed pleasure visiting an old home which has been converted, and there was little left of the bedrooms upstairs which were now offices. The original staircase was still there however, and I was able to recall how, as a small girl, I would run along the landing and leap into my father's arms as he sat on the top step.

Below is a much-faded picture of my father outside the house and shop with three of his staff. He was a tall man, over 6', but I am surprised how small the mechanics are.