tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59137898416652433752024-03-04T21:03:00.030-08:00Janet TannerOfficial website by the author Janet TannerAmelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-76238805720014537542023-04-12T01:18:00.001-07:002023-04-12T01:39:34.442-07:00LAMENT FOR HUMOUROUS SONGS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmn30-2mXwHFKJTPGz5HiXJ_zA8shGrGacDAoYOaNi7UQ7LTlFcGQ9v-jFUvSgre5zO19QQuUJG_1Xl06oEfs5u8CXc-tJ0yCtlvlNWXUTlwHKUPIT-hyRUSIy0k0aknIYrtbttn8JuwjBJZvalNw7ozkjWuaOXTCIgArRFSS-y4FKdh5fXD6c9KjjA/s123/unnamed.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="104" data-original-width="123" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmn30-2mXwHFKJTPGz5HiXJ_zA8shGrGacDAoYOaNi7UQ7LTlFcGQ9v-jFUvSgre5zO19QQuUJG_1Xl06oEfs5u8CXc-tJ0yCtlvlNWXUTlwHKUPIT-hyRUSIy0k0aknIYrtbttn8JuwjBJZvalNw7ozkjWuaOXTCIgArRFSS-y4FKdh5fXD6c9KjjA/s1600/unnamed.png" width="123" /></a><br />This isn't actually the start of the series of Blogs I promised - I'm getting a few together so I can post them at regular intervals even if I am busy working on my next book. It's just something that struck me the other day ..... Hope you enjoy it!<br /> <br />A few days ago I posted birthday wishes to a friend from the long-gone days of my carefree youth, and asked her if she remembered a day out at<br /> <br />the seaside with me, my sister Hazel, and another friend. I think it might have been Weymouth, by coach because it definitely had a sandy beach - real sand, not Weston-super-Mare mud.<div> <br />When we changed into swimming costumes we were full of envy and admiration - Sue, a very pretty girl, petite and slim, had a new bikini! I remember it was pink and white checked like gingham and she looked stunning in it. But Sue was so shy and self-conscious about it that ... well, when we were unable to persuade her to so much as take a few steps we began singing a hit song at the time - Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini. The lyrics were all about a girl with a new bikini - worn for the first time that day! - who was first 'afraid to come out of the locker', and then, when she'd had a dip, was 'afraid to come out of the water.'<div> <br />I started singing it this morning, and it made me happy. Laugh-out-loud-happy. And I got to thinking of all the other humourous songs that have been popular throughout my life and wondering why we never hear the like nowadays. To be honest, I don't often listen to music on the radio these days. I know I might sound like an old fogey, but to me most of them just sound like repetitive noise with no discernable words that I can make out, anyway. And I got to thinking about all those songs that used to make us smile, interspersed with the rock'n'roll, country, sentimental love songs and the rest. Where has our sense of humour gone?</div><div> <br />When I was much younger there were ditties like Does Your Chewing Gum Lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?</div><div>and Don't Jump of The Roof Dad (You'll make a hole in the yard!) <br />Later we had My Old Man's a Dustman, Ernie (who drove the fastest dustcart in the West) and Fred Wedlock's 'Oldest Swinger in Town'. <br />And don't get me started on Tom Lehrer. We used to spend whole evenings listening to his sometimes dark, but very funny repertoire on his LP records. <br />My favourite was Be Prepared (That's the Boy Scouts' marching song ...) and I still sing it sometimes when I want cheering up. But I also enjoyed the wicked : Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, and the satirical pessism of We'll All go Together When We go - which, believe it or not, was about a nuclear disaster! What a subject to humourise about!</div><div> <br />Then of course there was Allan Sherman. Who can forget (if they're old enough to remember it!) the wonderful letter home from Camp Grenada set to Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours - Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh. And Bob Newhart with The Driving Instructor.</div><div> <br />Where have they gone, the songs and monologues to make you laugh? Have they been lost in these days of political correctness, when extremely funny sitcoms such as <br />'Ello 'Ello, Dad's Army, and Are You Being Served would never make it to our screens? Am I alone in regretting comedy as it used to be doesn't seem to exist any more? I'll make an exception for Lee Mack's Not Going Out, which invariably makes me laugh. And I can always watch repeats of The Vicar of Dibley, Porridge, and others. <br />Laughter is something that can always light up our lives, no matter what our circumstances.</div><div> <br />Bring it back! Bring it on! All together now .... <br />She wore an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini .... <br />(Hope I don't get sued for infringement of copyright ... That wouldn't be in the least bit funny!)<br /> </div></div>Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-6331730026437302482020-04-20T05:00:00.001-07:002020-04-20T05:00:38.329-07:00EARLY DAYS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFXX2n3ZeHrnZNk1dcPZSO0PK1hCkGNJnVnmysiW_4mH2XMj-VwKcq70R8lO4wbpz1qycMcYKoaFEZzmCD1hxv50w5BMKC94B86zSsrZSJSbIVx8NuzMaZ85F3OBzvwk6QMDGXUqBkMX3/s1600/British+plane-782197.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFXX2n3ZeHrnZNk1dcPZSO0PK1hCkGNJnVnmysiW_4mH2XMj-VwKcq70R8lO4wbpz1qycMcYKoaFEZzmCD1hxv50w5BMKC94B86zSsrZSJSbIVx8NuzMaZ85F3OBzvwk6QMDGXUqBkMX3/s400/British+plane-782197.jpg" /></a><br />
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There are many allusions to World War II in the newspapers, on radio and on TV these days as we go the dreadful Covid 19 crisis. Even Her Majesty the Queen referenced Vera Lynn's wartime hit We'll Meet Again in her warm and inspirational broadcast to the nation. And it started me thinking - what do I remember of the war?<br />
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Not a lot, you might think, since I was not born until November, 1941. But I do have plenty of memories of the early years of my life. Snapshots, yes, but incredibly clear. I was only just two years old when my sister was born, yet I remember my Gran asking me if I would like to go upstairs and see my new little sister. It was a cold - possibly wet - January morning, and I had climbed into the living room window cill via an armchair, and was drawing with my finger on the steamed-up window. I'm afraid my recollection doesn't extend to what I thought of her, yet that memory of being told I was no longer an only child is framed for ever just as if it were a photograph.<br />
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Other clear memories involve being in my push chair. I can still recall the pleasure of being taken out for walks in the countryside, often by my dear Auntie Marjorie with whom we shared a home. She liked to go 'round the walls' - the perimeter of Ammerdown estate - and we would listen to the telephone lines humming above us as we went. On another occasion she had taken me down to the lane that runs along the valley below what was our house and stopped on a bridge over the river so that I could look down at the ducks. I was wearing a pair of brand new sandals and feeling very proud of them. Unfortunately disaster struck. Auntie had parked my push chair close to the wooden rail, the better for me to look through, and somehow I managed to catch one of my sandals beneath the bottom strut. When I freedved my foot my sandal was wrenched off, and fell down into the stream. Oh, the memory of how horrified I was! And of seeing Auntie scrambling down the steep bank to try and retrieve it. It wasn't to be. She couldn't reach it, and we had to go home and confess the awful thing that had happened. But would you believe, when clearing Mum's house after she died what did we find in the sideboard but the tiny surviving sandal, still brand new, having been worn only once. Mum had kept it all those years!<br />
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Even worse - another push chair incident, this time with Mum in charge. We were in the Co-op Drapery Shop, and Mum stopped to talk to a neighbour whose little girl was just a day younger than me. And for some unknown reason I leaned across and bit her on the arm! I think they put it down to me being jealous at the attention my new baby sister was getting, but I have no idea. I just remember the sudden urge to bite Valerie (as I later came to know her) and feeling dreadfully ashamed afterwards as Mum apologised profusely to Valerie's mum!<br />
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I can also remember the incident in the woods when the black bird - a crow or rook - was shot and landed fluttering right in front of me, though that is thanks to the hypnosis I had to cure me of the bird phobia that plagued me for forty-odd years, the story of which I related in an earlier blog. That had been tucked away in the depths of my memory until the hypnotist unlocked it. Now I can remember the whole thing, even being upset whilst having my lunch when I got home, and Mum saying 'Just forget about it, my love.' Well, I did, at least my conscious mind did, but I still remembered the terror every time I had contact with a bird, especially a black bird. The nightmares, the day walking across the fields Dad had to give me a ride on his shoulders in order to pass a dead black bird under a tree, the fear of any sort of fluttering. Only when I was able to remember the fright that caused it all, making me cry: 'It's dead! It's dead! I don't want it to be dead!' in a little child's voice, and face it with adult understanding was I able to begin to overcome my phobia.<br />
