Writing For Joy

A Lovely Day For a Funeral

2012-02-06T07:53:00.000-08:00

A Lovely Day For a Funeral — a funeral for a lovely lady!

It is little more than a week ago that I was visiting this lady in hospital. And now I shall be attending her funeral. Will it be a bright celebration of a life well lived? I hope so, because although she will be greatly missed and many will be grieving, not least her adoring husband and family, this is a lady whose long life never grew dim — until her strength was fully exhausted.
The sun is shining brightly today. Snow is forecast for tomorrow, but we live each moment as it comes. I hope all present will sing out in joyful tones and the address reflect the pleasure my friend gave to so many people.
Funerals should be celebrations, too many are doleful reminders of ‘mortal toil’ and our ‘sinful state’. Yes, maybe they are good occasions to be reminded that life is short and to make the most of what is left to us and to use that time wisely, but every new morning is a precious gift not to be wasted. Life is NOW, yesterday has gone, tomorrow is unknown.

A Day Later…
A Celebration of the life of ‘ever young’ Margaret Faith Cottis (31st March — 25th January 2012).
AMAZING! The funeral could not have been arranged better, and a lot of people turned up at the Crem, and afterwards, to remember and celebrate a life well lived.
Entry — Bach, Air on the G String.
Words of Welcome and Introduction.
Thoughts of family members read by themselves or by the Pastor conducting the funeral — highly emotional, spilling out of love, thankfulness and grief, so right for the occasion.
Time of silent reflection.
Committal.
Music for exit — Gary Lombardo, Enjoy Yourself…

The curtains were left open so that we could view the coffin with the beautiful landscape picture painted on the side, a view not unlike where Faith and her husband used to sit together to look out over Morecambe bay. How fitting!

The reception room was filled with relatives and friends — including many bikers (Faith and her hubby were both avid bikers and campers) and pub quiz ‘mates’ well known to many. Lots of chatter and lots of eating, ending in a pub quiz! It was almost as if Faith was there putting down all the answers, for it is certain her general knowledge was incredible, even as she entered her eighties.

Certainly, it had been an emotional time in the Crem but it was all genuine. No hypocrisy or stress on ‘religion’ and yet it was also a spiritual occasion where peace and joy reigned supreme. And the time afterwards, so much part of the couple’s life and loves. Surely it was a day for Faith’s loved ones, especially her strength and stay — her devoted hubby — to remember with joy and thankfulness.

Yes, it had been a lovely day for a lovely funeral — the following day is marked with frozen snow and winter chill. But we can sit back and relax in warm memories that will remain with us for a long time.

Faith was always smiling or laughing. She could always see the funny side of most things in life!

The light of her life will always shine in the hearts and minds of those who loved her.

Flowers that speak of warmer days — flowering NOW in January!

2012-01-12T13:00:00.000-08:00

We have a large garden full of shrubs and trees with lawns that speak more of weeds than grass (even if mowed and kept neat!)At this time of year it is often covered in snow but today it is sunny and not too cold to be outside. I always marvel how we see things, such as flowers, that are small and partly hidden by the vastness of greenery. It is these little gems that I have been photographing today just to remind me of the blessings we enjoy all the year round. Maybe in a few weeks time we will have a blanket of snow. Such is our English weather!

A Winter's Day at Aldingham. (CUMBRIA)

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

While I visit the nursing home at Aldingham (I have written about that on my Wrinkly Writers blog) my hubby who drives me there, sits reading in the car. Last week he took these photographs of the waves beating on the shore. We certainly have had some wild weather lately!

Gillian Brock — Lost, found. and lost again…

2011-12-14T07:34:00.000-08:00

Gillian, in centre, explaining something to her Aunt Phyllis

Gillian talking to her cousin Linda. Both photos taken
when Gillian was here in England four years ago.

Gillian Brock —

Lost to us when a child, found and now lost again… my dear niece, Gillian.

Among the Christmas cards arriving through the letterbox last week we had a letter from a lady saying that my niece Gillian had died on August 17^th. The neighbour is opening Gillian’s mail so as to find friends and relatives who are unlikely to have heard about the death. We had put a Christmas letter in with Gillian’s card. I rang the lady who had given us the news. She told me that Gillian had not been seen out the day of her death, unusual because she took her dog out regularly. The police were called because only the dog could be heard inside the house. Not wanting to break in and destroy the door and locks, the fire brigade was called and they got in through the roof. Gillian, fully dressed, was found on the floor — dead.

Gillian had been planning her 60^th birthday. Not old by today’s standards.

I have been informing Gillian’s relatives on my side of the family.
I googled ‘Gillian Brock Died August 17^th Australia’ and straight away I was in a position to find more information about those in the UK who knew about her death. A web site called Heaven Address had messages, ‘flowers’ and such, displaying the names of those who sent them. I added my tribute and uploaded a photograph of Gillian talking to a cousin and her aunts — Phyllis and Gladys. It had been taken when Gillian visited here in 2007.

I wrote above here, ‘lost to us when a child’ and this needs explaining.

I am the youngest of six children. My brother Jack (Gillian's father) was the eldest. He was in the Air Force and met his wife Peggy when she was in the ATS. The first we (at home) heard of her, and of the marriage, was when he brought Peggy home (I think it was around 1948). I was still at the art school, two of my sisters were married and had homes of their own, the other sister, aged seventeen, worked in a factory and we shared a room at home. My other brother was at the local university and lived at home. My dad, struggling to keep on his feet due to a crippling disease, was not a well man. My mum had cleaning jobs to bring in a few pennies.

The housing shortage was much worse than it is today, after all, we had just been through WW2 and everything was still rationed — houses were no exception. The newly-weds took over the front room. They had both left the forces. I seem to remember Peggy was soon pregnant.

I liked Peggy but my mum thought she made the most of her pregnancy and led an idle life. My mum had never had the luxury of taking things easy at any time of her life and, I think, rather resented having an extra workload, especially after the baby was born. Looking at things from Peggy’s angle, it could be that she did not want to interfere with my mum’s running of the house. Washday was particularly stressful — no electric ‘helpers’ in those days, at least not in homes like ours. I do remember Peggy making us all some lovely tomato sandwiches. Mum had her fast-moving routines from getting up after five in the morning, lighting the fire for hot water and starting the day’s chores. Everybody had a cooked breakfast in spite of rationing.

Crunch time came when Jack came home from work one day to find the baby had no clean nappies. I think Peggy was drying a wet one in front of the fire. Peggy evidently complained that Mum said she couldn’t wash them because there was no hot water, or some such. Jack complained to my mum in the presence of my dad. Dad was not pleased with my mum (he could be pretty horrid to my mum when the mood took him) but Mum was annoyed with Peggy. Mum had not told Peggy she could not use the water, only not to wash the nappies in the bathroom at that time because it took the water from downstairs. Likely she wanted Peggy to wait until mum had finished washing and mangling the family wash. Anyway, the result was that mum raced to Jack and Peggy’s room, collected all the nappies and washed them in the kitchen sink. Not so long after this, a van arrived and Jack, Peggy and baby went off with all their baggage without any sort of warning. Jack had been quite close to Dad, joking together and both of them smoking and enjoying a drink. My mum did none of those things. I rather think he always blamed my mum for Jack's swift departure without a goodbye.

They were now living in a cottage that went with Jack’s new job (running a garage) in another county some miles away. I, along with the others, must have kept in touch because I recall visiting their home so they could meet my husband-to-be. We went on our motorbike and took sandwiches for our tea. I feel sure that they were pleased to see us. Jack took us into the parlour and called to Peggy, ‘Come and see who’s picnicking in our front room.’ We met their lovely family — Jacky, Dennis and Gillian.

They all went off to Australia on an assisted passage. We wrote to their new address but I did not have a reply. When my dad died, my mum sent a telegram but still no reply. They moved and, with no address, we could no longer be in touch.

I used to pray there would be a reconciliation before my mother died, but it did not happen. I tried googling Jack’s full name adding ‘Australia’. To my surprise something came up — an announcement of his death. His wife’s maiden name was mentioned so there could be no doubt I had the correct person. He died about the time that my mother did.

So was that it? Not at all, unknown to me Gillian was doing a family tree search at the same time as my eldest son took up the hobby. I was able to write to Gillian and we kept contact through emails. Then she came over here four years ago and I was able to give her a signet ring that had been passed on to me by my Aunt Gladys. I too used to be a GB before my marriage. I last wrote to her in July and wondered why I had not had a reply. Her death never entered my mind.

I do not know where her brothers are. When I saw Gillian she did not seem to know either. In actual fact she did not care where they were as she had broken with them. So sad. I don’t expect I will ever see jack’s sons again but no doubt that is the way they prefer things to be.

Goodbye Gillian. I did not know you for very long but we had a good, if short, relationship.

Old Dog, New Tricks?

2011-11-11T11:16:00.000-08:00

A while ago I thought I would have a go at trying to make a video for each of my books. I started with Awakening Love. I could not slow it down anymore and so it is rather hurried. Perhaps I should have cut down the text? I went back to it but couldn't make any changes. I tried making another but seemed to have forgotten how I made the first one. I guess I had not grasped the steps and order necessary. Anyway, I have put it on here, poor though it may be. I'm not sure it will even work! I have clicked the start but a message comes up:ERROR PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.

Trial and error is okay but I guess you really need a little help until methods are grasped. It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks and it can be very tiring. Now I have discovered that there is something definitely missing. Looking at the Html version there is nothing there but the title. So all that I have got on this site is a single page. The only way it will work is if I click the video on my desktop.

I can just hear the clever clogs laughing their heads off! Clearly, there is something I failed to do when I made the video. The 'works' are in this computer somewhere otherwise it would not work on the desktop.I wonder if I can get hold of a five-year old to show me what to do?

Wait a minute — there is a message below saying: Uploading Video and it says I can't close this window until it is finished. I'll come back later...

A couple of hours later and still nothing! I give up!

DONE! No, not by me! Son came home and used his skills. Yes, poor quality video, no music and it goes too fast but...

For details of this novel and my other books — go to my author blog

The trials and glories of Class 3Z

2011-09-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

The trials and glories of Class 3Z

Looking back thirty years

Seaview Comprehensive School. It is Friday, and the final lesson of the day. In fact it is also the last day of the summer term. Only a few classes are taking place in the annex at this particular time and the building is quiet and almost eerie. I sit in the sanctuary of the staff room thinking about my final art lesson for the dreaded 3Z — that is a class of third year boys, aged thirteen to fourteen, most of whom have a reputation for bad behaviour.

It is rather unfortunate that the school has been divided in the way it has: the first letters of the alphabet for ex-grammar school children, and the lower letters of the alphabet for ex-secondary school children. The present first year intake has fully Comprehensive schooling, at least so we are told, but we all know that class setting divides the brighter from the less so, at least for all academic subjects. Some parents are not pleased. They may have been promised that children already attending grammar school will continue in their groups until leaving but their siblings have to follow the Comprehensive path to achieve any glittering prizes of success. But the ex-secondary children are not happy with the move either. Having listened to them I know many fear rejection. Unfortunately, in some cases, they have been proved right.

My thinking is that the ex-secondary schoolchildren have a raw deal. Having heard what some ex-grammar-school teachers think of them, I tend to side with the kids. I taught at the secondary school in question and am aware of the problem children, but many are from difficult homes. It so happens, I was a junior-school teacher a few years ago and know about the backgrounds of quite a few of the youngsters. But I did not know any of the boys of 3Z when I started teaching them, so we had to get to know one another. That has not been easy.

To attend their art lesson, they have to walk across the playing fields from the main buildings. The annex is single story, part of which is built on a hill, a long corridor with a number of short flights of stairs take you around bends and up to the top two classrooms, one of which is my art room, the only one occupied on most days of the week. With no one to restrain them, quite often the boys fight on their way over. They have also been known to pick and eat the ‘magic mushrooms’ growing in the outer field. The first task is to get the boys settled and motivated, not easy for their last lesson of the day and week. And now it will be their last lesson of the year and also with me. I admit, part of me hopes they will all clear off home! Well, one thing for sure, I must be well prepared for their arrival.

Over the year, I discovered that, once they had been taught the basics, it was better to allow them complete freedom of choice with me assisting where necessary, even if it was copying a picture of a semi-nude girl astride a motor bike! The boy had been surprised I had allowed him to do it, but I am delighted with the fantastic job he’d done. There will be no choice today. I have the room set out with single desks, papers and pencils. Easy to prepare, easy to clear up.

I hear the boys running up the steps, at least they are not fighting. I stand up as they enter the room, ready to count them and check them off in my register. I am also ready for any last day funny business. But something odd is happening. They all enter the room and sit down in silence, cross their arms and look at me. What’s more, every boy is present — present and silent. No shuffling, muttering, or even day-dreaming. I have their complete attention. They are all looking straight at me with sealed lips. What is going on? I ask them that very question.

No answer.

I repeat the question.

The largest boy in the class, a usually quiet pupil who appears to have quite a lot of respect from the rest of the class, decides to answer my question.

“Well, this is our last lesson with you, Miss. So we all decided to be well-behaved.’ He looks around the desks at the rest of the boys and adds with a clenched fist, “Or else!”

I am deeply moved.

They prove to be as good as their word.

During this quiet lesson, I see a note being passed around with a whisper to each person. I hope it is not going to be something to spoil their impeccable behaviour. Then a lad comes forward and says, “I expect you will throw it away but we all want you to have this.”

I open the folded note. Each person has written his name. I am deeply touched. What a way to end the last day of term.

I say, “You have given me the best present ever. I will always keep this gift. Thank you.”

Their beaming smiles tell me that maybe my teaching skills are not too bad. Surely something has been achieved with them?

Every so often I come across that list of names and, with a warm glow, wonder what has become of each boy.

We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.

2011-08-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.

Things went remarkably smoothly in my new job. My sample-hand Hilda, who had stitched for me at the previous firm, settled in well too. So did all the girls who followed us and were taken on. I think the rest were employed by the lingerie business (housed on the top floor) that took over the space — including the offices and showroom — previously occupied by the firm we had worked for. I did not know it at the time but my skills were later to become a considerable influence in their wheel of fortune. Nor would I have guessed that it would lead to a broader field of design capability.

I was sent to London to view the up and coming trends. I met the buyers when they visited the showroom and became more familiar with the various firms who bought from us. During this time we moved to Loughborough where my husband worked. It was rather isolating for me. It was not the house I wanted either. I would have preferred a new-build bungalow just a short distance away. My husband thought the older houses were better built and this one had a good piece of land with it — 100 yards long with a lane at the bottom end. But it was a very narrow plot. My husband built a brick garage at the bottom of the garden, complete with inspection pit. He had to take electricity down to it too. Seven years later when we sold up to move to a detached house. Considering what we had done to the property — large brick garage, new fireplaces, tiling and such — we had gained nothing on the price we got for it. Meanwhile the new bungalows up the road had gained in price with little, if anything, having been done to them. This was a hard lesson to learn. But much had happened before we made that move and circumstances were such that the position of our first house turned out to be ideal.

Our first son was born a year after our move into our own home. I started working a few weeks after the birth with an agreement that I would work from home for two or three days of the week. Indeed it would not have paid me to have child care for a full week. The lady next door, with an eleven year-old girl of her own, adored children and was more than willing to look after our baby. With just part-time care it took a third of my salary, stoppages took another chunk and travelling yet another. Then I became pregnant again. I decided the only thing to do was go freelance.