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I clearly remember a dream, too, much more clearly than I can recall what I dreamed last night, although I was very young, certainly no more than four. It was a terrible fire in a circus marquee. Yet somehow also our house was being threatened. My grandparents had their bedroom downstairs in what should have been the front room because Gran had 'a bad heart', and she had lots of ornaments on the mantelpiece. I was running in and out of the house getting those ornaments two at a time and running out to put them on the front lawn where they would be safe. I'd love to know where that dream that I've never forgotten came from - if I close my eyes I can still feel the aura of it. And I became fascinated by fire, to the extent that later, whenever the 'fire hooter' went to summon the volunteer fire brigade (the 'hooter' as in fact the old all-clear air raid siren) I would run down the hill to the fire station to watch the engine come out with its bell clanging. I even kept a notebook recording each call out, and the fire chief, a friend of Mum's, said I could be their mascot and ride on the engine one day. I don't think that ever happened, or I would surely remember it!<br />
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I also remember being small enough to fit in my mother's 'boat shaped' basket and pretending it was a real boat, and being dreadfully upset when I grew to big to get into it!<br />
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And so to the war. I remember hearing the siren - the alarm then - and the planes going over. I remember being told you could tell the difference between British and German planes because of the engine sound. I remember sitting on a blanket on the lawn and watching the English ones streak overhead and disappear into the distance,<br />
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Most exciting of all was when a German plane came down in a nearby field. My mother took me across to see it, and lifted me up onto the step so I could see inside! I couldn't have been more than three years old if that, but it's another clear memory.<br />
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And Auntie Flo, Gran's sister, who was bombed out of her home in Oldfield Park in Bath and moved into our already crowded household, being given my bedroom! But she played with me for hours, especially with my china dolly's tea set. I can even remember the scent of her talcum powder ...<br />
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And how my sister and I loved playing with our gas masks when the war was over! I can still smell the rubbery smell when we opened the cardboard boxes they were kept in ...<br />
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Oh, I could go on and on! But the rest, I think, will have to wait for another day!Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-29402958046360254082020-01-02T06:15:00.000-08:002020-01-02T06:16:20.827-08:00HAPPY NEW YEAR!<div class="mobile-photo">
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So here it is - the beginning of t he Roaring Twenties! I have to confess I didn't stay up to watch it in - I was in bed and asleep when the hands of the clock turned to midnight, though I was woken up by the sound of fireworks before turning over and going back to sleep. Once I would never have dreamed of missing that magic moment. Even in recent years when the partying days were over, I would have been able to look out from my bedroom window in Bristol Road, Radstock, over the whole valley, and watch the sky light up for miles around. Here, I can see nothing but trees and the occasional distant flash above them. Times change - but memories remain. And what memories!<br />
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When Terry, my late husband, was still a serving police officer he was, of course, usually on duty - New Year's Eve is always one of the busiest nights of the year for the police, as well as the other emergency services. But after his retirement we hosted a big party almost every year. I'd spend hours making buffet food, the bubbly would be chilling in the fridge and the glasses set out on the kitchen table, we'd light the fire and loads of candles, and sort out the CDs that would make the party swing. Then I'd glam up - those were the days! - and await the arrival of our guests, always at least fifteen and sometimes more. There would be lots of chatter and jokes, maybe a game or two, and some of us would dance. Then, as the time approached, we'd all gather in front of the television, glass in hand, waiting for the moment to drink to the new year. There would be the inevitable 'Auld Lang Syne' and hugs and kisses all round. Later, glasses replenished, we'd sit in a big circle for more talk and jokes. When the last guest left Terry and I would do a certain amount of clearing up and the rest would be left till next morning.<br />
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As I mentioned before, whilst still in the police force, Terry was often working over New Year, but two of my most special memories were made on such occasions. Before moving to Radstock, we lived on a large estate on the outskirts of Midsomer Norton. One of my drama friends lived just up the road, and that year he was hosting the New Year's celebrations. I couldn't attend - I had two small children and no baby-sitter, so saw in the New Year alone. Just after midnight there was a knock on the back door, and I opened it to find a group of my friends, including Doug, the host bringing me a lump of coal and some mulled wine. So I was not alone any more! On other occasions we and the neighbours would go out into our gardens and bang saucepan lids - this was in the days before fireworks became the thing.</div>
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Another memorable New Year came when my daughters were grown up enough to go out for their own celebrations with friends. I was alone as midnight approached and thought I would be seeing the New Year in alone again, but at ten or five to twelve a car zoomed up our drive and past the kitchen window - we had moved to Radsteock by now. It was the green Saab Terri, my elder daughter, had taken over when she passed her driving test at 17 - she and Suzie had left their friends and come home to mark the magic moment with me! I was so thrilled - and touched - that I think they made it my happiest New Year ever.<br />
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So - here it is. Another year gone, a new one just begun. And I hope it will be a happy, healthy and prosperous one for all of you, my lovely readers. And for me too ... And my New Year's resolution is to write my blog more regularly. I wonder how long that will last ..?</div>
Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-78012455029894256462019-08-10T11:47:00.000-07:002020-01-02T06:19:09.626-08:00MORE CHILDHOOD MEMORIES<div class="mobile-photo">
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Pollock's Theatre<br />
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I've written before about the games we played outside when I was a child; today I'm remembering the things that kept us amused when the weather was too bad to play outdoors. And my very favourite toy is pictured above. My precious Pollock's Theatre. Mine was very like this one, made of wood with printed paper depicting the curtains, orchestra and so on pasted on. There were slats just like the batons on a real stage to insert cardboard scenery and also stage dressing that protruded from the wings. The script of the play to be produced was in a printed booklet, and included push-out cardboard characters as well as the scenery and props, and there were wires that the actors could be attached to in order to move them about on stage. Oh, how I loved that theatre! I played with it endlessly. I really wish I still had it, but unfortunately after I left home it was consigned to the garden shed along with other toys and dolls, and when I found it years later the wood had rotted, the cardboard curled and faded and the paper had been nibbled by mice. Thinking about it now I'm tempted to buy one from the Pollock's Museum in Covent Garden and display it in my living room. Though I don't see myself having the patience to push the actors on and off stage!<br />
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'Dolly Dressmaking Books' were another favourite. They were still about when my own daughters were children, but nothing like the ones we used to enjoy. I think the card dolls on the front and back covers were push-out, but we had to cut out all the dresses ourselves with little scissors, and I particularly liked the ones that had to be cut out from squares of paper 'fabric' using template patterns. We had stencils made of waxed card and a small, flat topped hard brush to dab the paint through the holes of the pattern, and transfers that had to be soaked in a saucer of water and then pressed onto whatever we were decorating. There were jigsaws, painting and colouring books, and magic painting books. Our mother kept a little stock in the bottom of her wardrobe for rainy days when my sister and I were bored, and would fetch us one each down - we didn't get to choose, but the surprise was part of the fun. But why, oh why, did our friends' painting books seem more exciting? I remember loving it when Lynette, who lived near us, let me bring one of hers home to colour in a few pictures before letting her have it back again. Incidentally, we always loved playing at Lynette's, because she had a fairy cycle (though I couldn't ride it I could push myself along the wall of their house on it) and a swing in an apple tree in her garden. But I digress. <br />
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When I was only five years old and recovering from a really bad case of whooping cough I drew, coloured and cut out a bride and groom, bridesmaids and dozens of guests which I wanted pasted as a frieze round my bedroom. I discovered that if I rested the paper on a book while using coloured pencils I could get the imprint of the book cover through to produce a different patterned fabric for each of my characters - all the book covers had a slightly different weave. You couldn't do that today with glossy covers! A little later at about age seven I invented an alter ego, and spent many happy hours drawing pictures of her and inventing adventures. She was called Pamela Garrett and she was a Wren Waaf, because I couldn't decide between the Navy and the Air Force - this was, just after the war - and I gave her a smart uniform combining the two, though I think it veered more towards the Wrens than the WAAF. <br />
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My mother ran a Kays catalogue, and I loved cutting out the 'ladies' - the clothes models. At the time the Bath Evening Chronical ran an annual beauty queen contest, with half-a-dozen or so photographs of entrants published each evening. I collected these faithfully, chose which ones to paint, and would lay the whole lot out in rows on my bed, deciding which ones would be the finalists and winner. My little sister used to pester me for some of them and I was very upset when my mother decreed that I should let her have some - it was really important to me that I had the whole set. I remember to this day that one of them was called Sunny McGarry. If anyone reading this knows of a Sunny McGarry who would have been in her late teens or early twenties in those days I'd love to hear from them! Incidentally, my sister used to take my 'catalogue ladies' too, more to annoy me than because she wanted them .....<br />
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Each week when we went to market we were allowed a 'Saturday Treat' instead of pocket money. We could each choose a small toy from the Swifts, the paper shop, when she paid the paper bill. Sometimes it would be a new little animal for our farm, a lamb or a duck perhaps, sometimes a windmill or a kaleidoscope and once it was a plastic viewer which you slotted film into and pulled through. We also had an ice-cream from Mr Paniccia, who parked his van outside the market. I have a feeling we also had our first bubble tubs as a Saturday treat. Until then we used to blow bubbles from a lay bubble pipe dipped in soapy water.<br />
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We really were very good at entertaining ourselves in those long ago days. No TV or computer games, only the wireless, which ran on what my father called 'an accumulator' that needed charging from time to time - Listen With Mother at 2 pm and Children's Hour at teatime. It all comes back to me so clearly as I write it might have been just yesterday, those happy, happy days of my early childhood.Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-78989505208743253232018-12-12T09:30:00.000-08:002020-01-02T06:22:44.326-08:00Christmas Past<div class="mobile-photo">
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Since we're now in December I thought I'd revisit my childhood Christmases for this instalment of my memories of growing up in the 1940s and 1950s. <br /><br />They were wonderful, those Christmases. For weeks ahead we were forbidden to poke into 'Grandma's corner', a space in her bedroom between the wardrobe and wall, because that was where mysterious packages were stowed. In fact 'Grandma's corner' was out of bounds from early November and late January because both my birthday and my sister's fell during those months. And then the Great Day would approach! On Christmas Eve we'd sit around the dining table wrapping our presents for the rest of the family, and perhaps making yet more paper chains to decorate the house. The Christmas tree would already be up, with little candle lights in their holders - real candles, burning brightly - no 'elf and safety worries then! Hazel and I would both be watching the clock, eager for bedtime because in the morning ... it would be Christmas Day! <br /><br />Once in my bedroom, though, I would find it hard to fall asleep, and would creep out of bed to look out of the window in the hope of catching sight of Father Christmas's sleigh zooming across the sky. Though I never saw him (of course!) I lived in hopes that this year I might be lucky. Then, if I woke in the night, I would crawl to the bottom of the bed and feel my pillow case to 'see if he'd been'. Yes, we hung pillowcases, not stockings, but since the presents we were left usually included a jigsaw puzzle and an annual, a stocking would hardly have accommodated them. And always, at the bottom, was an orange and an apple. <br /><br />Our 'big presents' would be left on the settee in the living room, covered with an old sheet - probably the same one we used when we played 'hospitals' with our dolls. The sheet was never removed until after we'd had breakfast and cleared away, and the lumps and bumps beneath it were wonderfully tantalising. When the time came, my mother and father, Gran and the auntie with whom we shared a home, would make a circle of chairs in front of the fire, the sheet would be removed and the presents distributed. My Grampy never joined us for this ritual - he was always in the kitchen peeling the potatoes and sprouts for lunch, or dinner, as we called it. <br /><br />Oh, those Christmas dinners! They weren't elaborate as today's are - just boiled potatoes, Brussel sprouts, homemade stuffing and cockerel, but the smell and taste was divine. Any sort of chicken was a once-a-year treat, and our cockerel had been raised in a chicken run in the allotments just across the road from our house by 'Mr Young The Fowl Man'. In the weeks before Christmas we'd wake to the sound of the cockerels crowing and know one would end up on our table. Mr Young delivered it on Christmas Eve and my aunt would then singe off the remains of the feathers with a taper. Not a nice smell, but exciting, and not nearly as bad as the smell back in the autumn from the Christmas puddings being boiled in the copper. That was a smell I detested - wet pudding cloth and the house filled with steam. I didn't even like Christmas pudding very much, and still don't, though I love brandy and rum butter! <br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a>Back to the Christmas presents. We weren't snowed under, as children are today. There was usually one 'big present', quite often shared by my sister and me. My aunt knew someone who made wooden toys, and I particularly remember the dolls' house - my dad fixed up real electric lights that ran off a battery - and a huge model roundabout. It was a work of art, but we never quite knew how to play with it. There was always a new pair of slippers each, and some books. And, a running joke, a present from an aunt who we rarely saw, but who invariably sent us something far too young for us. I especially remember one year when we were quite big we each got a 12-piece jigsaw - we had endless fun doing 'speed contests' to see who could finish fastest. Her presents to the rest of the family were not received with much more enthusiasm - she invariably gave my mother an apron or a peg bag purchased at their church bazaar. And one year my mother's other brother, to whom we were very close, received the very same shaving bowl he had given to his brother the previous Christmas ... There were also the calendars - a picture pasted on an A8 sized piece of card with a booklet of tiny pages, one for each month. No space for writing in endless appointments then! But an empty space on the wall without one. <br /><br />The present I'll never forget came when I was eleven. I had passed my 11-plus (though only 10 at the time I took it) and started at the local Grammar School that September. Until Christmas I had travelled on the bus, but really needed - and wanted! - a bicycle. I will never, ever, forget coming downstairs on Christmas morning and there, in the hall, covered with the inevitable sheet, was a bicycle shaped object. I was so happy I was practically in tears - I remember very vividly the excitement fluttering in my stomach. It was perfect. A red Hercules. My parents were paying for it in monthly instalments - long afterwards I came across the repayment book. I dread to think what they had to sacrifice to buy me that bicycle! Dad had to take me around the lanes, hanging onto the saddle, to teach me to ride it, but then there was no stopping me. That bike was my pride and joy. In fact, I only found the will to get rid of it when I moved here, two and a half years ago. Before that it hung in the garage wherever we moved, getting steadily rustier, and still I couldn't bring myself to consign it to the dump. It was still so special to me. <br /><br />Christmas past. Carols and cockerel, paper chains, and presents tied with string - no sellotape then! The memories make me nostalgic and a bit sad - today we all go mad with endless preparations to make 'the perfect Christmas' - elaborate food, oceans of alcohol, flamboyant decorations, expensive presents - far too many, in my opinion - especially for the children. As they hastily tear the wrapping paper from one parcel after another do they really appreciate what they have received half as much as we did with our two or three presents (including the inevitable, boring slippers!)? But I am grateful I can share the celebrations with my wonderful family - and that I have such wonderful memories of simpler times.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5913789841665243375"></a>Happy Christmas, Everyone!<div>