Remarkably, it worked out that the firm I was already working for continued to pay me the same money for a set number of designs — I went in to see the designs through to completion. Through Freddie (already travelling for the Lingerie firm, which had taken over where I had worked before) I received orders for new designs and some pattern cutting, all of which required me to go in occasionally to see the designs through. This was hard work, non-stop effort on my part so as to keep my travelling to minimum. The boss was also known to come bustling in with a new task: “Leave that, I want this doing first.” I would be there so late that the boss often whipped me off to the station in his Jag so I did not miss the train — once jumping on while the train was moving! (I would have left it as my tight skirt was hindering me, but the porter opened a carriage door and pushed me inside, bags and all!)

My husband built me a wooden workshop, nicely fitted with a cutting bench, lockstitch and overlock machines, and a huge roll of Swedish craft paper, heater, fan and all things necessary for my new business. Windows along both long sides gave ample light as needed. My neighbour continued to look after my infant as needed. She also took it upon herself to do my cleaning! Nicely set up, I was able to find more work, a few odd jobs and a whole new assignment when a firm in Dudley asked me to do all their designing for housecoats and sleepwear. Anyone reading my book, Awakening Love, might think it impossible for a designer to work as hard and creatively as my main character June does. But it is based on my own experiences. I have even designed and made children’s clothes and wedding dresses, most of my mother’s clothes too. Our three sons wore clothes I had made for them until they reached Junior School level, where only school uniform was allowed. (Boys in short trousers until they were eleven!) My middle son suffered with chapped thighs in winter but he was in trouble when I made him wear trousers.

So things worked well. I was able to save a huge chunk of my earnings and we decided to buy a larger detached house, which was under construction on a new estate overlooking open countryside. When the time came for our move, I was pregnant with our third son.

We had a nasty experience less than two weeks before moving into our new home. My husband was taken ill. Our doctor brought him home from the surgery to pack a bag for an unspecified time in hospital and then drove him there. (Doctors did that sort of thing in those days — totally committed day or night!) We were in the middle of a very bad winter with frost deep into the ground. There was a blizzard when I walked down to the hospital that evening. When I arrived in the ward, I found his bed empty and remade — no sign of my hubby or any of his belongings. Panic! Had he died and his body taken away? No, he had been moved to another ward following an operation. Apparently his large blood loss had been due to a benign cause, so he was allowed home after a few days. Just as well as I could not have managed the move myself. Bad enough to have all the floors to scrub, but the pipes had frozen up and the boiler had to be started. The toilet in the back porch had frozen up to the rim, complete with paper and excrement left by the workmen!

I was not sorry to leave our first house. Just after our first son was born we had received a brick through our front room window where I often left my baby asleep in his pram. The police thought the brick attack had been boys fooling about, but we had no boys hanging about our area, which housed mostly older people. Later, I received an abusive phone call from a woman I did not know. We hardly knew anyone in that road, just our near kindly neighbours. It wasn’t until our eldest started school at five that we found out that we had other children in the street the same age as ours. With enclosed large back gardens I suppose we all lived mostly private lives. What a change when we were in our new home. Most of the residents were similar to us, and the boys were never short of others to play with. The parents soon got to know each other too and we had occasional coffee mornings, which helped us all settle in.

It wasn’t long before some of my work dried up. The country had opened its doors to foreign imports and competition had become fierce. One firm closed its outwear department. Later the housecoat firm, which supplied a well-known chain store, either suffered the same fate or reduced its costs by creating their own designs, as had happened before I came on the scene. Actually, they had always taken three months to pay for each design collection, which is not a good indication of solvency. But the Lingerie firm I designed for, continued to require my services with no reduction. In fact they knew I ‘could deliver the goods’ and were keen to keep up our business relationship. I was always ready to oblige and I recall many an occasion when the director would drive to Loughborough with urgent work right up until the birth of my third son. I would get up as early as five in the morning to get a good start while everyone was in bed. The director would sit in a chair taking in the sun while I was in my shed finishing off his patterns!

I now had three young children to care for and I was in no rush to get more business. Our two eldest boys were at school when I saw an advert asking mothers to consider taking up teaching as a career. With one of my sons having problems with reading, I already had an interest in education and this seemed to be an ideal job for a mum with a family. Within a year I had taken an entrance test and soon started on a three-year course at the local College of Education. Little did we realise the problems that lay ahead — but that is another story!

The photographs are of designs I did in the early 1960’s. Housecoats and baby -doll pyjamas were popular. Nylon nightdresses were frilly and lacy. (So too slips, cami-knickers and petticoats.)

The suit (from a 1960 advert) is a design I did for a Nottingham firm in 1960.

We Met On the Bus… Part Four Recognition and onwards…

2011-08-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

We Met On the Bus… Part Four
Recognition and onwards…

Things were going swimmingly, at least as regards work, home life was something different. Living in a bedsit lacks privacy. Sharing the bathroom with the rest of the family could be frustrating. Moreover my husband was at night classes most evenings and studying much of the time too. We still went to the cinema on Fridays and often visited his parents in Derbyshire on Sundays. With my mother washing for us, I did all of the household’s weekly ironing, which I did over three evenings. Cleaning didn’t take long and so I stitched and read books. No television in those days but we had a radio to listen to — but not when my hubby was studying.

It was great being the only designer for the firm. I enjoyed going places with the traveller and meeting our buyers. Also meeting the various reps, who brought me samples of buttons and trimmings to look at, and order as appropriate. I was a vital cog in a well-oiled wheel. The orders came steadily in and no one was ever laid off. Most of the smooth working was down to the traveller — Freddie — even though the boss, who lived in Manchester, visited the factory several times a week. I have no idea what he did in the office on the ground floor but he had no influence upstairs in the huge workroom. There was also a sleeping partner — a smart-suited dapper man with neat facial hair — who dropped in a few times while I was there. I was once given the job of producing a certain garment worn at his ‘lodge’. I cut the pattern from one he brought with him. But the boss also had garments made, including pyjamas!

Then the blow came. Our Manchester boss, a heavy drinker, became seriously ill. The business was sold out to the busy lingerie firm who had the top floor just above us. With a glowing testimonial from Freddie, I wrote to my first firm to see if they were in need of a designer. I was taken on with a rise in salary. Not only that, but my sample hand and half the workforce were taken on with me.

So I was back to the firm where my career began, but no longer as a junior member of the team. At twenty-one I was regarded as a fully-fledged designer and, with the departure of one of the other designers, I had a decent office to work in. I had responsibility for designing for the younger end of the market. Freddie was travelling for the lingerie firm, and it was through him that I eventually became involved with them too.

We Met On the Bus… Part Three... My new job — Designer at last!

2011-07-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

We Met On the Bus… Part Three
My new job — Designer at last!

It just so happened that the traveller for my new firm knew the bosses at my first one, they traded with some of the same firms in the wholesale trade. I did wonder if this guy had anything to do with my new appointment. I soon got on very well indeed with the traveller as he was the main stay of their business, both in wholesale and retail. He knew the right people. When sunray pleated skirts were all the rage, he knew where to get the pleating done as well as lovely embroidery by a firm close by. Leather belts too. I would get samples sent of embroidery suitable for dress bodices, which I could use with the sunray skirts. So it was more a matter of good pattern cutting and overall style than cleverness of design. Those dresses went straight to the retail within weeks of samples being done. I met the top man at the local C&A and a few days later he was shown the new design samples. His reaction was “Has that little girl done these?” He was quite impressed and a good order made.
New samples were done for the traveller to take around the country. Sales were good. Occasionally rolls of fabric would be bought at a knock-down price and I would have the job of designing something simple, cheap but attractive, to make a good profit. I recall a simple striped blouse made in black and white striped silky material. It had a black narrow velvet ribbon to finish off a fly-away-collared neckline. The rolls of material were used up and every blouse was sold. My quick response to the traveller’s requests meant I got on very well there.
I met reps who came selling buttons and accessories and, most of all, the buyers who bought our designs. This sometimes entailed me going to London with the traveller to meet these important people, so that I could answer their queries concerning required changes and generally use my knowledge and design ability. One firm that had its own label to put on the styles bought from us, had a really snooty buyer (a lady heavily made up to hide — unsuccessfully — wrinkling skin) who treated me with complete disdain. Our traveller hung our dresses along a rail for them to look at. The woman went along the rail, dropping to the floor most of the samples. Then she examined the rest. She picked out a two-piece that had velvet set into the collar and pocket flaps. I knew that the model was cut too tightly on the lay to allow for ‘give-away’ changes, so much so that even the shoulder pads had to be joined. But she asked how much cheaper the garment would be if we used self-fabric instead of velvet for the trimming.
Being honest, I said I thought it would make little or no difference, as more of the self-fabric would be required.
She sniffed deeply, looked down her nose and said, “It must make SOME difference, Ducky!”
The traveller intervened and said that something could be arranged if that is what they wanted to do.
Anyway, we got an order there and elsewhere — a very good multi-store clothing business, which treated me as the young person I was, but with the respect due to me as the seller’s designer. I was still only twenty but learning fast.
Since our marriage, my husband and I had been living at my parents’ house, using an upstairs bedroom as a bed-sit. We were to be there for three years. Not a very happy arrangement but places to rent were few in number and very expensive when any became available. Council property was reserved for those with children and on a points system. Since we did not want children until we had a house of our own, we were doomed to always be on the bottom of the very long housing list.
My hubby was still attending Evening Classes several times a week and studying at other times. I spent three nights per week ironing for the whole household, as my mother did our washing for us. No TV, of course, but we went to the cinema once a week and I read books or sewed. On Sundays we had a ride on the motor-bike (no springing in those days!) perhaps to his old home or maybe visit a relative. But we lived economically on my wages and saved as much as possible until we had enough cash for a deposit on a house. During this time, I travelled on the bus and my husband on the train.
As far as work was concerned, things were going very well indeed by the time Christmas came along. To top it all I found I had two weeks extra pay for a Christmas bonus, something that had never happened to me before then. Not only money but also a huge box of chocolates to go with the bonus! Such appreciation! Alas, I did not know what lay on the horizon!

The picture is just a rough idea of what the early sunray dresses with embroidered bodices looked like. (About 1953-4 onwards) These were made in black finely-knitted woollen fabric. The machine embroidery was of a thread that looked like beaded work when completed.

More to come…

KILROY and ALICE

2011-07-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

Why do we do it?
Do what?
Push ourselves beyond our inclinations…

At the age of fifty I took early retirement from teaching (my teaching career followed after freelance designing) and trained for non-stipendiary Church Lay ministry. Overcoming my natural shyness (not easy I can tell you), I became the first woman in this area to preach in a number of churches, conduct funerals and church services, visit nursing homes as chaplain, as well as visit the housebound, the sick and bereaved, and generally assist the clergy. Yes, some hostility but not from the general public. Having become addicted to study, I gained the rare A DipR. Then decided to do an Open University BA (hons) degree (mainly religion in Victorian times).
Then aged 69 and unable to drive because of failing sight, I gave up ministry and turned to writing fiction. You might think writing to be just the right occupation for someone like me, but…

One of my novels was Blazing Embers (now rewritten as SMOULDERING EMBERS by G B Hobson, and published by Dare Empire). Since I had been inspired by something witnessed on the UK TV Kilroy Programme, I wrote to Robert Kilroy Silk to see if he would comment on my manuscript. I received not only a yes, but also an invite to appear on his TV show. WOW! (Er… did I really want to make a fool of myself?)

When I reached the London studio I was told the title for the show that day: ‘I’m still sexy though I’m older’! (Definitely NOT ME. So what on earth was I — a retiring CofE Reader — doing there?) A few women were already being given prompts to cause animated and aggressive discussions concerning their sexuality.

Robert, while moving along the rows, drew out conflicting opinions about dating, dress and the sexy behaviour of some seniors. Sometimes the discussion became quite heated. Would you believe, one young woman said it wasn’t fair that older women were taking it from them. (Presumably when competing for men — not enough of ‘IT’ to go round? What a laugh!) Then came my turn to be involved.

(The following is only as I remember it. I cannot bear to look at the video of the occasion.)
I felt Kilroy’s hand on my shoulder. He addressed those gathered there.
Robert: ‘Gladys sent me a manuscript to read. It was about a granny who wanted more sex.’ (Howls of laughter.)
Me: ‘Well, actually, Alice wanted an orgasm…something so far denied her…’ (Oooooo and more laughter)
Robert: ‘And that isn’t sex?’ (Howls of laughter.)
Me: ‘Of course, but watching late night TV made her aware…’
Robert: ‘Didn’t I suggest you cool down the sex?’ (Oooooo! And more laughter.)
Me: ‘Yes. But this is serious, Robert. People my age did not get sex education. Many people were totally ignorant about love-making, even on their marriage night.’
Robert: ‘I expect they found out by morning.’ (Howls of laughter.)
Me: ‘This is serious, Robert… ’ I was getting cross. ‘In those days…’

And so it went on with Robert Kilroy Silk causing belly laughs. That is, until a woman in front of me joined in. I was still trying to get over the difference between fulfillment and ‘just sex’ and how a woman could go through life unfulfilled, but she diverted the chat to other matters. Okay, so the book is truly funny as well as poignant. I guess I kind of asked for the teasing.

Eventually Robert asked the guy next to me if older people can still be sexy. He assured everyone this was so, in fact better because older couples were more experienced and likely to take more time with preliminaries.

At the end of the show I was surrounded by most of the women present, wanting to know where they could buy my book! So too when I got back home. Alas, all I had was a manuscript and although literary agents were interested, they didn’t think they had the contacts for that particular genre to take it on. (The main publishing houses want stories that fit neatly into pigeonholes and likely to sell in the hundreds of thousands — I guess my story is a bit kinky!) But my son set up my own publishing house and now all my books are in print. Better still, DARE EMPIRE has contracted all my novels (where I am known as G B Hobson), and Justin James has given them all attractive covers, especially Smouldering Embers and The Dark Mirror. They are all available in PRINT and as eBooks.

I still have to push myself as far as publicity is concerned. Sometimes I just want to curl up inside my shell and have a quiet life. It is good though when readers tell me how much they enjoy reading my books. One said she had passed round this particular book so many times that it has become tatty. (Encouraging even if not good for sales!)

You can also get unusual handcrafted copies of my novels from

AGPress

— who knows, maybe one day they will be collectors items!

Heaviness but the sun comes through

2011-07-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

I often draw from nature to solve my problems or discomfort. Heavy clouds with sun breaking through has always been an uplifting sight for me. I don't care much for bright sunshine as it is bad for my sight. In just about everything to do with life, I find Contrasts easier to cope with. You can have too much of a good thing? Well that is the way we were brought up to think. (And 'too much' for us in those days would seem to be what most folk take for granted these days!)

I can't walk like I used to but I enjoy getting out to view nature close to, but also look at vistas that go on for miles.

You don’t have to go far out of Ulverston to find staggering views towards Coniston. Of course, you can get excellent views of distant fells and mountains from the local Hoad, and other places too, but this one here, where Coniston Water lies below a sweep of mountains underneath smouldering skies, is always close to my heart. For those keen on walking (fairly steep hill to climb) follow the Cumbrian Way until reaching the road that goes upwards towards the moors (or go straight up Old Hall Road, turning left at the crossroads, passing Windy Ash Barn and upwards towards the Anglers Tarn. Continue walking upwards until distant Coniston comes into view. Actually we often drive this way home into Ulverston and stop the car to take in the view. But we have walked in that direction a number of times. At a rough guess I would say it is about two miles from the town centre. Maybe less — walking uphill always makes the journey seem much longer!