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Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-54320362711050025622018-09-16T03:58:00.000-07:002020-01-02T06:18:49.278-08:00HOLIDAYS<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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Myself and my sister on Weymouth beach (I'm the elder one) wearing our knitted sunsuits. <br /><br />The latest instalment of my reminiscences as a child in the 1940s and 50s<br /><br />HOLIDAYS<br /><br />Holidays when we were children were very rare. Mostly we only saw the sea on a few day trips by coach or train to Weymouth or Weston-super Mare. These were great occasions, especially the coach trips organised by the Working Mens' Club or the RAOB - 'The Buffs' as we called them - both of which my father was a member. We would take packets of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, biscuits, and tomatoes to eat on the beach, so invariably we ended up with mouthfuls of sand. There was a Punch and Judy show at Weymouth that we always made a beeline for, as well as sand sculptures, and The Pool, later called The Lido, was always first port of call at Weston-Super-Mare, with the pier to follow. On the coach journey home, Dad would start a sing-song and everyone would join in, some popular songs of the day, some old favourites such as 'She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes', 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean', and 'You Are My Sunshine'. I can hear those rip-roaring choruses now!<br /><br />We did have a few stay-away holidays though. The very first was when I was about five and my sister three. I recall being very excited when the letter came - by second post, early afternoon - confirming the booking for two weeks at Seaton in Devon. Mum, Dad, my sister and I were to stay in a holiday bungalow on the beach whilst my grandma - Gran - was in a hotel just a short walk away across the bay. Grampy never went on holiday. He was too fond of his home. Two whole weeks! It sounded like bliss! Unfortunately, it was an unmitigated disaster. From almost the moment we arrived it poured with rain, pretty well full stop. During breaks in the storms my sister and I were able to get in the sea, wearing spare vest, knickers and liberty bodice that had been packed especially to serve us as bathing suits. Dad would have come in with us - he was a strong swimmer, who, as I believe I have chronicled before, had once saved the life of a boy caught by the currents in Margate (or maybe Ramsgate, I can never remember which it was!) And he was almost certainly wearing the one-piece bathing suit he had relied on since the 1920s and which was later to cause me great embarrassment. Not on that holiday, though. For one thing I was too young to realise how outdated it was and for another there was, as I recall, no-one else to see. Our pebbly beach was quite deserted, understandably given the dreadful weather.</div>
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<br />To make matters worse, the 'bungalow' had a tin roof which let in the rain. One of the biggest leaks was right over Mum and Dad's bed. And all our clothes were constantly damp. After a week of misery it was decided we had had enough and were going home. We caught a train which got into Radstock just before 9 pm. How do I know that? The clock on the market tower was striking as we left the station - nine o'clock! I'd never been up so late before. It remains the most memorable part of a most disappointing holiday!</div>
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<br />Some years later there were week-long holidays in Barry (Glamorgan) and Weymouth. In Weymouth we were able to stay with a cousin and her family who lived there, and as far as I remember the weather was much kinder to us and we were able to get in the sea, make sandcastles on the beach, and of course watch the Punch and Judy show as many times as we liked. The first year in Barry we stayed with an old family friend, but not the second. Perhaps she baulked at our treading sand into her neat little house. Whatever, we stayed at a boarding house owned by a lady named Mrs Evans, who certainly did make it clear she would not appreciate footprints of sand. We had to wash our feet on the doorstep. We ate in her front room - full board - and had two bedrooms at our disposal with a chest of drawers in my sister's and mine, where we promptly made beds for our dolls, Anne and Helen. It was on this holiday that I first became aware that Dad was the only one in the swimming pool wearing a one-piece bathing costume. I remember being torn between wanting him to take me down the 'water chute' and not wanting to acknowledge that I belonged to this strangely attired man. Thank goodness Mum must have persuaded him to 'splash out' on a pair of trunks after that as I don't remember him ever wearing the one-piece again. Buying a new costume must have made a huge hole in my parents' very tight budget.<br /><br />But I certainly remember mine and my sister's first bathing costumes ..! My auntie knitted them in yellow, trimmed with white - she was a great knitter - and very nice they looked too, until we got into the water. Then of course they absorbed gallons of it and ended up hanging down between our knees …<br /><br />Oh, how these memories roll in as I write! Later, when we reached our early teens, there were caravan holidays in 'Rita Showering's caravan'. Rita, wife of one of the Showering brothers, famous for their Babycham, had been a friend of Mum's when they were young, and she let us have use of her static caravan. Naturally it was well equipped, with even an awning, and I thought we were the bees' knees to be there as the guest of such an important lady. Later still, came a holiday at Butlins, Minehead, and a week in Switzerland! Things had moved on from the days of our childhood. And it's time I moved on, too!</div>
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<br />But rest assured, I shall be posting more blogs about my life as a child in the 40s!<br /><span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-35202455980783218282018-07-12T08:41:00.001-07:002020-01-02T06:20:03.138-08:00CHILDHOOD MEMORIES<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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Writing my Families of Fairley Terrace series has been making me think a lot about my own childhood in the 1940s. Although of course things had moved on since the early part of the century, very much remained the same. Surprisingly so, considering how far everything has evolved in the last 50 years or so.</div>
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To begin with, when I was a little girl there were very few cars on the road. I used to sit for ages on the steps at the bottom of our path watching for one to pass by on the main road from Radstock to Frome with a notebook and pencil to take down the numbers - it took a very long time to fill a page. I saw a grey one regularly - our next door neighbour - who was the Miners' Union secretary, I think, and also a magistrate - drove about in it. My uncle owned both a motorbike and a car, Sometimes he would take us out in the car on a Sunday afternoon for a ride and a picnic, often to Masbury Ring on the Mendips. And on his way back to work at the NCB offices after having lunch with us, he used to give me and my sister a ride to the top of the hill sitting on the motor bike tank! No crash helmets or 'elf an' safety in those days!<br />
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All deliveries were made by horse and cart. The milkman, the baker, the grocery deliveries, all courtesy of the Co-op.. They came once a week on a Monday afternoon, the order having been taken by a man with an order pad who called on Friday afternoons. I used to really look forward to his visits - he always played with me, doing bits of my jigsaws etc - and I clearly remember being in love with him at 4-5 years old and hoping he would wait for me until I was grown up so that I could marry him! <br />
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The Co-op was locally owned and run and had their own farm, dairy and bakery as well as the retail shops - grocery, butchers, fish shop, drapery, furnishings and a cake and bread shop with a little café at the back. They also had dozens of horses to pull all their delivery carts and wagons. Almost every evening at about 6.30 pm they would be taken in a long string to the Co-op field (behind the Football Field) which could be accessed either by the main road or by what we called 'The Back Lane', now known as Old Frome Road. My sister and I would wait at the roadside until we heard the distant clip-clop, and if they were using the Back Lane, run through the house and up the back garden to watch them pass by. We were always disappointed if they had been taken to another Co-op field in Tyning, on the other side of the valley.</div>
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The railway delivery wagon was huge, with a green baize cover and was pulled by a big cart horse. And at the other end of the scale ponies pulled trucks of coal and coal waste from Ludlas colliery at the bottom of the hill on tracks that ran across the road. Often on our way to school or home again we had to wait for them to pass. They were later replaced by a kind of Puffing Billy. <br />