We Met on the Bus...part two. (The ups and downs of a design career)

2011-07-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

We Met On the Bus… Part Two
My new job is a turn for the worse!

While things were going smoothly, well smoothly in relative terms, with my new boyfriend (I’ll give him the name of John) whom I met on the bus, it was a different story with my new job. I recall a college lecturer saying, “They’ll exploit you, if they can,” and how true this turned out to be.
I had been taken on as an assistant designer but in actual fact they were short of cutters. That is where I was needed and that is where I stayed — cutting samples, plus garments for production. Eventually I was given a chance to do a couple of designs but I knew it was just a sop to keep me there. Their main production was in sloppy sweaters made in a type of brushed nylon popular at that time, and that is not enough work even for one designer. But the designer turned out her seasonal samples and I had the job of cutting a number of each them. Some were totally impractical for mass production — lines and checks having to match at every meeting point. The costing was way out and if I had been on piece rates I would have been looking sick by the end of the week! So said the manager who was not pleased with my output. I started looking for other jobs.
Just seeing John once a week to visit a local cinema did not exactly fill my evenings. My best friend, whom I had known since we were at junior school together, agreed for us to go to the Nottingham Palais for square dancing once a week. We had always been fond of music and dancing, visiting the Nottingham theatre when we could afford a seat in the gods. We also enjoyed plays at the Nottingham Playhouse. In our younger days we put on concerts in the attic of her big house. Keen on designing, I made the costumes when necessary. We both found square dancing fun.
It wasn’t long before a boy named David had me as his constant dancing partner, which was just as well because I really needed someone to prompt me during the sequences. After some weeks he asked me if I would help him out. He was a church youth-group leader and wanted to introduce dance into their programme. For this, he needed a partner for a course on leading country dancing. Most of my evenings being free, I accepted although it meant meeting him in town straight from work.
I met David the following Monday. He insisted on paying for my coffee and bun at a café before going on to a hall a bus ride away. Fair enough, after all I was there for his benefit and I would not get home until quite late
Unknown to me, it reached David’s ears, through a lad in his youth group, that I was seeing a boyfriend every Friday. My dancer was not happy and arranged a meeting with John that lunchtime to see what was going on. Not pleased, that evening David told me all about the meeting. I said that John had no serious intentions, we only went to the cinema together once a week. Since I was only David’s dance partner what was the problem?
Evidently David saw things differently. There may have been no cuddling, no kissing, no sweet talk but this guy had intentions of marriage! But I had never seen him in that light. What’s more John had told David that he intended to marry me! I can’t say that I was pleased that I had been the object of such a discussion. I had already been told by someone who knew John that he was not the marrying kind, and had already upset a hopeful lass back home.
From then on, David stopped paying for my tea. I guess it was a sign of a break-up of something that never was. The night he told me, John was waiting for me at the bus stop where I caught the bus home. He was not pleased. It came out that he was truly serious about our relationship. Before long he stopped going home every weekend so we could have more time together. After all, his evenings were taken up with night classes and study. So we sorted drifted into marriage — one year to the day that we first went out together.
I found a designing job but they only took me on for a two weeks trial. I first got their block patterns corrected and then turned out ten designs in the first week. I was told at the end of the week that they really wanted an overlooker, rather than a designer but they would give me an excellent reference for my abilities. I chose not to stay for the second week. The girl who sewed the samples told me they all knew I would not get the job. ‘Miss Smith will not allow someone much better than her to take over her job.’
Out of work. I took on a job as a cutter for a few months. Then a letter arrived quite unexpectedly. Four or five months earlier I had applied for a job as a designer but had not received a reply. Now I was being offered an interview. I got the job, worked hard and before long had a rise to a magnificent sum of £8 a week. This was in the days of poor pay for women and I was getting not much less than my husband received in his new job in Research and Development. Of course by this time I had given up dancing. My hubby has no sense of rhythm, apart from being born with two left feet! Ah, such is love!

The photographs: The electric iron I bought just before our marriage in 1953 and, with some new parts, still doing excellent service. Plus a photograph of a table cloth I bought and embroidered before and after our marriage. The cloth was bought with a £1 note, a reward for handing in a gold watch I had found by the factory I was working in at the time of the above events. In the party photograph I am with a workmate and her boyfriend. It was when I was working there that I met John on the bus. At the next party I was wearing my own designed dress and my hubby was my partner.

More to come…

We Met on the Bus at a time of my working at a career in dress design...

2011-07-07T14:12:00.000-07:00

We Met on the Bus
at a time of my working at a career in dress design...

(Late 1940's Designs done when I was in my teens)

It was late February of 1952 and I was starting a new job in the city of Nottingham. Along with my sister Phyl, I was waiting in the queue at the 5A bus stop, just around the corner from my home. I was dressed in grey — coat, stockings and shoes. A grey outfit for a grey day! But there was nothing gloomy in my mood: I had a new beginning, a chance to prove my ability to design clothes that would sell in shops all over Britain. At least, that is what I thought at the time.

The bus arrived and we slowly boarded. There were no seats left for me to be able to sit with my sister, so I sat on the long seat by the stepping on-and-off platform. My thoughts wandered to my previous jobs: trainee designer at a knitted-clothing firm catering for the wholesale trade, followed by two years as a designer pattern cutter at a manufacturer of dresses for the retail trade. I had done well with my first employers, William Gibson and Sons. I joined them when I was just sixteen and had worked my way up from the cutting bench to designing outfits for the younger end of the fashion trade. I smiled to myself as I recalled my first day of working in that huge factory.

The factory was a red brick, early nineteenth-century building. One of the many mill buildings in that city which was once a centre for Britain’s finest industry — clothing, lace, bicycles, pharmaceuticals, and many small engineering enterprises. Nottingham also has a fine university building, standing on a hill within the magnificent Highfields Park. I looked up to view the majestic white building silhouetted against a grey sky.

I suddenly realised I was being watched. Two soft brown eyes under thick eyelashes and heavy dark brows were smiling at me. I coyly dropped my eyes, knowing my cheeks were turning pink.

Oh, why did I have to blush when a man looked at me? It had been the same in my first year at Gibson’s. Every time I went down to the canteen with the other workers, the men sitting near the yard door, would whistle, knowing what would happen. It took the motherly overlooker to get it stopped. But it was the same at the cutting bench. The male supervisor would stand the other side of the table looking at me until I lifted up my head. Then everyone would laugh as my cheeks revealed my embarrassment. At least, a later supervisor did not get away with his sexist chauvinism. He had a habit of running his thumb knuckle down my spine as he passed behind me. I asked him nicely not to do it several times. The laughter was wiped off his face when I swung the tip of my boot at his shin. He called me a foul name but he didn’t touch me again.

I lifted my eyes a little. My dark-haired fellow traveller was still watching me, but now the corners of his lips were curling into a curious little smile. I dropped my eyes again. This time I had a picture of him in my mind: mid-twenties, medium build, short wavy hair, rather a swarthy face out of which shone those penetrating, but warm, eyes. Somehow he had connected with my inner being and that was disturbing. I turned my mind to other matters.

I had done well at Gibson’s. It had been tough to start with. My soft hands were not used to handling the heavy tailoring shears used to cut patterns and cloth, and my skin had to be hardened before I was comfortable using them. I had to get used to a lot of things: machinery noise within that huge room, and coming from the floors above and below; long hours of toil and the uncertainty of knowing my place — officially one of the staff, but unofficially one of the girls. Socially, I was totally out of my depth.

I soon found out that certain class distinctions operated in that place. Management, designers and office staff, tucked away in the offices were monthly paid. Cutters (close to the stock room and offices) and sample hands were hourly paid. Lockstitchers, embroidery machine operators, overlockers, finishers (at the opposite end of the factory floor) were on piece rates. The steam press workers and ironers, who were separated by a glass partition, would have been hourly paid. All piece rate workers received bonuses on top of the rate for the job. The bonuses brought them up to a living wage comparable with the other workers, with the speedier and more experienced girls doing very well. It was hot and sweaty working on those machines but the girls seemed cheerful enough, singing as they did to songs coming over the Tannoy system.

Until I actually began designing I found it difficult to fit in with any group, but then it became even more of a problem for me once the season rush was over. I would be back with the cutters. It especially became problematic when the chief designer thought, once the design rush was over, it would be a good idea for me to join the machinists and get really skilled. This way I could fill in where needed. This seemed unfair to me: the designers had time to relax and prepare for the following season, since my designs were selling well, why shouldn’t I have the same privilege?

I found myself another job. It seemed I had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire! I wasn’t really needed as a designer, even the designer-manageress copied just about every design produced each season. The boss would pick dresses up in London or elsewhere and have exact copies made. Even he himself was known to rip open a dress and use the pieces as a pattern for a new model. I hasten to add here that either the manageress or myself would have the job of translating it to our own pattern blocks, which were incredibly accurate. There was a strict system of grading different sizes too. Strict was indeed a word to describe many things there. Someone was told off for talking to me, I was practically timed if I went off to the toilet, and told off for leaving the light on while I did so. A new machinist was dismissed after the first week because she wasn’t earning enough — the boss said he could fill her place with a quicker worker. I was told that someone had applied for a job as a cutter and that the boss considered, since he could cut patterns too, he might be better off with him than me. I decided to get another job before I was put under even more pressure. When I gave in my notice, within less than half an hour I was handed my ‘cards’ and told to leave the building within two minutes. The manageress stood over me to make sure I did not take anything not mine, and that I did not speak to anyone. I resented being treated like a criminal!

So here I was on my way to a new job, which required two bus journeys. This earlier travelling time had brought me into contact with this young man. His eyes were fixed on me and nobody else. After a few days he started sitting next to me whenever he could. It wasn’t long before other passengers left us a seat so we could always sit together. After a few weeks he asked me to go to the cinema with him the following Friday, the one night he did not attend evening classes. It was Spring Day. Exactly one year later we were married in our local church.

A regards my designing career, there began a whole new turn of events …

(More to come)

A Granny in Search of an Orgasm? otherwise known as Smouldering Embers!

2011-06-22T01:39:00.000-07:00

My latest novel is a complete rewrite of Blazing Embers written seven years ago. I have taken note of the advice given by a top publisher and also by a top literary agent's reader. They suggested I reduce the ages of the top characters so as to appeal to a wider range of readers. In actual fact I have found the novel already has an appeal to a wide range of book lovers, especially of the Baby Boomer age but maybe this change will indeed increase the book's popularity. Justin James of Dare Empire has done a splendid job of the cover design and I look forward to holding the paperback version in my hand. (At the time of writing, it can be bought as a very cheap eBook at the Empire Bookstore and in different formats. Great news for booklovers, my other four novels are being offered at silly prices for a week or so to celebrate my new book!
So if you fancy reading about a young-at-heart granny in search of that orgasm so far denied her, now is the time to be enlightened about her circumstances and eventual progress.
It has been known for the reader to be educated too (one said that the book had changed his life!)
Andy O'Hara said: Wow. I don't say that often. Ms. Hobson's writing is quite good indeed. There's such a wistful, genuine quality to her style that it's hard not to be drawn in right away. Unpretentious — so nice to see that in writing once in a great while. Very unique, and very charming.
Bob Taylor said: I've read all four of Hobson's books, and I find that she has a delicate touch when writing about human sexuality. I don't normally read 'love stories', but those that Hobson writes are really interesting from a man's point of view — especially when she explores the male psyche. It's just a little bit... scary... that a female should have that kind of knowledge. She's a very gifted and articulate lady.
From the book:
"You see Alice, everyone's at it these days. Young folk do it openly but if we oldies did that in public they'd take us off and put us in care!"

Late night TV helps Alice realise what has been missing from her love life. Her hubby has benefited from forty years of satisfaction, time for her to experience an orgasmic encounter?

On TV chat shows, Silver-haired sex appears to cause great hilarity. WHY?
Mature lovemaking has much to offer: a lifetime of practice, plenty of time for preliminaries and, most of all, the freedom to have a good laugh when things go haywaire!

Of Chalk and Cheese, Childhood and Sex!

2011-06-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

Being a mother, grandmother and great step-great grandmother, plus having spent some years as a teacher (including Reception) it is hardly surprising to have a deep interest in communication and the welfare of children.
We can learn a lot from little ones. The small child who volunteers his favourite soft toy to a hurting friend, the toddler who tries to give his comforter to the baby crying on the TV. Of course children, as they grow older, can also be jolly spiteful too and bite the hand of a playmate, or hit a pal with a toy. Were these children different when they were younger or did they lose their innocence? Exactly how much are children influenced by their environment?
My sister and I (two siblings left out of a family of six children) are totally different and always have been. We don’t look alike, we don’t speak alike, we rarely like the same things but we love each other dearly. Yes, as children we used to fight and argue. But being a little older than me she would look after me out there in the big bad world.
One Sunday, dressed in our best clothes, we were going for a walk. My sister stopped to see a friend while I watched older boys digging in a hole. Being nosy I wanted to see what they were getting out of the dirt. I soon found out. They called me over saying they wanted to show me something. Daft as ever, I did as asked. The boys stuffed worms up my sleeves, into my pockets and down my neck. I stood screaming like Violet Elizabeth from Crompton’s Just William. Come to think of it, those boys were rather like William! My sister came running to my rescue and her verbal attack put them to flight.
My sister often helped my dad with his repair work on engines and such, while I would be given sewing tasks, to do, trim my dad’s hair and be my mum’s hairdresser. From leaving school at fourteen, my sister picked up the swearing of her workmates. Not so me. I guess I took after my mum, apart from which I had witnessed the fury of my dad when he heard women (girls) swear! (He was pretty good at swearing himself but men were expected to swear.)
In a Reception Class you can see characters forming and that is a wonderful thing. So too, seeing their minds grow as they respond to teaching through word and their environment, exploration and discovery. What a shame much of what they learn as they grow older is far from life enhancing.
WE are born with certain drives to keep us healthy and ensure the continuance of the species. Are these drives traded on? Food is an obvious case. But has the whole of society, never mind children’s clothing, been sexed up and innocence lost? We see things on television that boggle the mind — not forgetting the other parts meant to be titillated. What is right and what is wrong? How can children judge these things when so much is thrown at them? How is that sex with children under sixteen is a criminal offense and yet we have so many young teenage pregnancies? Is it okay then for children to have sex with each other at a very early age but if one reaches seventeen then he or she is a criminal? The Pill was to solve the problem of unwanted pregnancies but it seems to have started a revolution of sexual freedom with young people pressed into sexual experience as many are into drink and drugs. Surely, ‘responsibility’ has been devalued, as has the joy of sex that goes hand in hand with lifetime loving partnerships. At least THIS is something we sisters are in agreement. Can’t think of anything else we totally agree about though!

Photograph — photo of us discussing the state of the country during our visit to Attenborough Nature Reserve (My sister lives many miles away and meetings are few.)

Of Gender and Choice

2011-05-29T02:21:00.000-07:00

Every so often there is a debate about hereditary and nurture, and the parent's influence on a child's own sexual identity. It is said that girl babies are dressed in pink and boys are put in blue garments. Girls have dolls and boys get more mechanical objects to play with. I made most of my children's clothes and my mum-in-law knitted their jumpers and various outfits. In those days we did not know what the child's sex would be until the baby was born. I had a pile of clothes waiting for my babies, all of them blue, yellow or white. The hood of the pram was lined in a pretty blue simply because I thought it went nicely with the grey carriage. I am not keen on pink but I would loved to have had a girl child. I have three wonderful handsome sons. I made them dresses as it was best for nappy changing. I am amazed that tiny little ones are put in jeans as if they were mini dads (or mums for that matter). I enjoyed smocking and sewing their little garments. Stretch material was not available in those days and I wanted them to be comfortable. Once they were running around I made them little easy-iron shirts and shorts.
As far as toys are concerned, soft toys followed by constructive toys which they loved. Cars are loved by little children because they can manipulate them and make them move — brum-brum! Houses can be built and knocked down, cranes can be built and manipulated, blocks built up and knocked down, Leggo taken apart and constructed. Drawing, painting etc etc - boys and girls have the same. Teddy can have his arm bandaged whether the owner is boy or girl. If a son follows his dad that is natural. My sons can use a sewing machine but they don't normally sew — by choice. When my sewing machine stopped working my four-year old fetched me the correct fuse and changed it in the plug. He had watched his dad — his choice.
If parents turn their daughters into pretty-pretty girls in pink only, and, or, turn them into mini-sexy girls at too early an age it is rather silly and confusing. Children should be allowed to be children and play and get messy. To do the opposite and try to keep a neutral sexual identity is rather silly too. Let boys be boys and girls do their own thing too. My lads may have worn convenient little dresses when babies but they all grew up to be strapping lads AND engineers just like their dad!

Go Elsewhere For Poetry

2011-05-13T23:33:00.000-07:00

Go elsewhere for poetry. I cannot perform to rules and styles. Usually my poems rhyme. When I was at school that is how we were taught, and that is how we were able to learn the work of the poets. Of course, I read pieces of prose that touch my heart and mind and I will think 'yes this is beautiful, truly poetic.'
Last Thursday, we drove up to the Lakes, coming home via Coniston Water. It had been raining most of the day but the showers cleared and the sun came intermittently through the clouds, turning sky and lake to a luminescent blue. So here is my attempt to avoid rhyme!
Poets sigh their blossoming thoughts
With words flowing from the heart
Yet straining to achieve the impossible
To outdo Wordsworth’s golden daffodils.
Blue heaven with white wispy hair
Sheds light in diamond clarity
On ripples whipped by a breeze
While whispering through green leaves
I hear Creation’s own poetry —
Nature’s ode to Coniston Water

The Dark Mirror now in paperback!

2011-04-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

The Dark Mirror is now available in both Paperback and eBook formats. Go to The Dare Empire bookstore to view the book and order directly.

Beauty that is pure joy!

2011-04-11T13:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes pictures really do speak louder than words. But this is softly hushed lest the beauty fade

Giant Nettle Rash — urticaria

2011-04-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

THE Royal wedding approaches and it has reminded me of my own wedding day. Of course there were incidents, which caused a little inconvenience but others of a more distressing nature.
I had a really bad cold sore appear on the Friday, which had to be disguised with make-up. No special cream to whisk it away in those days. But, the day before our special day my hubby-to-be was ill in bed. I don’t recall how the message came through, likely his landlady’s daughter called at our house to let me know. In those days only posh or professional people had telephones installed. Of course there were no mobile phones, it was many years before they appeared on the scene.
When I got home from work I rushed to the house where he was living and the landlady showed me up to the attic bedroom. No central heating of course but no doubt he had a hot water bottle. It was a dim room with dark furniture. My poor eve-of-wedding Galahad looked a sorry sight but doing his best to keep cheerful.
Giant Nettle Rash or Urticaria may be merely troublesome or most distressing. I have had a little of the former but my hubby has had large doses of the latter. This was one of those occasions. One eye was almost closed with a raised swelling and other weals were distorting his film star looks. He had a rather knobby appearance. He informed me that they were all over his body. The doc had given him antihistamine tablets and he said that, in spite of the high fever he was presently suffering from, he would be okay for the wedding.
Actually, he was not only well enough to be at our midday wedding, but he had been on the bus to the tailors in Nottingham to get his new suit and also to a store to get the present his parents were buying us. Yes, he was there waiting at the top of the aisle for his bride to be. Urticaria was still present but no one knew about it.
What had I been doing that morning? I was up at the reception room on the High Street, putting place names on the table and other little jobs. My sister turned up and asked what I thought I was doing, “Your hair’s still in curlers, the flowers have come and you’re getting married in an hour’s time! Get off home and get ready!”
My brother led me up the aisle, followed by my bridesmaids (my sister and a friend) and my dad was waiting at the front to give me away, My poor hassled mum was doing her best to relax and smile but the bride and groom were fine. Everyone sang well and the churchwarden declared our wedding to be the best they had that morning.
On this photograph who would have thought we had our little problems? Joy wipes away anxieties!

Buxton Pavilion Gardens 1953 and Today.

2011-03-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

We married at St John's, Beeston and spent a short honeymoon at the Alyson Hotel, Buxton, Derbyshire. That was in 1953. In those days there were many weddings just before the end of the tax year as it gave the husband a good rebate due to his new married status. It was a dull day followed by a sunny Sunday. The hotel was close to the Pavilion Gardens and we spent a little time there walking the footpaths. We did not have a car in those days. We often go to Buxton as we visit relatives and take holidays in Derbyshire. The gardens have now been restored to their former Victorian glory. Not only that but a great deal goes on there — antique and book fairs, Veteran car, and motor bike displays and many other things. The Opera House still continues with a variety of shows and plays, the swimming baths still operate as do the cafes and restaurant. But it is the gardens that fascinate us — how I wish they had such equipment for children when our kids were young! Incredible! And of course, the little train continues to delight its passengers as it winds its way around the park. I'm pretty sure the little waterfall is still the same one as on our honeymoon photographs. The little hotel we stayed at has changed hands a few times. It was rather amusing to find we were the only young people staying there. It seemed more like a retirement home for genteel ladies. In fact, when we were out walking, we passed close to an elderly pair of ladies and we heard one say heard one say to the other (elderly people do tend to speak with raised voices) “Look there's our young couple from the hotel.” I really liked the 'our' reference. Some years later it became a retirement home, but now I think it is a hotel again. Buxton may have super-markets and an indoor shopping mall, but it is still essentially the same as when we were on our honey-moon. The gardens, with the expensive Victorian uplift, are far better though. Sad about the bowling green loss, but with so much fun for the children, plus the renovated lake, the building and new bandstand far outweighs the loss. I assume it must have lost favour or surely it would have been kept. We always find it a great place to visit and often combine it with a walk along the Goyt Valley, which is just above Buxton. The poor quality of the black and white photographs is because they are enlarged and photographed copies of small snaps taken with a box camera 58 years ago.

Attenborough Nature Reserve — recollections of childhood 1940's

2011-03-16T02:48:00.000-07:00

When we were children life was much simpler as were our pleasures. One place we frequented was the Atten-borough Nature Reserve, only when we were young it was just a gravel pit where nature was busy creating beauty from the torn up ground. With the River Trent close by, water soon filled the growing holes, and banks seeded naturally from the vegetation that must have existed from long, long ago. Birds filled the air with their song and swans glided peacefully on the water. Wild flowers delighted the eye and scented our walks. At Easter our mother would ask us to get her pussy-willows (I can still feel their softness) and bulrushes that grew aplenty between the river and gravel pits. We would also find sweet wild violets growing in the woods. Such delight! I never lost my joy of visiting that place. When we were in our teens, my friend Brenda and I would go there, both to the gravel pits and the river bank. We once carried a wind-up gramophone the entire distance to play the Swan Lake ballet music, while we watched the swans and had a picnic. On one occasion we had a picnic in the pouring rain, just sheltered by one of our macs. Sometimes we were treated to pure delight when a group of swans took off — noisily splashing their feet along the water before lifting into the air in sheer beauty of movement. And, of course, the day would arrive when a whole family of swans glided on the water, fluffy signets carefully protected by mum and dad. Swans mate for life and are a wonderful example of parenthood.
Returning to those gravel pits after so many years, we found it had become the Attenborough Nature Reserve. So many wonderful things going on there and all free to the public. What joy to walk again in an area that brings back so many happy memories of childhood. Wartime years they may have been but those gravel pits are reminders of how nature can bring back beauty to what man can so easily make ugly. Now my sister and I can sit in the Nature Reserve cafe, look outside at the wild life, and recall our childhood memories of Mother and our Easter offerings gathered by the waterside.

The Dark Mirror published by Dare Empire

2011-03-10T07:11:00.000-08:00

Published by Dare Empire, The Dark Mirror is now available in pdf and Kindle. Cheap too! Paperback late April.

“Smoothly, expertly written, the author captures the essence and conflict of human love and religion as they struggle to coexist in a judgmental world.”

Powerful forces are at work in a group of country parishes undergoing renewal and charismatic revival, confusing reflections of reality. Emotions run riot. A supposed miracle birth during a previous revival haunts the present like a spectre at the feast. Weird happenings at midnight, desecration of the altar, accusations of rape, are just some of the challenges threatening the dedicated ministries of the handsome young incumbent and his secret rural dean lover. Can love continue to believe all things, overcome all things, in a judgemental world?

“A beautifully woven story of love, a story that will keep you turning page after page. Witness the accusations and heartache of this controversial work of art. This is a story that will touch your heart and keep you thinking long after you turn the final page. When a man believes he has to choose between the love of a man, and the love of God.”

Magpies Nest Publishing for ordering my print books, viewing chapters and reviews

Teenage Years of Long Ago

2011-03-02T13:08:00.000-08:00

Teenage Years of Long Ago

It was a glorious time
as new friends came along
turning life into a song
ah, how we loved and played
dancing at the Palais
going to the ballet
playing tennis on the lawn
boating on the lake
drinking tea, eating cake
at Highfields Park pavilion

though we went our separate ways
I still recall those halcyon days

NHS ... babies and all that

2011-02-07T06:51:00.000-08:00

People today have no idea how well off they are with today’s NHS compared with years ago. I recall quite clearly my first visit to our local hospital In Lough-borough. (I had been in Nottingham hospitals when a child: six weeks in an isolation hospital in a ward of adult women — no toys, no books, no visitors inside, only a chat through a window twice a week with my mum who had to make two bus journeys to get there; and a horrid ‘conveyor belt’ experience when I had my tonsils out a few years later.)
It had been established that I was pregnant and I guess the blood test, I was about to have, would determine whether I would qualify for a hospital bed when ‘delivery’ time arrived. It should be noted that unless you had a good case — problems expected or poor housing with no hot water or other essentials — your baby would be delivered at home in the care of a midwife and your own doctor. No matter that we were new to the area and had no one to help. Husbands did not get time off unless they took part of their two weeks annual holiday. Giving birth was no ‘big deal’ in those days. No classes to attend, no fuss, no social contacts — you saw your doctor only occasionally and given tablets for morning sickness. Being terribly ignorant and worried sick, I read a book. Looking at a diagram I was even more concerned. I told my doctor at my next visit that I did not think I had space between my pelvic bones for a head to pass through. He dismissed my fears and said I would be examined at the eighth month and that my build was all right. So I went on worrying.
The above hospital appointment was to take place in the Pathology labs. I found the guy in charge. He sat me in a room, stuck a hollow needle in my arm and left me to it, while drop-by-drop my blood dripped into a small phial he had given me to hold. I should mention here that I have a phobia (largely under control now) concerning blood and hypodermic needles.
I sat on that chair trying to take my mind off what was happening. When the guy returned I was trying not to fall off the chair. He pushed my head between my legs and removed the instrument of torture. I was taken to an examination room to lie down. Horrors! The bed had a sheet with a huge bloodstain that had not been washed out by the laundry. A consultant came to make sure my baby was okay. When feeling better I walked home. Shortly after I saw someone who told me that I had not been awarded a hospital bed, as my circumstances did not warrant it. ‘Even though you did apply before you could be certain you were pregnant,’ she added. No use telling her that my doctor told me to apply at twelve weeks.
In those days you spent at least a week in bed. I booked into the local nursing home, even though we could hardly afford it. They messed things up and I was sent to hospital as an emergency. Baby was born, with the help of a large episiotomy about 40 hours later — blue. I was sent back and baby kept for another day. How’s this for hygiene? When my next baby was born, also as an emergency, when I arrived at the hospital I was given an ordinary test tube and told to go to the toilet and pee straight into the tube! My bulge made things incredibly difficult — my hands, arms and legs were well wetted. BUT I was chased back to bed and not allowed to wash my hands. ‘You can do that when the bowls come round after lunch,’ I was told.
Because I had a huge bleed with the second baby my third infant was allowed to be born in hospital. Bond Street hospital in Leicester had been an old factory. Incredible. Caesareans were seldom done in those days; my huge baby (as was my second) was born (eventually) with forceps. My damaged uterus caused me problems for years until I had it removed.
How different today! Mothers take note — be grateful for all the good things on offer today (pre-natal and aftercare). My babies were born 15 miles away in three different hospitals. Dad was nowhere near. I was alone and frightened, especially when I had my first. On occasions I was left alone in a delivery room, distressed and lonely. At least a health visitor called a few times after my babies were born and I saw others at the weekly clinic. My story is not unusual.
Having had a number of operations, I think our NHS is fantastic. If you had been around in the early stages — corridors as waiting areas, crowded wards, cancer a death sentence, occasional scruffy toilets, smoke-filled ward-sitting rooms, you would feel the same way.

Death of a Bluetit

2011-01-28T10:42:00.000-08:00

He flittered in the sunshine
And twittered in the trees.
Ate seeds with his little family
And glided on the breeze.
He gave us so much pleasure
Through weeks of winter snow,
But now we’ve found him lying dead
Just how, we do not know.
We’re grateful for that little life
That brought us so much joy,
A short life but a worthy one
That death cannot destroy.

A Gift From the Heart

2011-01-22T07:07:00.001-08:00

There are times when nothing seems to go right. Times when it seems you receive nothing but adverse criticism when trying to do your best. When you work for many months on a project only for it to go seemingly nowhere, if not nowhere, then certainly haywire. This is when tiredness swamps your energy levels and you begin to wonder ‘why the hell bother?’ You lose sight of the good things that are also taking place, and of your achievements. To top it all, your baking is not up to scratch — smoke leaves the oven when you open its door (and the vacuum cleaner decides to take up smoking too!) The TV Arial goes on strike. Folk start treating you like you’ve gone non compos mentis. And you wonder why not give up and become a TV and chocolate addict. The problem with that is, since the good programmes are constantly repeated I would simply spend my days sleeping and eating — until my flesh became one with the easy chair, and ‘they’ would have to remove the big picture window to get me outside for a trim.
Guilt (because you feel you SHOULD be happy with so many blessings to be thankful for) builds up and depression appears like a black hole to easily slide into. After all, as doctors will tell us — this is the SAD time of year.
Then something totally unexpected happens. A gift of flowers arrive in the post. A good weep and the sun begins to shine once more.
Thank you, dear friend.