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Life was simple, we played out all day when it was fine, across the fields and in the Back Lane - Off-ground-touch, hopscotch, marbles, all kinds of chases that involved someone being 'on it' and the rest running as fast as they could. When it was beginning to get dark we would play 'What's the Time, Mr Wolf?' Every summer the Methodist Chapel held a fete in a field that is now all houses, preceded by a fancy-dress parade. A lady who lived in a row of four cottages on the Back Lane made the most amazing costumes out of crepe paper. For dozens of children! Stepping into her little living room for a fitting was like stepping into wonderland, beautiful costumes hanging from every possible hook - one year my sister was Little Bo Peep, with wonderful flounces. Oddly I don't remember exactly what any of mine were, I just know nothing was beyond Mrs Bristow's talents. One of our favourite sideshows at the fete was trying to get a metal ring round a multiply-twisted wire without touching it - it was wired to a battery and a bell rang if - when! - you failed. This was set up by a gentleman named Ralph Chivers who lived with his brother (both bachelors) in one of the Big Houses on the main road. <br />
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But there were drawbacks too. Mainly, as far as I'm concerned, the lack of any form of central heating. In winter I always seemed to feel cold. We had only one fire - in the living room - and an Aladdin oil stove for warming any other room when necessary. We either sat as close as possible to the fire and scorched our legs or froze. Water for the bath was heated in a copper and dipped out with a dipper while we filled saucepans from the tap at the bottom. At school there was just one coke stove per classroom, surrounded by a fire guard on which knickers could be dried if one of the pupils had an 'accident'. Our little bottles of milk would be stood beside it to thaw. The walls of the cloakroom ran with water, and when the loos in our outside toilet block froze over paraffin lamps would be put in them to try to unfreeze them. Most of all I hated the clothes I had to wear. I have very sensitive skin and the woollen vests and jumpers made me itch so much I was constantly shivering. How I hated those vests - particularly on a Monday morning when they were clean and tight. We wore fleecy liberty bodices too and very big knickers. <br />
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Other pet hates were: Milk of Magnesia on a Sunday evening 'to keep us regular' - ugh, that horrible thick powdery spoonful (though I loved orange Minidex for Vitamin C); lumpy dry mashed potato; and, in school, having to lie down for a rest after dinner. In the first year infants' class children lay on a coir mat on the floor, but as I had a 'bad ear' my mother insisted I lay on a wooden pallet bed because of draughts coming from under the doors. I hated feeling different as well as not being used to having to try to sleep in the day. In the second year Infants' we lay on desks, so at least I wasn't singled out, but it was still a very long half-hour or whatever.<br />
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This is turning into a very long trip down memory lane, so I think I'll have to save the rest for next time. But I can't leave without mentioning some of the everyday items that have disappeared from the face of the earth but were commonplace when I was a child. Zambuc, a wonderful thick green ointment that healed almost anything, but primarily the long 'cuts' on ones fingers from constantly being in water, either doing the laundry or the washing up. Minidex, as already mentioned, Thermogene, sort of pink cotton wool for putting inside your vest if suffering from a chesty cough - my grandmother used to use it - and tiny bottles of olive oil, bought from the chemist, and warmed by the fire before dripping into the ear to soften wax. And of course Gibbs Dentrifice tooth powder in a tin, as pictured above. You wetted the toothbrush and then scrubbed it round the tin's contents to make a paste. Our bathroom had a bath and a loo but no handbasin, so in summer we washed and cleaned our teeth in the kitchen, and in winter with a bowl on a stool in front of the fire.<br />
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So you see much of the world The Families of Fairley Terrace is set in I experienced too, and can easily fit myself into the early 1900s with the help of a little imagination. Time moved so much more slowly then, now the pace of life rackets by in the blink of an eyelid, with new innovations and discoveries we did not even dream of. And I count myself very lucky to have had the best of both worlds!</div>
Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-42766245176200460422018-03-20T10:00:00.001-07:002018-03-31T09:45:55.196-07:00WHAT'S IN A NAME<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" id="role_layout" style="background: #bad667; height: 100%px; width: 100%px;" valign="top"> <tbody>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our name is probably one of the most personal things bout us. Even though we share it with hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of others. Whether we like it or not, it's who we are. No wonder expectant parents agonise over what their offspring should be called. In most cases, they are stuck with it for life. Though some, like my own daughter, manage to make the change. She was christened Tracey Louise, which I thought was a very pretty name, but she hated the Tracey. As soon as she started at uni she called herself Terri. Her dad, my darling Terry, used to joke that she'd had his money, had his car, and now had his name. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It did make for difficulty when her friends called, asking for 'Terri'. I had to ask - which one? And when she was married she was horrified when she realised her real name would be used and printed in the Order of Service! (She soon got over that!) Everyone, including her sister, Suzie, (christened Suzanne), call her Terri nowadays, as do I - most of the time, though when talking to relatives or old friends I still say Tracey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Another thing about names is that many of them are tell-tale signs of how old you are. Janet must have been very popular when I was born - when I was at college there were two others in my class. Terry also had two girlfriends called Janet before the third one sealed his fate!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">One of my best friends at school was named Enid, which she thought dreadfully old-fashioned, and hated, though her mother could never understand why. She always went by her middle name, which was very pretty and is still popular today, and no, I'm not going to let on what it is. But she was entered in the school register as Enid, and when a teacher who didn't know about her preference called her 'Enid' she would blush scarlet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Though some names remain popular through the ages, most seem to go in cycles - what were the names of old people I knew when I was young are now back in fashion. Alfie and Emily are just two examples. Some however, such as Mabel and Maud have largely been left on the back burner. My own grandchildren all have traditional names - Tabitha, Barnaby, Daniel and Amelia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I'm writing a book, I take a long time deciding on the names of the people in the story. I have to find one that belongs in the right era and also fits their character. Once I have found the right name, I instantly get a clearer picture of them. It's fine with the hero and heroine, I don't think many people would object to a strong, good woman sharing their name. But when it comes to villains I get a bit worried. What would so-and-so think if their name is used for the 'baddie'? I've sometimes changed a name midway through because I've thought of someone who might be offended! Because inevitably, names are attached in your mind to people you have known. For instance, when I was at Primary School there was a little girl in my class who was a skinny little waif and none too bright whose knickers were frequently put to dry on the guard round the coke stove (no central heating in those days!) because she'd had an accident. If ever I picture a similar character, her name instantly pops into my mind, though I've never used it yet!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sometimes with minor characters the same name occurs to me time and again, so my editor has to point out - 'There are rather a lot of Freds..' or whatever! And one of my regular readers made the mistake of reading the heroine's name wrongly in my Janet Tanner <i>Oriental Hotel.</i> 'Why ever did you call her Elsie?' she asked me. I had to point out that she was actually called Elise, a name I'd taken a long time choosing!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So there you have it. And besides being Janet I'm also Jennie and Amelia, and once, long ago, when I wrote a couple of bodice rippers which were all the rage at the time I was Jade Shannon. I thought Jade was perfect for that! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In fact, I'm very happy with all my names. Though my mother very nearly called me Grace .... And I'd have liked that too. In fact, my heroine in the new family saga I'm writing is called Grace. But that's a story for another day ... </span></div>
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</span>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-55934999837978210672017-10-09T08:29:00.001-07:002017-10-15T14:00:09.801-07:00The Widows Promise<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
Whew! I can hardly believe I've just completed the fifth book in my Families of Fairley Terrace series (under my pen name of Jennie Felton). I was just putting the finishing touches to it when the fourth came out in hardback and as an e-book, the story of a young widow struggling to keep her family together after the tragic death of her husband. I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZdCc8u16fmA26XUc8Dk5GFsJJfGX6vuN4H_R_MpchzHha9Un48tuaCD6Z1ZgtmSyg6kBYeX7yrV1qDP2WBIqb7YHqpHtIY756oQg6_Nk8wy56V_y_NY3f9wDObvpG6ZIDX8KJl_1P7A/s1600/The+Widow%2527s+Promise-760816.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZdCc8u16fmA26XUc8Dk5GFsJJfGX6vuN4H_R_MpchzHha9Un48tuaCD6Z1ZgtmSyg6kBYeX7yrV1qDP2WBIqb7YHqpHtIY756oQg6_Nk8wy56V_y_NY3f9wDObvpG6ZIDX8KJl_1P7A/s320/The+Widow%2527s+Promise-760816.jpg" /></a> <br />
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When I began the series with All The Dark Secrets I never for one moment imagined that it would become a series of five. I knew I was 'mining a rich seam', as it were, (no pun intended!) with the starting point of the terrible colliery disaster that actually happened, and twelve men and boys met a horrific end when the hudge - an early form of cage - crashed into the depths of the earth when the rope controlling it snapped. (See my blog of 16th October 2014 for a full account of the tragedy). But I little realised how I would be drawn in to the lives of the families who lived in a rank of miners' cottages and were all affected in one way or another by the dreadful events of that day. Maggie, the central character in ALL THE DARK SECRETS, lost both her father and her fiance, Jack, in the accident, and would eventually learn a terrible secret kept by her brother, Billy, as to the cause of what had happened. <br />
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THE MINER'S DAUGHTER tells the story of Lucy Day, just a little girl when her father died in the accident. Her life was changed forever when her mother was forced to marry an evil local preacher, but she went on to find fame as a singer in the music halls and happiness with her childhood sweetheart. <br />
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Although Edie Cooper, the heroine of THE GIRL BELOW STAIRS, was not directly affected by the tragedy, the love of her life, Charlie Oglethorpe most certainly was. As a young lad he was the one to run back to Fairley Terrace with the terrible news that the hudge had gone down,and the experience had haunted him and coloured the way he had lived his life for many years to come. <br />
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Carina is the central character in THE WIDOW'S PROMISE. It was because of what had happened at the pit that her family moved away from Fairley Terrace, and the narrow faulted seams of the Somerset coalfield, to live in South Wales. But when visiting her aunt, Hester Dallimore, the gossip-monger of Fairley Terrace, she falls in love with a local lad, marries him, and comes back to Somerset. The couple have two children, and live happily on Robert's family farm but tragedy strikes, and Carina is forced to carry on alone and responsible not only for the two little ones, but also Robert's ageing grandfather and his wild and wilful sister. <br />
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In the fifth book, which I have just finished, we meet a new family, who moved into the house left vacant when Carina's family moved to South Wales, and the story follows the two Sykes girls, Laurel and Rowan. Their mother, Minty, is obsessed with respectability and keeping herself to herself, never enjoying the easy friendships that characterise the women of Fairley Terrace, but unbeknown to them, there is a very large skeleton hiding in her cupboard. However, all the people from the previous four books had become like old friends to me, and I've been delighted to be able to revisit some of them and discover what happened to them after their own particular chapter was closed. I've suggested this book should be called THE SISTER'S SECRET, though the lovely folk at Headline may have other ideas! <br />
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I learned so much through researching these five books. First, in ALL THE DARK SECRETS, I discovered how stained glass windows are made, courtesy of a dear friend, Richard Jones, who had sadly left us before the book was published. His father had made a stained glass window for a cathedral in New York, just as Lawrence did in the book, and Richard had taken it up as a hobby, turning a shed in his garden into a workshop, or den, as he liked to call it. He showed me all the tools and the kiln and even loaned me a very precious old manual which had belonged to his father which explained the process in detail. Bless you, Richard. And the beautiful plate panel you made for us still has pride of place in my home. <br />
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For THE MINER'S DAUGHTER I was delighted to dig into reams of research material about the wonderful world of the old time Music Hall. A particular passion of mine. For THE GIRL BELOW STAIRS I learned a great deal about the Suffragettes. For the farm in THE WIDOW'S PROMISE I had only to cast my mind back to when I was a little girl - horses still pulled the wagons for haymaking and so on - and I realised that during the first half of the 20th century change, for most ordinary folk, was slow in coming. <br />
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The most fascinating aspect of my research for the fifth book was the old travelling fairs, and Romany culture. <br />
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I'm not sure where my next book will lead me, but i'm already turning over ideas. It may be a stand alone, or it may be the first of a new series telling of the lives of another community that I hope will become another group of friends.. But whatever, it will certainly be set in the Somerset countryside where I grew up, and which I love, <br />
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I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them! Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-91737228927413001812016-11-12T04:52:00.001-08:002016-11-12T04:52:07.686-08:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b><br> </b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>SS GREAT BRITAIN</b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b><br> </b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b><br> </b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznYYQgkb3SrDGBiUZK3sVem7Fz7RHqmBnsJ_G-X2enuFx5_wtSrrlmZX4cL-u5u6ogPh400fyZuCHvi6LAT_TpR8CR3j0zUTiDVNonEgM53ag842GLxmhFP-I-ukX50G3VVRM8rZ6Px4/s1600/Coming+home-727687.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznYYQgkb3SrDGBiUZK3sVem7Fz7RHqmBnsJ_G-X2enuFx5_wtSrrlmZX4cL-u5u6ogPh400fyZuCHvi6LAT_TpR8CR3j0zUTiDVNonEgM53ag842GLxmhFP-I-ukX50G3VVRM8rZ6Px4/s320/Coming+home-727687.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6352063903014913170" /></a></div> <br> </b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b><br> </b></font></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; text-align: left;">I wrote this poem on the day the SS Great Britain was brought back to Bristol in 1970. We were living in Nailsea at the time - at the village police station - and I remember listening to coverage on the radio, wishing I could be there to see her towed up the river, and being inspired to put pen to paper. </span></div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;">Now, of course, she is beautifully restored - and I pass her dock often when I am on my way back to Radstock from my new home in Leigh Woods. I was recently reminded of the poem, and wanted to share it with you.</div> <div style="text-align: center;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE GREAT BRITAIN</b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b><br> </b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>A Traditional Tribute</i></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br> </i></b></div> <div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br> </i></b></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br> </i></b></div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; white-space: pre;"> </span>They brought her home to Bristol</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Halfway across the earth</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>To the islands that had named her</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And the city that gave her birth</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Limping, but proud</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Scarred, but unbowed</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Her iron hull the measure of her worth.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The angry seas have buffeted</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The savage winds have torn</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But staunchly she has raised her mast</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And ridden out the storm.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Washed by uncounted tides</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Calm now, at anchor rides</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Protected in the bosom of her home.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Cheering thousands line the banks.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They make the pilgrimage</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>To watch as Brunel's iron ship</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sails under Brunel's bridge.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They wait to see</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Live history</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And pay their tribute to a passing age.