Song of the Nightjar

2011-01-04T10:39:00.000-08:00

A man of letters with a priestly calling, a linguist, a wartime intelligence officer, a head of Oriental Studies of a prestigious Institution, a kindly man, a friend when in deed.
Visiting this friend, my tutor of years ago, my champion in a Church Authority dispute — a saviour who was never judgmental in his self-appointed task of rescuing me from the destructive forces cast against me — I was pleased to see he was awake and reasonably alert when spoken to.
The nursing home where he resides is one of the best — if not THE best — in the whole of South Cumbria. At least, that is my opinion from having visited quite a few in our local area.
Standing in its own wooded grounds by the seashore, the home is divided with the more vulnerable in a secure area. It was to this area reached by a long corridor, having walked through the impressive entrance of this beautiful country mansion, that I made my way.
I pulled up a chair, smiled, and gave him a greeting, “Hello, Geoffrey. Nice to see you. Don’t suppose you will remember me though. Years ago, you used to be my tutor.”
I took a photograph from my bag and put it on the table in front of him. I pointed to the figures.
“This is me — Gladys. This is you with me beside you. We were taking a service together at Dendron Church.”
He looked at the photograph. Wrinkling his brow, he said, “That’s me?”
Even while I explained our relationship his mind was wandering.
I thought I heard him say, “I’m a Nightjar.”
Oh dear, how should I answer that?
I didn’t. Partly because I thought I must have misheard him. I smiled and chatted some more about how he had been my tutor, how we had ministered together, and various ways he’d helped me.
But he repeated, “I’m a Nightjar.”
“A Nightjar?”
“A Nightjar. Do you know I’m a Nightjar?”
“No,” I said truthfully. What made him think he was a Nightjar?
“I can sing I’m a Nightjar.”
What a relief. Now I understood. “Really? I’ve never heard that song.”
“Would you like to hear me sing it?”
“Yes please.”
And so he lustily sang a song I had never heard of, nor have I been able to find on the Internet.
He ended with ‘Not going Nightjarring amore’ followed by the chorus.
The rest of the residents barely noticed. I guess it made a change from ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ coming at them from the audio system.
“It really is lovely to see you so cheerful,” I said most sincerely. For indeed, with his wife dying just a month or so earlier, and frustrations he must endure from lack of brainpower, it would be understandable to find him depressed. My own mother, who died twenty years ago, suffered severe depression along with her dementia — to the extent that she would have me constantly in tears because of my inability to bring her relief from her suffering. Of course, Geoffrey didn’t know me any more than my mother did.
He looked at me. “Cheerful? Of course I am. We have to keep cheerful, especially in company. Aren’t you always cheerful?”
“Not always, but I try to be in company.”
He gave me another rendition of the Nightjar song. I loved it. To be truthful I could not stop tears forming in my eyes.
The assistant brought over the mobile phone. Geoffrey gave his caller the pleasure of hearing “I am a Nightjar…” a couple of times over.
Eventually, I put my redundant photograph back in my bag and, after chatting a little more, I said goodbye. He took my hand and, much to my surprise, lifted it to his lips — something he had never done before, at least, not to me, or to anyone else in my presence.
I smiled and said, somewhat coyly, “Oh Geoffrey, I’ll never wash that hand again.”
Then I saw it — that familiar smile that made his countenance glow like that of a mischievous young man.
He half-laughed. “Oh, go on with you!”
And so I left the room, took a wrong turning, walked along several corridors until someone pointed me in the right direction.
But there had been no wrong turning in my visiting. It all went remarkably well. Sad indeed to find such a highly intelligent student of life reduced to sitting sleepily in a nursing home lounge devoid of his tools of learning, but how wonderful that he still retained much of the lighter side of his personality.

Dare to Believe!

2010-12-23T03:04:00.000-08:00

Wonderful!
I recently signed a contract with Dare Empire for them to publish my trilogy woldwide as eBooks. Also in print for the Australian market. Things have gone quicker than I imagined possible. The first book Awakening Love is now available in Kindle with other formats being prepared as I write. The whole trilogy will be available from all major on-line stores by the end of January and print versions shortly following.
The whole trilogy is getting a new lift with intriguing covers by a team producing books in Amazon's top ratings.
Could 2011 be a true AWAKENING for my award-winning book?
STOP PRESS! All three are not only available but are presently (early FEB) at 'silly' introductory prices. Visit the Dare Empire Bookstore or Amazon Kindle store.
Go here to see a great video of the latest Dare Empire books, including my trilogy. A Dare Empire Checkmate print book will be available by the end of this month.

A Load Of Hot Air!

2010-12-21T06:54:00.000-08:00

If you can’t stand the heat stay out of the kitchen, or in this case don’t read the book!

Hot Air by Geoff Nelder is an action-packed thriller. Its ingredients include adventure, humour, horror, — all in the first few pages — with a good mix of erotic encounters, violence, torture, hair-raising escapades touched with romance, all skillfully mixed to produce a surprising dénouement. With A Geoff Nelder novel you can be sure to get excellent descriptive scenery, and have all your senses enriched. Feel the passion, sense the hate, smell the scents and aromas, taste the sweet and bitter, see all before you — including into the minds of each character — hear every sound as the story enfolds. All these detailed nuances, served up with a dash of iron in the blood.
Every page swift moving and packed with drama! Geoff Nelder at his best! A literary masterpiece, a meal to gorge yourself on.

Photo: Geoff Nelder at one of his many signings.

A Load of Hot Air!
What should have been an adventurous birthday treat, turns into an horrific nightmare when their hot air balloon passes over the scene of a murder. The balloon is spotted, shot at, and the chase begins… murder and mayhem maybe, but lightened with humour and erotic romance. What a feast! Go on, indulge your senses!
Visit:
Geoff Nelder’s Blog for reviews:
And Geoff Nelder’s Imagination factory
See Hot Air on You Tube
Then buy it direct from Wuacademia

Ulverston area — sheep, dogs and thieves.

2010-12-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

When we moved to Ulverston in 1985, the first people we got to know were our neighbours and dog walkers (followed by friendly shopkeepers and counter assistants). A smile and hello from the doggy people we met while exercising our Golden retriever (followed by our Border Collie) were great blessings as they gave us a sense of belonging. Likewise the cheery 'good morning' of those who served us in the shops, and even the greeting of us by name in the bank and Building Society.
We may not have our roots in this area but are associated through family ties, especially to the land.

The farmers have been through severe times over the years and extra paperwork adds to their burden. Now they have to guard their stock from gangs of thieves who rob them of their livelihood. Whether rare breed or common stock, it does not matter to them. Money is their only god and him only do they serve. Shame has no meaning — getting caught, to them is their only folly!
What happens to the poor animals? Are they slaughtered away from prying eyes, without the benefit of humane methods? Unless they are sold in the usual markets, by one illegal means or another, I can't see an alternative. We have no idea what suffering these animals go through. Well, it's for certain, we keep an eye on the field gates near to us, especially if we see a van parked.

Another matter. I love dogs, I miss the ones we used to have and often pat the friendly ones we meet when out walking. (One lovely old spaniel grins and sits on my feet) I like sheep too, in the spring we delight in the lambs that frisk in the fields. Sadly, dogs and sheep don’t always mix. When dog owners allow their pets freedom to run wild when out walking, sheep are highly vulnerable. This should not happen.
Last month a dog (or dogs) savaged two sheep grazing in a field not far from the town. It looked like the dogs had tried to tear the legs from the sheep. As well as terrified, the poor animals must have been in agony. The wounds were ghastly and yet the dog owner left the sheep to suffer and die. The farmer could have been contacted, even if a name had not been left. Callous? What do you think? At least, when on holiday, when we found a lamb wounded and another with its eyes pecked out, we quickly found the farmer to alleviate the suffering and save further lambs from the crows.
Notices are sometimes around fields warning dog walkers to keep off the land, or keep to footpaths. especially where there is valuable livestock. It is an offence to allow a dog to run loose. On the whole, farmers are pretty good, especially if we stick to footpaths. Or if we keep dogs well under control on common land.
Sheep-worrying does not just take place in the spring. Nor does worrying only involve sheep, it can take place amongst any valuable stock. Best to keep dogs off grazing land and on a leash while walking country footpaths, otherwise the dog owner is more guilty than their pet if an incidence occurs.
To those who think their dog would never attack any person or animal, be assured ‘friendly’ dogs from three months to twelve years will attack sheep for the sheer fun of it. This has been proved by extensive studies carried out in Australia and elsewhere.
Leaving aside, the legal aspect and cost to farmers, dog owners should consider the suffering experienced by sheep when attacked, and the fact that once a dog has tasted the meat it is likely to attack again. Farmers are allowed to protect their livestock — dog owners beware!

University Fees For English Students

2010-12-04T23:50:00.000-08:00

This is not the usual thing I put on here but it does not fit my other blogs either. I hope those interested in the subject will find their way here. This is important.
There is an urgent need to settle the student fees issue. Justice must be done.

I have given serious consideration to the matter regarding University fees as applied to English students. Wales and Scotland who, to those not aware of the situation in the UK, get their huge grant to run their internal matters such as Education, Health and Social Services from Westminster, pay the fees for their students (and are generous with other social services too). Hardly surprising that English students feel hard done by. Hardly surprising if some English tax payers feel somewhat annoyed too. But that is another issue.
I can see a certain logic in students paying back the costs of their university education but I believe it to be deeply flawed. At least, the cost of student fees should have been left as they were. But maybe the whole business of higher education needs looking at and trimming done. I would question why the school leaving age has been raised.

Like many of the older generation, we were brought up never to be in debt. We saved for all our needs. There were no credit cards (thank goodness). A mortgage was a necessity due to shortage of rented accommodation and long waiting lists for Council houses. We were in a bed-sit for three years and still at the bottom of the housing list because we had no children. We would not have children until we had our own home. It is somewhat ironic that we, along with others who know the value of thrift, are now having to pay for debts not of our own making. And for excesses in handouts that have made it cruel for many who work to be worse off than many who don’t and have no intention of doing.

With this in mind, I believe it to be totally unjust that today’s young people will have the burden of paying back University fees for their own education (at least at this higher rate), at a time while paying taxes to help subsidise the final-pay pensions of the more fortunate, the cost of supporting the ever-increasing elderly at home or in care, and credit handouts for this, that, and the other, not to mention the escalating sums for the NHS as new drugs and procedures are discovered to lengthen life and ease pain, while many are living lives as if to test how long their heart, liver, and lungs will last. PLUS the graduates, on starting work, putting aside a large chunk of their salary for their own future pension. What a burden!

Youngsters seem to have little say about their education. When I taught it was child-centred learning. Now they are pushed into exams as though passing them is all that education is about. Money would be better spent getting youngsters into apprenticeships and continue, where appropriate, studies through Evening classes and a day release. A University education was once held in high esteem, that honour seems to have diminished. Surely with realistic opportunities for those who are not University inclined the way could be paved for a better future.

Education is lifelong and enters every aspect of life. But, at least, each citizen should have the right, at some time in their lives, for two or three years of free higher education, if appropriate, at University level.

(I speak as someone who had to give up a college design course at the age of sixteen so as to earn my own living, my father having become seriously incapacitated — benefits in 1949 were almost non-existent. I was fortunate enough to realise my ambition through sheer hard work and luck. Later I trained to be a teacher. I gained all my qualifications, then and later, as a mature student. I know of others who gained all of their qualifications through evening classes and rose to high levels of management or engineering.)

Already, there are cutbacks for care of the elderly, cutbacks in other major and important departments. At this time, perhaps it would be appropriate to raise part of the shortfall by putting a tax on top of VAT for those luxury goods that only the truly well off can afford?

As for the marching students, those who simply mouth slogans without knowledge should get to know the facts. Marching is fine, protesting is fine when orderly, but following 'the crowd' in ignorance of the true facts, makes the public wonder if they are ready for mature learning.

NOTE: Photograph of Nottingham University. My brother was a student here in the late 1940's at a time when 'boys like him' did not go to University. (There were few Universities then). He left school at fourteen, gained an apprenticeship with Rolls Royce and attended night classes. He went on to study for higher degrees and gained a scholarship to study in the USA for his PhD. When he died, he had 54 patents in his name and was acknowledged as a specialist in his field. He was also involved with athletics and gained various awards and prizes. Determination is needed to get on, in all walks of life.

Any Old Iron?

2010-11-26T06:35:00.001-08:00

So what’s a photo of an iron doing here?
This isn’t just any iron, it’s MY iron. A Morphy Richard’s electric iron bought at the beginning of 1953. So, is it a museum piece? Certainly not! It has been in constant use since the day it was bought. True, bits have had to be replaced from time to time but I would not swap it for anything new in the market place. I bought a new steam iron a few years ago. But I rarely plug it in. My Morphy Richard’s is part of me — an extension of my arm worked through my brain. The weight is perfect, the smoothness of it’s action without compare. It has served me very many years, it is an old friend — familiar, true — that does not let me down.
Yes, I have other old equipment — why get new when the old does the job?
Ah, maybe that is another aspect of the iron — my husband bought it for me just before we married. We are still together — the three of us, and all in working condition!

Magpies Nest Publishing
My worldwide Books
Lake District Saga
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Driving around Windermere over to Broughton

2010-11-11T02:14:00.000-08:00

We had a pleasant drive in winter sunshine yesterday, stopping for a simple lunch at Booths supermarket cafe in the town of Windermere. We drove along the east side of the lake, taking photographs from the car, mostly as we were moving. The road is narrow, winding and undulating with few places to stop. We took the road back home that goes through Coniston but we found it closed when we got to Torver so came a long way home over a hill above Broughton with great views of the glittering sea.

For more photographs of Cumbria go to Lake District Saga
For a more literary blog, go to my Wrinkly Writers
To read about my author activities go to my books blog
Magpies Nest Publishing is my publishing site.
AGPress (USA) has a special deal coming up on the books I have published there. A good place to go for those interested in hand-crafted books (a rarity these days?)

Winter Reflections

2010-11-09T09:57:00.000-08:00

Winter is almost upon us. Snow has fallen on high places around the country. I have to admit to getting very tired as the sun goes down, but then, we are entering the winter of our lives. But winter CAN be enjoyed as much as the other seasons. Time to take stock and enjoy what we have and what we are. To see the beauty, love and joy within and without. To appreciate and be thankful.

For those who are still unpublished authors or simply enjoy reading:
Just in case one or two of you have thought of getting one of my books, or have been wondering about publishing their own book through AGPress and would like to know what a handcrafted book looks and feels like, there is a special offer on that might be of interest to you. I have just had this Email from Grover Pillsbury:

I want to let you know that we will be holding a sale from Black Friday (11/26) to Cyber Monday (11/29) all books will be 50% off all books plus shipping. If you want to put this up for people to see we hope that it will sell some books. I am still working on a box set for the trilogy and hope to have it ready soon (I will let you know when it is available) with a sale price of $29.95.

http://agpressma.books.officelive.com/default.aspx

For more about self-publishing — especially warnings — see my Wrinkly Writer post

Whinlatter Forest Park — The English Lake District

2010-11-03T03:50:00.000-07:00

For a birthday treat (as good an excuse for a run out as any!) we drove up to Whinlatter Forest Park on Monday.
It was a glorious drive there: through woods and by lakes, autumn colours glowing in brilliant sun, water sparkling on water — lakes, streams and waterfalls.
Whinatter as wonderful as ever: majestic trees, fantastic views and birdlife, and, of course, the Siskin cafe — good homemade food and great views from the windows.
A short walk, my problem knee preventing more than about thirty or forty minutes. No one counting!
A delightful piece of metal sculpture is close to the entrance. Great craftsmanship and design. We just had to take a picture of it — yes, it is the grey metal thing, not that old bird next to it!