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Down to her blackened wooden decks</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The ticker tape is thrown</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And on the following little ships</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The sirens loud are blown.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now on the tide</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Decked like a bride</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They bring the great Great Britain home.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;">Even after all this time it raises goose bumps on my neck. I hope it does the same for you!</div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-bbfkWrx5vzjJg28ss4Ded62F4_zE8kN_oXY8pNr4FWMKafitVs_IsHqNXushzT5qxm7k-dfrGSL_w5N-JbcfLxngzxkOiqX753kEZSiQeiBS4FtdAzyXJJR86FBJhRxZnyiXiBcaB4/s1600/SSGB-728934.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-bbfkWrx5vzjJg28ss4Ded62F4_zE8kN_oXY8pNr4FWMKafitVs_IsHqNXushzT5qxm7k-dfrGSL_w5N-JbcfLxngzxkOiqX753kEZSiQeiBS4FtdAzyXJJR86FBJhRxZnyiXiBcaB4/s320/SSGB-728934.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6352063914177338450" /></a></div> <br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><br> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br> </i></b></div> <div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br> </i></b></div> <div style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: arial, helvetica; color: black;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1.2.1_f59c9c71-d8cc-4358-9325-c49051c323fb"> <font color="black" size="2" face="arial"><blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;"> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="float: none;"><blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;"> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="float: none;"></div> </blockquote></div> </blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></font> </div> </div> </font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-18204769625287540882016-10-28T09:39:00.001-07:002020-01-02T06:21:36.382-08:00NEW HOME!!!<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zTd8lp9QCsFH3hTDs4e9Kobnh2c-3LwUu9QF9eILdfBkkFS7TjCaJAoiZkEXKYgvK6TNhJjHHHhHM7qxO1w_VbpHsPJfoEx6dfHUOCl8PdmnT_R6VTCR2NYvuCArKyLMXAbvmVq4JaY/s1600/Curtains-788355.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zTd8lp9QCsFH3hTDs4e9Kobnh2c-3LwUu9QF9eILdfBkkFS7TjCaJAoiZkEXKYgvK6TNhJjHHHhHM7qxO1w_VbpHsPJfoEx6dfHUOCl8PdmnT_R6VTCR2NYvuCArKyLMXAbvmVq4JaY/s320/Curtains-788355.jpg" /></a> </div>
It's been a very long time since I last posted, but then, it's been a very full-on year! <br /><br />I sold the 4-bedroom detached house where we had lived for 30 years at the end of March, and made an offer on a lovely 2-bed flat in Clifton, on April 2nd - Terry's birthday. I was delighted when my offer was accepted. I'm using to being in the country, and this is right opposite the lovely Leigh Woods, and surrounded by trees, but at the same time I can walk into Clifton Village in just twenty minutes. The flat is spacious and has a south facing balcony. Better yet, I have the benefit of lovely gardens without having to spend hours on upkeep!<br /><br />But then, of course, the stress began!<br /><br />Worrying whether everything was going to go through. Packing, sorting, disposing of so many things, either for auction, to the charity shop or the dump. Arranging removers, notifying everyone who needed to know, on and on and on.<br /><br />I finally moved on 28th May. And had major spinal surgery on 1st June. Four days in hospital, then five weeks when I wasn't allowed to bend, twist, or lift anything heavier than a half-full kettle of water. And I had to sit on a hard upright chair. No lounging on the sofa to watch TV! I had optimistically thought I would be able to spend this recovery time catching up with my latest book, the fourth in the series The Families of Fairley Terrace. But I found I just couldn't concentrate. Major surgery has effects you don't expect!<br /><br />At last - at last! - I was able to drive and explore my new surroundings. Much of this involved appointments with various hospitals and consultants as I had developed this weird rash, big red patches which thankfully were not itchy. All tests were coming back negative, but when I saw my surgeon at the end of July he said he was sure it was allergy. I went to see a dermatologist and she immediately recognised it. A condition known as baboon syndrome, because ... well, you know what baboons have - red bottoms! (I hadn't realised my bottom was red too!) She put this down to one of the cocktail of drugs/antibiotics I was given for my operation. Luckily, it has now faded.<br /><br />So, with loads of boxes still unpacked, I finally managed to finish my book and begin to think about what I wanted to do to make my new flat feel like home. First up were blinds and curtains for my bedroom. It seemed to take weeks before they arrived, but when they did I was very pleased with them In fact I couldn't stop looking at them!<br /><br />Here they are ...<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzjArws4x0LmB2CcV81SC9JppiWoGCMsoU_cSA38XuwVprE-Wj6rXLSXEE_H9T6hIo4tjW2uujoeobeot2RAcNPgJusgfjrHGjaSaTe7fVqgDRbl7emyvx8oojOOobZnX9ZOxhm9vTsA/s1600/IMG_0331-789199.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzjArws4x0LmB2CcV81SC9JppiWoGCMsoU_cSA38XuwVprE-Wj6rXLSXEE_H9T6hIo4tjW2uujoeobeot2RAcNPgJusgfjrHGjaSaTe7fVqgDRbl7emyvx8oojOOobZnX9ZOxhm9vTsA/s320/IMG_0331-789199.JPG" /></a> </div>
<br />Next up - arranging for a new kitchen to be fitted. The one I inherited was very tired and the cooker - very old - was a complete nightmare. I can say was as today at long last it has gone to the great cooker store in the sky. The fitters have been here most of the day, and hopefully by the beginning of next week I will be able to enjoy my new kitchen! <br /><br />I've also ordered curtains for the small window in my living room (see illustration at the top) and a sideboard. <br /><br />Well, I think I am at last beginning to get there!<br /><br />So that's my excuse for being absent for so long, and I think you will agree it is a pretty valid one!<br /><br />Going to sign off now and do something in my microwave to banish the pangs of hunger ...<br /> Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-37339421260549095962016-03-20T10:02:00.000-07:002016-03-20T10:03:01.423-07:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="font-size: 10pt; float: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6-5l0WaPwkPN8qeaWB72hUU_al9sfdiZic69af1H1QET7M_WX0X_8FcLBIFAT2hdZHyLnxQNJw-HNDczFGoNX4p1ILtgI-OzfchJB2AhY2g4ZDHGGFGGza-W-EofHOVejhM2gfFgcPo/s1600/muteswan_tcm9-18332-781424.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6-5l0WaPwkPN8qeaWB72hUU_al9sfdiZic69af1H1QET7M_WX0X_8FcLBIFAT2hdZHyLnxQNJw-HNDczFGoNX4p1ILtgI-OzfchJB2AhY2g4ZDHGGFGGza-W-EofHOVejhM2gfFgcPo/s320/muteswan_tcm9-18332-781424.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6264181376171494754" /></a></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="font-size: 10pt; float: none;"><br> </div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="font-size: 10pt; float: none;"><br> </div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="font-size: 10pt; text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">HEARTBEAT WIFE</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="font-size: 10pt; text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">This is more of an anecdote than a real blog</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">but I wanted to let you know I AM still here</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">though very busy with my</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">FAMILIES OF FAIRLEY TERRACE series</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Really I should have posted it at Christmas ...</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: center; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Do you remember my tales of being a real life Heartbeat Wife? This isn't about me, it's about Terry, who was something of a Pied Piper where animals, birds, and any wildlife really were concerned.</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">When he was stationed in Bath a call came in to say that a swan had mistaken one of the main roads through the city for the river, and was stranded there, causing a major obstruction in the Christmas Eve traffic.</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">There was discussion amongst the attending officers as to what to do about it and a call was to be put through to the RSPCA. Terry had a better idea than waiting for them to arrive. He picked the swan up, tucked it under his arm with one hand holding its neck firmly so it couldn't turn and peck him, carried it down to the river and launched it with a quick shove under its bottom. The swan sailed happily away.</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">But you can just imagine the comments he receoved from the people he passed on the way. The most common being: 'I see you've got your Christmas dinner there!' or words to that effect ...</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Which is why I said this really should have been posted a couple of months ago ...</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I have other stories of Terry with animals ... I'll post some soon!