Fantasy — Witch of the Woods?

2010-10-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

(Story begins at Wrinkly Writer)

Even as I look, the creature turns towards me.
Darkness falls.
A face begins to take shape.
A voice says, “I am the Witch of the Woods.”
Ugly? Grotesque? Who am I to judge?
The face turns and looks me in the eye. Though I cannot see the lips, I know the Witch has a smile.
She speaks. “There is a bit of a witch in all of us. Amazing things are achieved by those who believe in themselves.”
The face fades and the darkness becomes light once more.

A Sunday Walk

2010-10-17T03:08:00.000-07:00

A Sunday Circular Walk from Canal Foot to Plumpton via the coast path returning across the inland footpath.
This was to be a gentle walk for me, having had a cortisone injection in my knee a few days before and so nothing strenuous advised so as to give healing a chance.
It was a pleasant day in spite of a chilly breeze. Actually when we were inland it was quite sheltered and very warm.
We left the car parked close to the canal, I said hello to a sweet little pony and we started off. The sea was coming in and we were walking the path close to it, so no messing around. The path being soft with standing water, we tended to walk over the rocks — maybe not the best thing with my problem knee but we soon reached slightly higher ground where the path is smooth. We stopped to look across the bay with the sun shining on the railway viaduct. We saw an old boat which looked as if it had been brought in with the tide. Now there is a prop for a short story!
Onwards and we reached Plumpton Hall, a very old building of unusual design. Years ago when we had only been in the area a short time, the hall was for sale. I think it was £9,000. Sounds cheap now but that was a lot of money then. If we had had the money, I would loved to have bought it — such a romantic building and in a wonderful almost isolated spot close to the sea.
Up the lane we spotted a group of horses and I said another hello! Further along and over the stile steps into a field. Following the path we came close to the railway line. We were soon in sight of Ulverston's Hoad Monument, gleaming white in a ray of sun.
Further along and over a stile under the shade of overhanging trees. There is a fence running by the footpath now, likely because the farmer has a bull in the field. I was actually glad to see the fence, as last time we took that walk a whole herd of young bullocks were gathered around the stile. On that occasion we diverted to a field and after much walking found ourselves getting over a fence and back on the footpath by the sea. So we continued by the barbed wire fence turning to the left by an old quarry — Nother good setting for a short story with nefarious deeds! Over another style and we were among some delightful 'architect' build houses overlooking the bay. Down the slope and back to the footpath start. We walked along where once sea-going vessels entered and left Ulverston Canal. We looked back to where we had walked and saw that the sea had covered most of the path. The other direction, the bright sun had turned part of the sea to a sparkling diamond.
A short walk but truly delightful!

What a Splash!

2010-10-11T09:34:00.000-07:00

On our Sunday walk, we arrived at Canal Foot (Ulverston) to find the ducks going nuts. Were they trying to send off unwelcome groups, fighting for territory or just playing about? What ever it was, water sparkled in the sunlight as splashing churned up the water, ducks were lifting themselves up onto their feet and much quacking was going on. What fun!

Book Publicity

2010-10-03T09:32:00.000-07:00

I have been working on posters to advertise my latest book ready for its release. I hope to put them up in the local libraries to start with. I am not completely happy with the two I have done. What do others think?

Too cluttered?

Visit some of my other sites:

Magpies Nest publishing

Wrinkly Writer

My author blog

Chatsworth — Country Park, Family Playground!

2010-09-28T03:23:00.000-07:00

Chatsworth — Country Park, Family Playground!

We arrived at Chatsworth on Saturday to find the car parks already filling up and whole families teaming excitedly out of their vehicles. I asked one of the stewards if something was ‘on’ that weekend. He said no, it was just the fine weather and that they expected far more to arrive. Wonderful, I thought.

Here is a ‘playground’ safe for children to run and play. In fact there is a Farmyard with animals and children’s adventure play area, which is very popular.

There are some people who are against aristocracy and would like the state to take over their estates. But Chatsworth is an example of a well-run estate that benefits millions of people. My mum-in-law (she died ten years ago) loved to be taken around Chatsworth’s remarkable garden in a borrowed wheelchair. We enjoy visits there every year, mostly to walk in the extensive grounds but also to have a light meal at one of the eating places around the huge estate (especially the farm shop café or the garden centre café. And not forgetting the old stables). Chatsworth is a place for peace and tranquillity as well as being a remarkable house, a huge park and a playground for all complete with deer, river and acres of woods and grassland. (Photographs taken while walking through the Woods.)

Visit my Wrinkly Writers for my latest post — revisiting Nottingham University Park

A Ride Around Thirlmere, A Walk in Whinlatter Forest.

2010-09-19T11:42:00.000-07:00

Last week it was my husband's birthday. In the morning I thought of asking him if he would like us to go to Whinlatter Forest for a short walk and lunch. There is a great little Siskin café there that serves up homemade food — simple but delicious. Tables outside too where you can watch the birds flying through the trees and feeding from nut and seed feeders that are drawn up to eye level. (The café is built up an incline so as to get lovely views of the forest.)

I decided not to ask as it is a good way for him to drive. Half an hour later, he asked me! This often happens. Sometimes it is quite funny. We both come up with the same reply, or automatically look at each other with the same expression when asked a question, or told a story.

“OOO… Fancy that!” Of course, you may think, “So what!”

We just find it funny.

The drive to Whinlatter takes us along country lanes and roads by the side of lakes and through valleys. Thirlmere Reservoir has been in the news lately because an earlier dry spell lasting far longer than usual had caused a considerable drop in the water level. It caused a hose pipe ban in the areas it feeds, as far down as Manchester. The water is now rising although it still has a little way to go. You will see this from the photographs. They are all of Thirlmere. There are plenty of photographs of Whinlatter in an earlier post.

Since we intended walking, we both decided on a bowl of soup with roll and butter. A piece of cake to share afterwards. (Well, it was hubby's birthday!) My eyes popped when the soup arrived — in two pound size pudding basins! The large seedy roll was also homemade — delicious with tow large pats of butter. (We don't usually eat butter because of the cholesterol) The cake too, was lovely. It was with a heavy tummy that we took a walk afterwards — not far, just about 50 minutes. Slow going as I soon get puffed, as well as my knee being sore at present.

The weather kept fine for us, even if clouds threatened rain.

We drove home via the other side of Thirlmere and I took some photographs.

Once home, hubby decided to cut the grass as rain was forecast for the weekend.

Just as well, rain has poured down!

A lovely day to remember.

Where am I?

2010-09-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

Where am I?

Am I inside looking out, or outside looking in?

Looked at philosophically, profound questions.

I know the religious answers and they are even more intangible. “In Him I live and breathe and have my being,” is my choice there.

Lack of sleep gives you time to think. Today has been rain and sun. A lovely mix of dark and light.Dark clouds, but bright sun filtering through the showers, turning raindrops into diamonds.

What Do You See?

2010-09-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

Things aren't always what they seem to be. We usually look at things from our own perspective. We may see ourselves as being successful in most things we attempt to do — or just the opposite. Can we always trust others to gain a truer picture of ourselves, or our achievements, that is without them knowing all the facts?

Years ago, I gave a talk to a women's group. It was a little excursion into how I came to be working in a particular job. It showed a different perspective of the person they thought they knew. They were surprised, and so was I by their comments. They thought they knew me, and were surprised to find their judgments were incorrect. I then realised that my natural shyness had given an impression of remoteness. So it was good to leave that building having drawn closer to people who mattered to me.

For a particular reason I took this photograph of our cooker. When I saw the result it brought a smile to my face. Now what impression does it give?

What is ‘inside’ me? What do others think they see?

What is ‘inside’ you?

Love Barrow-in-Furness?

2010-09-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

Barrow-in-Furness

Barrow seems to get a lot of stick. To hear certain statistics you might be forgiven for thinking it is definitely a no-no place to visit. That is a shame because Barrow-in-Furness is steeped in history, its main streets are wide and well planned and although there may be rows of old terraced housing in large areas, there is a certain charm about them that speaks of old times and neibourliness. Certainly, the many homes that I have visited in the town have been most welcoming. Nineteenth Century buildings and large park, speak of the civic pride when industrial Barrow had it heyday.

The Shipworks can be viewed from different angles. The view from Walney Island is quite splendid. So too, looking across from the promenade by Morrisons. Sandy beaches on Walney and at Roanhead are not just places to enjoy the sea and sit in the sun. Walney has a gull colony and Roanhead a wild life sanctuary. You don’t have to go far to get a great view of sea and fells with a mountain backdrop. There are plenty of shops in the town centre with supermarkets on the fringes. Plus all the entertainments you would expect from a town this size. The Forum 28 has great shows, plus regular free lectures by outstanding speakers who, at times, come from considerable distances.

When we first came to this area forty-two years ago things were a little different, especially towards newcomers. But since the place has been opened up by decent roads and with movement of people in and out, things have changed. I doubt any pupil would now regard a town a few miles away as being a remote place for their teachers to live, or consider them to be foreigners if they did not have a Barrovian accent.

I can’t say what schools are like now, but the children I taught could be difficult but were mostly a joy.

I still have a piece of paper with the signatures of all the children in the most difficult class of boys I had to teach. (It was the first year that three schools had become united but the Secondary School children taught separately from the Grammar until full integration took place) Would you believe, that class had the unfortunate group name of 3Z!

On the last day of term, which happened to be the last lesson on a Friday, these boys came in without a sound and sat down with their arms folded. Fearing they were up to something, I looked each one in the eye. ‘All right, what’s going on?’ I asked.

Silence and then, after a minute, the most sensible one said, ‘Please, Miss. This is our last day with you. We have all decided to be well behaved.’ With a balled fist, he gave a quick glance at the others and said, ‘Or else…’

They were fantastic. No teacher could have a better present. During the lesson I saw a piece of paper being passed around. Oh dear, what were they up to? It was brought to my table.

‘Please, Miss. We don’t think you will want this… suppose you’ll throw it away. But we want you to have it just the same.’

I read what was on the paper and nearly wept. Each boy had signed the paper. It was like a signature to a beautiful painting. That painting being the memory of lads controlling all their natural end-of-year exuberance to make my last day with them memorable.

After twenty-eight years since taking early retirement (to move on to another career, partly in Barrow), my thoughts of the place are not twisted by some of the unfriendliness received by a handful of people who had never been further than the beach (unless travelled by train and plane to a Spanish beach!) but by working alongside ordinary people over a number of years.

Before we moved up to the Furness area, people thought we must be crazy. They viewed Barrow as the end of a cul-de-sac, which was at the end of the earth! At that time the dreadful roads might have suggested it. But roads, like Barrow, have improved. I can’t join the ‘I love Barrow’ badge wearers, but I do respect the town and its people. If social problems exist in large numbers it is hardly surprising with rapid changes taking place in industry. Like everywhere else, they will be ironed out. With the whole of the Lake District National Park on its doorstep, and so much to see locally, Barrow has much to offer any tourist — or someone coming to work in the area,

I often wondered what happened to those boys.

One of those days!

2010-09-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

One of those days!

At my age, I count each day as important. Today is memorable indeed. Why? A totally frustrating day but finally, after much aggravation, at least I achieved one of my aims.

First, I thought I would relax with a bit of fun. I set up to record a little thank you to someone who has been kind to me. Part of that was to read the intro to my last book. (Make his hair stand on end?)

I had forgotten how to work the recorder so it was trial and error. Finally I got a recording but needed to trim it. How? Mm. I tried another recording and found I had done it on top of the last one. Mm. How to get rid of it. Turned it off and started again. That wasn’t a bad recording. But I could do better… and so on. Finally, that was it. So how come I lost it? Ah well, not to worry. Start again tomorrow.

Right, this afternoon. I went around in circles getting more and more frustrated trying to get into one of my important accounts. Incredibly I kept my cool. One of the things I finally realized was that I had been putting 8 instead of 0 to new numbers (due to the 0 on the Email looking like 8 – my eye problem of course) However, my son looked at the difficulties in accessing my account when he came home. The main problem we encountered was at their end, not mine. For some reason it would not accept the new passwords that I had to keep getting. However he eventually cracked the problem — their fault not mine. Finally, I thought up something acceptable and I was through.

And to think I keep telling hubby to go on line and save time! What a laugh!

At least I have had chance to look at photos of my grandson's wedding today. I am laughing on this one. I was watching my youngest son — tall and heavy — country dancing. He and another chap were swinging girls off their feet in a 'basket' movement. Now that's another laugh!

As Time Goes By — the changing scene

2010-09-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

As Time Goes By — the changing scene.

We have lived in the market town of Ulverston twenty-five years. Before that we were less than four miles away. We lived in that village sixteen years. So altogether we have been in the area 41 years. What changes have we seen in this small market town of Ulverston?

There is no doubt that Ulverston is not what it used to be. But is anywhere? The pace of life has changed; the whole way people live has moved on to embrace the latest technology especially in the living room and in the kitchen. Expectations are greater, personal responsibility has become less. But as far as a small town is concerned the way we shop has shifted — supermarkets have made family businesses less viable to the detriment of a town’s ambience. Flats and apartments are taking over some premises, and many others remain empty, or temporarily occupied.

I, and others of my age, will recall the shops that satisfied all our needs. I used to buy my blouses from a great little shop in the Market Square. My coats and other clothing, plus some furnishings came from the Coop in County Square, my underwear from Atkinsons, the men of our house bought clothes from Greenwoods. Delicious pork pies were bought on Queen St. Ham and other groceries from a shop on Market St. Meat from a King St butcher, fruit and veg from the shop now selling sports’ clothes. ‘Home made’ cakes and pies from a family business on Market St and Soutergate. Just about everything else was bought in Ulverston too. The book-come-stationary shop in Queen St is sadly missed. The printer, art and craft materials, on Queen St is no more. The list can go on. Thankfully Smith and Harrison is still in business — what would we do without Graham, whether for fork handles or four candles? His smiling face and friendly helpful manner is a true tonic. Long may his hardware store live on!

Well, I guess Supermarkets killed off most of the family businesses and made others non-viable. We have even lost the Halifax branch — a great loss to many, especially the older customers that prefer to have a ‘face’ to talk to and be greeted by name at the counter. I think the first bakery/café to go, and missed by many, is Salmon’s — genuine old thirties chairs and tables, rusting bay-window frames but marvelous atmosphere with open coal fire and simple good food in the upstairs café. Known for the quirkiness of closing between the hours of one and two! All of these gone but not forgotten.

The face of Ulverston has changed indeed. Tourism is welcomed as more trinket and charity shops, and cafés appear, and tables are put out on pavements. The town is given an olde worlde image with rough paving flags and cobbled areas. Thankfully, the delightful band continues to play on Thursdays and special occasions. A statue of Laurel and Hardy in Crown Square draws visitors, and the many festivals bring in coachloads of people from near and far. Fireworks often light up the sky.

But personally, I’m sorry to see more drink sold, and often bins too full to take away the remnants of take-away food. We seem less likely to bump into people we know, though footpaths are often crowded with the need to walk into the road.

But still the walks are delightful — the canal side, the Gill footpath, the Flan and onwards to the Hoad by a choice of paths. The walk through the bluebell woods particularly delightful, and the views from Hoad Hill spectacular. Longer walks too for those able to do so. Even so, I feel a sense of loss for what has been but will be no more.

Visit my other sites for different thoughts...

Diary of a Country Lady

Gladys Hobson — Author

Wrinkly Writers

Gladys Writes on My Space

Magpies nest Publishing

Recognising Butterflies

2010-08-31T03:11:00.000-07:00

I admit I am not good at recognising most things to do with nature. I tend to soak in the beauty and wonder of it all rather than add to my knowledge of what each insect, butterfly, moth and beetle are called. That is, I tend to recognise things that sting and bite but let the rest fly freely in my mind. But occasionally, I do get interested in names in order to communicate, as with the rest of knowledge, and life in general.

Earlier this year, We had quite a few lovely butterflies fluttering around the flowing shrubs. I did not think they were Red Admirals and yet...

So I looked on the Internet and asked around. Could this be a new variety of a Red Admiral? I was assured it was common.

The Saturday Telegraph has at last put me right. I have attached here a photograph of what is called a Small Tortoiseshell. According to a survey done a short while ago it comes ninth in the 'sightings league'. The Red Admiral is eighth. I have put a copy of a cutting from Saturday 28th August 2010 here, along with their photo of and mine of the Small Tortoiseshell. I guess there IS beauty in a name as well as the object it represents.

Now I am interested in knowing butterfly names. I expect my brain can find room for a few more facts after all!

Visit my other sites:

Lake District Saga — Checkmate

Diary of a Country Lady

Gladys Hobson — Author

Magpies Nest Publishing

Gladys Writes

Ask Gran Hobson

and my main blog site — Wrinkly Writers

The Band Played On — for young and old

2010-08-26T12:15:00.000-07:00

The Band Played On — for young and old

The band played their delightful music in Ulverston Market Square today. Shoppers stopped a short while to listen but few lingered for long. A little fellow in a pushchair sat enthralled by both music and the bandsmen. His little legs and arms bobbing up and down with the rhythm. A joy to watch and an excuse for me to join him — at least tapping and swaying, and clapping. Oh no, not from where I stood but standing by the infant, encouraging him in his activity. I guess grown-ups are fearful of being thought exhibitionists.

But it wasn’t only the band in the Market Square. A local by the name of Geoff Dellow was there at a table with leaflets, drawing attention to Ulverston’s need for volunteers to keep the Tourist Information Office open. And for Ulverston to have a greater say in the running of the town, in particular as regard to our car parks, and for the need to draw tourists to help the local economy. Hopefully, plenty of locals will turn up at the Town Hall council meeting on October 6^th at 7.15 to give support.

Meanwhile shoppers strolled around doing their own thing.

I thought this was great — an infant boy, and an elderly man. Each doing their own thing, and yet linked through the music of the band that provides that extra touch of pleasure for tourist and locals alike. The elder looking to the future for the likes of the little one, and the little one simply imbibing the pleasure of the moment.

Take a look at my publishing site — covers, blurbs, reviews and chapters to read.

Flowers that bring joy to the soul...

2010-08-20T01:58:00.000-07:00

I have just taken this photograph looking out of a downstairs window. There might even be raindrops on the glass as it is a wet day and gloomy with it. But flowers in the garden are delightfully cheering. These hydrangeas were all grown from cuttings. There are more of them all over the garden — front and back — and in pots. We had just one pink one when we arrived at this house, and I planted a blue one. Now they are large bushes with progeny filling the flower beds! So easy to grow. So much pleasure in their beauty. But more than that — they give a sense of achievement when other things I do fail.

Ulverston Canal — a walk on the wild side

2010-08-12T11:53:00.000-07:00

A Walk on the Wild Side — of Ulverston Canal

It is a wonderful thing to have a canal on the edge of town. With so many walks to choose from in the area, a footpath on level ground is wonderful for those with joint problems. It is equally great for anyone who is a lover of nature. All the senses are engaged and of beauty there is no end.
At one end is the coast of Morecambe Bay, an interesting place to explore. Looking in the opposite direction is Hoad Hill with the newly renovated monument. Looking to one side are fields of grass with grazing livestock. On the other side oddments of industry ranging from a huge complex of Glaxo-Smith-Kline to old buildings dating from when the canal was in full use. The sea end of the canal is blocked. Sometime in the near future the canal is to be turned in a marina. I guess it will change quite a bit. Even so, there is something appealing about a stretch of water bearing wild life. Let's hope that will continue when animal life shares the canal with boats and far more people than at present.
Flowers there are aplenty. Anglers sit silently. And sounds of animals and birds are heard above the hum of industry — indeed, you don't notice the industry as there are too many things that grab attention. Whole families may pass you by, or friendly walkers with even friendlier dogs. Everyone has a smile for those they meet along the path. Why? Because when out relaxing and communing with nature, humans have time to be just that — human.

Magpies Nest Publishing
Wrinkly Writers
My Books
Diary of a Country Lady

Books, books, books and one just finished!

2010-08-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

At last my rewrite of Blazing Embers is finished. Several thousand less words and, so I believe, better for the trimming. There is much to learn in writing novels.
Over the past years, I have been taking note how other authors put words together. The last book we read is an old one — Sweet Thursday by Steinbeck. Totally different to our recent 'mystery' books, and quite enjoyable once we got into it.
I don't know if that book has influenced my new title for Blazing Embers, but it is possible. My novel is now called - To Have And To Hold. I have tried to draw out both the humour (plenty of that) and the pathos (not a lot of that but powerful). Now I want a new cover, something entirely different. I'm not rushing it as it must be right. When it comes to books, unless an author is well known, people do judge a book by its cover (initially at least).
Maybe this new version will be of interest to publishers. Certainly the interest in sex and the older generation has pepped up recently. The visits to my posts on this very subject continue to grow. I can't remember quite but I think approaching a thousand. So I intend to submit the manuscript to agents and publishers who publish humorous romance. Don't suppose there can be many.

Once I get myself straight I intend to do reviews of our reading again. I have a stack of books ready! Quite a lot were taken to Oxfam but I still have these. I will likely post the reviews on Wrinkly Writers.

See also Diary of an English Lady
My book sites: Magpies nest Publishing, Gladys Hobson — writer

The Blank Page Syndome

2010-07-30T06:26:00.001-07:00

Jelly beans — oh dear, only three left!

The Blank Page Syndrome

I’ve got work to do. Another 100 pages of a new version of a novel to rewrite. But I’m tired, not sleeping too well and have things on my mind. I divert to getting blogs up to date just to feel a sense of having finished a task, however small.
I have ideas for stories put aside, having decided a few weeks ago to do this rewrite. But I know, in a way, the rewrite was started because those ideas were not flowing freely. Couldn’t have been could they? Otherwise it would have finished at least one story before starting the next and the next and the…. Oh yes, procrastination and all that. But as long as I am writing something the ‘thief of time’ will not win. Or will it?
I often sit down ready to begin. Decide I need a coffee or a cup of tea. Then back to the computer. Maybe a Kit Kat will give my brain energy? Break it up into small pieces to make it last. One minute later I wonder where it has all gone! Should have stuck to pinching my son’s tiny jelly beans. One bean can last ages because each has a wonderful flavour — 36 flavours in all. Nothing like change for stimulating the taste buds if nothing else.
Well, I’ve eaten a jelly bean. Post this and back to the serious stuff. We go for a walk into town in less than an hour. Nothing like a coffee in a café for …

Gladys Hobson — author
Diary Of An English Lady
Wrinkly Writers — my life's an open book
My Space, Gladys Writes
Magpies Nest Publishing.

Weddings — Then and Now (1953, 1982, 2010)

2010-07-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

Weddings — Then and Now (1953, 1982, 2010)

57 years ago, in 1953, a celebration of marriage took place in Beeston, Nottingham. It was a simple affair — it had to be as these were lean years not long after the war when rationing was still in place. The bride wore a dress designed and made by herself.
Having bought the fabric (primrose satin and white lace) through the firm where she worked, the total cost of the dress, including twenty pearl buttons (one for each year of her age) and two lace butterflies to decorate the neck of the dress, plus stiffening for the skirt, cost a total of £2.10s (£2.50). The bride also made little Dutch style hat made of lace and artificial lilac flowers. The veil was bought for about 5s. I had two bridesmaids in yellow (material cost £2 for both) with anemone posies.
The bouquet was a mixture of white flowers available at the time — Spring Day, the 21st of March, 1953
Two ladies helped her mother serve up home prepared food in a room hired for the purpose. A lovely wedding cake, made by Burtons of Nottingham, plus a tray of iced fancies were luxury items!
A weekend in Buxton, Derbyshire, and Mr and Mrs Hobson were ready to face their new life together as man and wife (three years in a bedsit at her mother’s house until a deposit was saved for a home of their own).
Yes, I was that bride in a DIY dress. (Perhaps I should mention that my dad had become seriously disabled and money in our house was in short supply.)
1982, I made the wedding dress for my son Stephen’s wife — our lovely Linda. A great deal of hand stitching — embroidery and pearl beads — went into that dress. Plus dresses for the bridesmaids and my mother. That was quite a wedding celebration — afternoon and evening — with lots of guests.
Fifty-seven years after my own wedding, my handsome, grandson Matthew, married his lovely Lisa. Fantastic dress and all the trimmings expected these days. A fortnight honeymoon abroad and a home of their own to return to. Everything wonderful, from the wedding in Church followed by the wedding breakfast, to the dancing in the evening. (See my Wrinkly Writers site).
Three Mr and Mrs Hobsons. Each enjoying their very own special day. On a personal level, have things really changed?

Swan-d-ful — photographs of local swans.

2010-07-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

There is something incredibly graceful about swans. They have a perfect simplicity of colour, shape and movement. They inspire peace and tranquility when problems disturb the soul. When I was a child I was forever drawing them — chalk on a blackboard or with pencil. Then I tried using my simple paint box and painted a swan drifting in moonlight. I guess, later on, going to the theatre Royal in Nottingham to see the Swan Lake ballet (sitting up in the gods) a number of times climaxed that fascination. At that time I wanted to be a ballet dancer! But that was long ago. Now I just like to photograph them, not be one of them!

See also
Gladys Hobson — author
Diary Of a Country Lady
Wrinkly Writers - my life is an open book
Yesteryear — any questions?
Gladys Hobson - My Space
Magpies Nest Publishing

USA editions of my books can be found at AGPress bookstore

Ulverston Carnival in Pictures

2010-07-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

It is difficult to choose from over 100 photos, all of which show an aspect of the 2010 Ulverston Carnival held last Saturday July 3rd. As usual, we were late arriving at the top end of Sautergate where the Carnival passes, but we then went down the bottom of the road and elsewhere to catch parts we missed. A lovely sunny day and masses of people taking part, especially children. Lots of music from various bands and many dance groups looking gorgeous in their brilliant costumes. Tiny tots, weary from it all. slept in their push chairs as the afternoon progressed. It is amazing the trouble people go to to make it such a success. We did not catch any of the dancers performing. Indeed, by the time some of them reached where we stood they must have been worn out! How stirring were the bands, and jolly the less formal ones. Our photos tend to pick up the 'natural', For, at the corner where we stood, there was much waiting while those before and after did their 'thing' to an appreciative audience. (More crowds there) But I love the 'natural' look on many faces as they were caught off guard.
The whole thing was a wonderful feast of colour, music and movement, which left all of our senses alive and reeling! WELL DONE every single person taking part AND those behind the scenes.

Click on pictures to enlarge.
To see MORE PHOTOS OF THE CARNIVAL, click on Diary Of A Country Lady

Ratty — the friendly squirrel with a peculiar tail

2010-07-01T12:34:00.000-07:00

Can anyone tell me what might have happened to this visiting squirrel?
It looks a little like a rat until it skips off. It does not seem as agile as the other squirrels. Is this because a bushy tail gives better balance? But it seems to be surviving okay. If this is a defect I wonder if more squirrels will be born with it. Red Squirrels, grey squirrels and ratty-tailed squirrels!
We call the little fellow Ratty!

Chatsworth Park, Derbyshire and Curbar Edge

2010-06-30T02:45:00.000-07:00

We have been on a holiday to Derbyshire. We enjoy walking the footpaths along dales, by rivers, in woods and in gardens — such as that of Chatsworth (the country house of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire), which is open to the public — house, garden and immense estate.
There are miles of footpaths that take you all over the estate, including by the river and house, the Children's Farm area, up to the Hunting Tower (where, years ago, the ladies watched their men on horseback hunting stags), through the huge woodland areas, over farmland where deer graze with sheep and cattle, through the estate village of Edensor (where you can stop for an excellent light lunch or cream tea) — on the level or up and down hills.
The house itself is well worth a visit but we were there just for exercise. See photos of the views while on a short walk opposite the superb house.
There is accommodation available to rent for holidays too.
There is a well-known Chatworth Farm Shop (cafe there too) and a large Garden Centre.
Chatsworth Garden Centre has a wonderful cafe. Not only is the food excellent but there are tables outside when you can enjoy the magnificent flowers — beautiful scents, rich colours and an utterly delightful soul-enriching experience affecting every one of the human senses. Even wild birds entertain with song and funny antics!
Here is a photo taken from where we were sitting.
What ever people say about so much land and property in the hands of few people (I do believe the Duke has inherited six estates) it is wonderful to have this country park kept in such excellent condition for all to enjoy. I hate to think what it would be like if became 'nationalised'!
We also managed a walk along Curbar Edge — wonderful views across the valley with Chatsworth looking like a tiny dolls house!

A Walk Around Linacre Reservoir — Derbyshire

2010-06-29T12:47:00.000-07:00

We have been away on a caravan holiday. Gentle walks with beautiful scenery. Derbyshire is a great county with considerable history too. Linacre Reservoir is connected with Chesterfield's industrial past. It is now a beauty spot with much wild life in woods and on the water. A true delight. I'll let the photographs tell the story.

Photographs For New Blog

2010-06-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

We have been driving to various places today and photographing some of the settings which are in my latest book — Checkmate (not yet released).
The whole blog is about beautiful Cumbria — the Lakes District National Park, plus the fringes within the Furness area of Cumbria. I intend quoting from Checkmate's pages to go with each photograph.
Today we visited Roanhead with its sand dunes, and view towards the high fells and in the far distance the mountains of the Lake District, including Coninston Old Man.
We also photographed the Shipyards at Barrow and the coast at Bardsea.
This photograph is of Roanhead, a great place for families with its Nature Reserve, sand dunes and long stretch of beach.

The book will shortly be released by Magpies Nest Publishing where it can be ordered post free in the UK. Once released it can be ordered from any bookstore including Amazon.

Checkmate is the third book of a trilogy — Book one, Awakening Love (DESIRE in the USA) Book two is Seduction By Design.

The Open Door

2010-06-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

The Open Door. A good title for a short story. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood for writing yarns. The washing is in progress and we have a dog to look after. She belongs to my son and his wife. They will be here tonight and our duty will be relieved. We love that Border Collie but she is a handful. She has developed a sure habit of getting attention. Howling!
She likes to look out of the window or sit by the open door, hoping to see movement — squirrels, or occasionally — a rabbit! Squirrels can climb trees but rabbits can only run and dive down holes!
I saw a bee on the garden steps. Was it dying? I put some flowers close by and it moved slightly. I found flowers almost hidden, broke them off and put those near the bee. It showed interest by crawling inside one flower and then another. I left it to it. Had I helped it to recover? I like to think so.
It is lovely to be able to have the door open. Nothing like fresh air!

Birds and Bees

2010-06-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

Sunshine and the bees are buzzing, birds are singing and a soft wind blowing. All is tranquil. The rain has done wonders in the garden — such abundance! Feel good — domestic chores done! (well almost!)
Maybe time to do some serious writing this week?

Paradise Lost... Killer Birds

2010-06-04T06:25:00.000-07:00

Where sheep may safely graze?

My last post was about our visit to West Cumbria. A wonderful holiday with exercise! Fantastic scenery — hills, streams, mountains, lakes and the sea. Everywhere brimming with new life — calves, foals, lambs, pigs, birds and no doubt the red squirrels had young somewhere around.
The only ugliness on the landscape, which brought me to tears, was discovering a young lamb lying dead close to its mother. The poor innocent creature had had its eyes pecked out, no doubt by crows. Black holes with blood trickling down its face. Another lamb was limping on three legs. When we reported the scene at the nearby farmhouse, I was told it was only nature. But the man intended removing both lambs because crows attack the ones they find in distress.
Nature? Well my reaction was that if I had a shotgun I’d shoot every crow in sight. Lambs are so very vulnerable — creatures that never do harm and yet suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune — in this case sharp beaks. Of course, I know I would never fire a shotgun, even if someone put one in my hand and said, ‘Go on, shoot at their nests and kill the bloody lot of them.’
We had only been home just over a week, when that dreadful happening took place in the very area we visited. I have put photographs of the area here. Whitehaven was once industrial and the place has had to cope with closure of the mines and all associated with the business. But, like other towns in Cumbria, ones used to having fishing boats in their harbours or industry keeping people in work, changes have been made. Marinas seem to be the thing. Rather ironic though that these places will service those with money for an expensive hobby or sport. As to whether this has anything whatsoever to do with one man going on a rampage of killing is another matter altogether.
West Cumbria is rural. Cumbrian farmers, like elsewhere, have suffered many
misfortunes — most have survived but incidents of broken men taking their own lives is not unknown.
But what of Derrick Bird? What made him snap and kill his brother, colleagues, friends and neighbours? Twelve deaths and eleven injuries, some life-threatening. Then his own life. The horror is too great for my mind to taken in.
Money pressures may be at the heart of it. It may be thought idyllic to live in this magical area, but beautiful scenery does not pay the bills. Anger and hatred, combined with low self-esteem can lead to violence, Someone snaps — have gun will shoot?
Those injured and dead, and their loved ones, are not the only victims. A mother has lost her twin sons — one of them having killed the other. Cain and Abel? The whole area is in grief.
At present I feel strangely detached. I know, deep down, we all have a darker side. We learn to have mastery over it and use it creatively. Even to the extent of only recognising our ‘shadow’ as a force for creativity. But is also a place, a cellar, where our ‘demons’ live. Once the ‘policeman’ dwelling in our ‘upper’ mind — the authority voice, a combination of ‘voices’ that taught us right from wrong— is subdued, then restraint has gone all hell can be let loose. But it is premature to speculate.
Let us stone the crows by all means to keep them from the sheep, but we need to understand what makes people break under pressure, that is, if we want to avoid these dreadful tragedies.

Mountains, Forests, Lakes and Dales — The English Lake District

2010-05-26T11:57:00.000-07:00

We have just been on a holiday to the upper part of the English Lake District, taking in the Coastal harbours. Not far away maybe, but a break among the mountains, climbing up hills, walking by lakes and rivers, visiting harbours with their new marinas. Taking in sweet scents of pine and wild flowers, lifted to Paradise by magnificent views. The strenuous exercise actually relieved the discomfort I had been suffering with arthritic knees!
We marvelled at the new life all around us — foals, lambs, pretty little pigs, young birds, red squirrels, and, of course, the freshness of new green growth amongst woodland and meadow.
And when we were resting in our caravan, my husband read to me. Two interesting novels, although we were glad to get to the end of one of them as it seemed to go on forever with unnecessary detail. I guess some writers hate to miss out anything gleaned through research, but why stretch out a story with what often seems like padding?

Getting home we were welcomed by the colourful blooming of our garden shrubs and trees. We can't help but wonder how we came to live in such a lovely part of England!

I also found I had received excellent reviews for my Seduction By Design but they deserve a post of their own!

Pigeon in a Goldfish Bowl?

2010-05-15T08:07:00.000-07:00

Pigeon in a goldfish bowl?
No, I could not be that cruel. But he looks comfortable enough.
A sunny day. A walk into town. I took photographs of the Gill Footpath, which is the beginning of the Cumbrian Way.
Not long ago the trees were cut down on one side of the brook. It is lovely to see that the bank is once more covered with a variety of deciduous trees.

The Beauty of Trees in May

2010-05-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

It is a great season with so many flowers coming out to cheer even the dullest of days. But the trees too have a beauty and grace that warm the heart, They are the hotels and delivery rooms for the birds of which many eat of the their seeds and nuts. One of our trees is also a feeding station all the year round.
I don't care much for the song that speaks of a nest of robins in the tree's hair (we have found robins nesting in unusual places but we have yet to find a robin's nest in a tree) but no doubt the writer of the song's lyrics thought it romantic. I could look up into the branches of trees and wonder at the light and shadow — the shimmering beauty of leaves and the heavenly fulness of blossom. Heavenly, simply heavenly.

Showers that bring forth flowers!

2010-05-11T02:43:00.000-07:00

May is a lovely time of the year. Of course, I say that about most of the months! In England every month has its special features. I feel greatly blessed to live in a land with changing seasons and moods.
We still have daffodils and other spring flowers in bloom, but now the shrubs really come into their own. The camellias started flowering a while ago, as did the early azaleas, but now the showy rhododendrons are joining the magical throng, along with others that bring glory to our country garden. The pots too are brimming with nature's jewels, and Wisteria and clamatis budding on the house wall. The rose patch will come alive next month but already there is rich foliage. So too with climbing roses. And yet, the snowdrops and winter jasmine that flower in the dark days, are just as much treasured for their simple beauty. Yes, each season brings forth its own simple pleasures
The lawn is not blessed with much grass but what is there adds greenness - plus extra colour from violets that enjoy the tolerant nature of my gardener husband! I don't allow dandelions to proliferate though. I have spent many hours weeding them out of both lawn and borders. Hard work but good exercise, and I hate using weed killer.
It is good to see the flowers blooming around town too. By the time June arrives the whole place will be awash with colour.
Such riches that all can enjoy, whatever the political situation.
Now is the time to walk in the woods — the scent and blue haze among the trees turn the woods to heaven on earth.

School — the best years of your life? The joys of teaching!

2010-05-08T04:27:00.000-07:00

A poem by Gladys Hobson

The joys of teaching

They come in the night, and daytime too —
Dreams and nightmares of many a hue.
We shake them off with laughter jolly
But most of the time we’re off our trolley!
In confident voice we teach what we know
And try to hide what we don’t want to show.

We stand at the front and spout the lesson
And hope to be able to last the session.
Some kids are angels and want to learn,
But there’re also those who are ready to spurn —
All that is taught, but still is our hope
That none of the kids will end up a dope.

We sit in our chair and read out the names
Of all our pupils ready for games —
Not the sort you play with bat and ball
But who’s to win and who’s to fall
In the battle of wits they play with their teacher —
Jim’s taunting of Miss is a favourite feature.

At least terms are short and holidays long,
And sometimes surprises come rolling along.
Young Jimmy is offered a place at Oxford
And Marlene is nursing in USA Botsford.
Some are employed, most are at college,
And not one is inside — eating his porridge!

Gladys Hobson

Ah yes, some of the best years of my life!

The Daffy Squirrel — what joy!

2010-05-03T12:29:00.000-07:00

The Daffy Squirrel!

A while ago I wrote about a squirrel playing with a stick. Now my hubby caught one playing with a daffodil. Rolling on its back, pulling a daffodil to the ground and then letting it go up again. In between racing in tight circles. So that’s how some of the daffy heads got knocked off!
They are delightful creatures to watch. Since my hubby has made it more difficult to get at the nuts they try all manner of means to outwit him — sometimes hanging by one back claw, or wrapping their back feet around the smooth pole (with the inevitable result — down they go!) They chase each other round and round the oak tree, and race from tree to tree high up in the branches. Okay, maybe they can be a nuisance but they give us more pleasure than visiting cats.
Unfortunately, the squirrels are too quick to photograph them playing. Open the door and they are off. But we caught one on the bird table during winter. The nut feeder has been made more difficult to get at since then. My hubby believes they should have to work for their dinner!
Three new photographs today. (Click on photograph to enlarge the squirrel)

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The Eye Of The Beholder

2010-05-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

Threatening Rain

Heavy rain threatened today but the garden needs it. Against the dark sky the beauty of the countryside is made manifest. In everyone’s life a little rain must fall. So often nature reflects our own mood. Light and shadow. Sun and rain. Joy and sorrow. Life is full of contrasts. Without contrasts life would lack lustre. Writers have their highs and lows. Words may flow, or dam up like a stream clogged with debris. For me, words are not flowing, they are clogged with jumbled thoughts. One day a refreshing shower will come and clarity will return.

The Simple Life — of tales and tails

2010-04-27T03:13:00.000-07:00

The Simple Life
A life of freedom or pigeon pie?

A chubby woodpigeon (ring dove) sits on a nest in a fir tree just 15’ from our front door. It looks so peaceful up there surrounded by shrubs bearing blossom. We see the couple plodding around the garden — dinosaurs compared with the blackbirds, finches, tits, sparrows and tiny wrens (etc) that visit our feeding station and peck around the garden. Even larger than the lovely white and mottled pigeons that visit us throughout the year.
They sit in turn, quiet and undisturbed, oblivious to our prying eyes as we try to photograph them. Their nest looks flat and flimsy and we wonder how on earth they will be able to keep their young on it once the eggs hatch. (Likely just one or two, as they continue to breed throughout the season.)
What do they think as they sit there? No worries for them about finance and elections, buying houses and furniture. No concerns about schools for their children, what to wear and what meals are best for them. No mortgage, no bills, no cars or holidays. Just doing what comes naturally.
But we are concerned for them! We just hope the egg or eggs don’t roll out of the nest. We hope the fledglings when born won’t get taken off by crows or cats. We want them to keep well and enjoy life. Why? Birds, not just pigeons, die every day. They fly into the window and break their necks, they get taken off by birds of prey and squirrels raid their nests. But this is nature and animals are programmed for survival. What humans do to one another goes beyond survival — need I say more?

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Alpaca Love!

2010-04-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

For Love of Alpacas

I visited a local farm and took photos of beautiful alpacas. They sure did look cuddly with their exceedingly deep hair fleeces. The fibre is not called wool (so I was told) and I was given a little to feel. Yes indeed the fibres were about six inches in length and incredibly fine, rather like my own hair which seems almost invisible on the crown and top.
We have been keeping an eye on these gorgeous creatures since they arrived in the area and I felt it a privilege to go up close to take my photographs. The boys, real cuties, were separated from the girls and not in the least shy. The girls were a little suspicious but gradually came closer as their curiosity increased. No smells and as clean as if they had just had a shampoo all over.
I know alpaca owners keep them more for pleasure than profit. Each fleece produces enough fibre for about two cardigans so it hardly pays for their food and special attention. But evidently, like dog breeding, the offspring can be sold for fairly high sums. But it is joy they give by being just themselves that is reason enough to keep them.
I find them utterly charming and would have loved to have given one or two a cuddle! Cuddling is a reassuring activity, but I doubt alpacas would appreciate it!

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The Flowers That Bloom In The Spring Tra-la!

2010-04-20T11:01:00.000-07:00

Just to be out among the spring flowers after the cold winter is a great joy! In fact, just to view them through the window is uplifting. More birds are around too — a great variety. Wonderful singing when all is quiet. So many bees buzzing too. The whole garden is full of activity and yet there is also a blessed stillness.
What matters age? The beauty of nature is for all to enjoy. And a garden keeps us fit!

Another of Ulverston's social angels

2010-04-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

Ulverston’s do-it-yourself angel.

There are many unsung heroes throughout the world and no doubt quite a few in this small market town of Ulverston. They come in many guises. Those we usually think of are often carers in one form or another, or those who do voluntary work with the mass of groups and societies that seek to relief suffering at home and abroad. But there are others and the ones I am writing about are those who work for community cohesion, a better environment, and all that enhances daily living.
Some time ago I wrote about a litter angel who silently cleared the Hoad footpaths of rubbish each morning. Today I am writing about someone who is determined, not only to make the environment more attractive, but to get others — men, women, children and whole families— involved in life-enhancing schemes.
Search Geoff Dellow's web site to see what is happening in various areas.
Potting is just one of the things he is up to.
As a potter himself, Geoff is inspiring others to take up the craft. Not only that but to get together to decorate local parks with their work. With the help of others, Geoff has also been busy growing and planting flowers, using donated seeds and bulbs, in park areas otherwise left neglected. The photographs here are just some of the results. The place is the footpath at Gill Banks — the start of the Cumbria Way. He also organised a special Halloween night for children and their parents there — the first of what is likely to be a tradition. Getting people socially involved? What better Way to a more enhancing and cohesive society?

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Suddenly It's Spring

2010-04-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

Well, it is all happening now. Flowers coming out, buds busting, some trees in blossom and, on the down side, grass needing mowing and borders weeding. Our little friends are doing mischief. Mischief? Well, the squirrels are nipping buds off the daffodils. A bunny popping into the garden nibbles what he fancies. And birds peck off the primrose flowers. Unfortunately, black sooty mould completely covers one of our large Debbie camellias. Plenty more though of different varieties. Other shrubs yet to bloom - their beauty to delight us throughout the year until winter arrives. Even then, winter jasmine, snowdrops and bright berries to cheer us up.
It's uplifting to hear the dawn chorus, to see birds building nests, and have them coming to their feeding stations — the tits drop many seeds on the ground, feeding the blackbirds and white pigeons which gather there. And now the return of a pair of woodpeckers, and many other birds, brighten our day.
Bees are buzzing around the flowers, especially the heathers. So good to see them busy in the garden. News reports seem to suggest that bees are dying out, but there is no shortage in our garden.

Yes, spring is here and summer not far behind

Cromford Canal — a walk in Derbyshire

2010-03-26T06:45:00.000-07:00

A walk along Cromford Canal.

Winter has gone and spring has arrived but it is obvious that everything is behind within the natural world. Even so on our short break in Derbyshire (celebrating out 57th wedding anniversary) we found great delight in taking short walks, one of which was by the Cromford Canal.
Cromford is well known for its cotton manufacturing history (Sir Richard Arkwright) and indeed a mill museum is there to inform interested visitors. Mill buildings stand as strong-looking as ever, as indeed are the large Masson mills on the nearby River Derwent (along with the interesting museum there is also a retail outlet too). The original Masson mill water turbines still operate and generate electricity.
Close by is Sir Richard Arkwright’s mansion, Willersly Castle – now a Christian-based hotel open to all.
At the start of our walk we met a photographer waiting to snap a friendly vole. I admire these photographers who wait many hours to get their pictures. We did not see a great deal of water life, certainly not as much as we usually do but maybe they were further away. Even so, it was a pleasant walk. A train rushing on the lines below the canal, and the stink of a nearby sewage disposal works, did little to disturb our tranquil mood.

(The ducks in the photograph are out of focus but I love the 'Impressionist' feel about the picture)

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