</span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="text-align: left; float: none;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br> </span></div> </font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-78363507888890649272015-12-20T09:51:00.001-08:002016-01-08T12:56:15.135-08:00MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymHM0Y0TxMC14HMxmJiRfpQClsX5oHAN0sgS0_FL44pbFngqmazASLTeXKx2fkbJNZtvQbCmbV68ZBHdGxg-3-DQ1YFxuPQIVTUH_XpLqAEYzKNGXFKKV0TvS2qAKibcK3DYg7gzG7tY/s1600/IMG_0241-798879.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymHM0Y0TxMC14HMxmJiRfpQClsX5oHAN0sgS0_FL44pbFngqmazASLTeXKx2fkbJNZtvQbCmbV68ZBHdGxg-3-DQ1YFxuPQIVTUH_XpLqAEYzKNGXFKKV0TvS2qAKibcK3DYg7gzG7tY/s320/IMG_0241-798879.JPG" /></a> <br /> <br />Oh, the memories that come flooding back when trimming the Christmas tree! It's an artificial one now, unlike the fresh real one we always had. I do love a tall tree, and last year I decided that while I could just about get a fresh one home if the man from the shop was kind enough to squash it into my car, I could do without the hassle of having to saw a bit off the bottom, keep it in a bucket of water for a day or two, and then get it up - something that caused problems even when Terry was here to help me. I would be struggling to hold it up straight while he tightened the retaining screws in the holder but invariably it would be a bit off kilter and an argument would ensue with him saying it was fine, and me saying it wasn't. When we eventually got it as straight as it would go, tempers would be frayed and my hands and arms covered in scratches from the needles. <br /><br />Certainly my artificial tree is a good deal easier to put up, but what I hadn't reckoned with was how heavy it is! No way could I get it down from the attic myself, and even with my sister's help we had to take it out of the box and pass it down the loft ladder in three bits. <br /><br />Trimming it however is just as much a pleasure as it always was. And the memories that come out of the boxes of decorations! You may remember a couple of years ago I posted pictures of some of the baubles I bought the first Christmas Terry and I were married - fifty years ago this coming year! They were made of glass and some have gone to the great bauble box in the sky but amazingly I still have quite a few. And some pretty little flowers on wires, and a dear little lady mouse made of straw or cane and dressed in a Santa outfit. At one time there was a little man mouse too - I don't know what happened to him. Like me, Mrs Christmas Mouse is now alone. <br /><br />Then there is the crystal ballerina I bought for my granddaughter Tabitha when she was much, much younger, but already a committed dancer. And a satin heart given to her by the lady next door when we went to visit her. <br /><br />Last but not least there is a pink plastic disc cut out like a stencil to show the nativity scene. It's the one remaining ornament I have from my own childhood days - I remember my mother buying it. In those days we didn't have fairy lights on the tree, but real candles that glowed through red shades - I dread to think what a fire hazard they must have been! But they were quite magical. And we had always been taken to the forestry plantation by my uncle - the only family member to have a car! - where we walked through the rows of trees to choose the one we wanted and they would then cut it down for us. That was what you called a fresh tree! <br /><br />Oh, the wonder of those childhood Christmases! I've often drawn on them for my books. The Christmas meal wasn't in any way elaborate, but it was chicken - or rather cockerel - and that was an enormous treat as we only had chicken once a year. We watched the birds being fattened up by Mr Young the Fowl Man in their run across the road from where we lived, and when he delivered ours on Christmas Eve the kitchen would be full of the smell of singed feathers as the remaining stubs were burned off with a taper. And the smell of it on Christmas day ... nothing has ever tasted quite as good since! My sister and I hung up not stockings, but pillow cases - there was usually a jigsaw puzzle or an annual inside as well as the obligatory orange, apple and nut. And other presents were piled on the sofa in the living room and covered with a sheet so there could be no peeping until we all sat round in a circle to open them. <br /><br />Oh I could go on and on .... but hey, I've still got things to do in preparation for this Christmas! <br /><br />So once again - A MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE - AND A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR! <br />Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-57373238881994356552015-11-18T08:17:00.001-08:002016-01-08T12:55:14.737-08:00Why did there seem to be so many more 'characters' in our world in years gone by?<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiyT4W0FOfCY1CuWTjruU_lvJkVzqkM4f4V2CuvX0foCFMcvGTTc0zvEUGoOxN44po0P7yp8IMSa3TRBlkgS2fkYHdLaTX1qzFQMwtZc0UOuopk7g1h0AeYeiQb05mNtb3MH6d4TcHIfqb7GQc7aWO2HJKkIyfdwhnwMeoeCDEYz4PRCSGQ9x09KhDs6REkH2EQPjktHTVo_A=" /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1atqk6O4s7NEzG6FJkdsalwxDfV13_ofEiP7RcUE1HWOCGLu5qwS232f2jRb4qvHV00FGNocWuFBDjE_Q2_o4LFsZKCJQfvw3K0rvVRuGC7nHr2Oz6G2hj5OvgeK36eCuB4zurwtA1Fg/s1600/Me+003-774686.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1atqk6O4s7NEzG6FJkdsalwxDfV13_ofEiP7RcUE1HWOCGLu5qwS232f2jRb4qvHV00FGNocWuFBDjE_Q2_o4LFsZKCJQfvw3K0rvVRuGC7nHr2Oz6G2hj5OvgeK36eCuB4zurwtA1Fg/s320/Me+003-774686.jpg" /></a><br />Me, aged about 5 ...! <br /><br />Why did there seem to be so many more 'characters' in our world in years gone by? While writing ALL THE DARK SECRETS and THE MINER'S DAUGHTER I was reminded of so many of the people who lived near us when I was growing up. Although that was of course at least fifty years after the era in which my sagas are set, I was able to remember these folk and draw on them for the supporting cast of my books. <br /><br />Next door to us on one side lived the local miner's agent, who actually owned a motor car! Although we lived on a main road cars were so rare in the 1940s that I used to collect the numbers of the ones that passed our house and write them in a little notebook. Sitting on the front steps, I was always excited when I heard an engine chugging up the hill, and waited, pencil poised. All too often it was our neighbour - a number which of course I already had. His wife was very deaf and even in our kitchen we could hear every word he was forced to yell to make her hear what he was saying. Incidentally, one of his sons actually worked at Buckingham Palace - I borrowed him as inspiration for Marcus in THE MINER'S DAUGHTER, although of course everything I wrote in the story about that character came entirely from my imagination. <br /><br />On the other side lived a couple who were great friends with my Gran and she and the lady played cards every week without fail, generally whist or Sevens. I loved it when I was allowed to play with them, sitting at the cane card table which had an elaborately painted glass top and lived in my grandparents' room. (There was also a matching glass fire screen which covered the fireplace in summer). This couple's house was owned by their daughter and one day, after a falling out between them, she ordered them to leave. Although I couldn't have been more than four years old I clearly remember the drama, and being quite frightened by it all. The lady had been known to set out in her dressing gown in the middle of the night for a local pond with the supposed intention of 'doing away with herself' and we were worried that she might do it again - and succeed! Actually with hindsight I think it was more of a cry for help, as if she had really intended to end it all she could have done in the the mill pond only a few hundred yards from where we lived rather than undertaking the five or six mile trek to Emborough! However,faced with the awful prospect of them having nowhere to go, my Gran took them in, although there were already seven of us living in the house, and my sister and I had to move into our parents' bedroom. I'm not sure how long they stayed before things were sorted out, but I do know there were times when the atmosphere, unsurprisingly, became a bit fraught! But at least she didn't set out to walk to Emborough while living with us - at least I never heard that she did ... In spite of all this, she and my Gran never called one another by their Christian names. It was always 'Mrs Mundy (my Gran) and Mrs ...... (I won't name the other lady) <br /><br />A few doors down lived an elderly lady who we, rather unkindly, thought of as being a bit simple. She had a canary who was always escaping and she would wander up and down the road swinging the open cage and calling the bird's name. And just a couple of doors away in the other direction lived four sisters who had been left as maiden ladies presumably as a result of the carnage of the Great War. There was nothing whatever odd about them except that to us as children it seemed strange for four elderly ladies to be living together - we were too young to appreciate the tragedy of it. <br /><br />Not far away lived a lovely old man who had once been a sailor, and in the evenings he could always be seen leaning on his gate and gazing at the sky as if he was still on the deck of a ship. And a tall, gangly man who passed our gate on his bicycle twice daily at exactly the same time, always eating an apple as he rode. I never did know his name, but we called him 'The Apple Man'. And a couple who made good use of newspaper, using it at their windows instead of curtains, and stuffing it in their shoes instead of having them repaired. You would think they didn't have two halfpennies to rub together, but when the wife died unexpectedly the widower suddenly became very smart - new polished shoes, new clothes (and presumably curtains!) and before long there was an equally smart much younger woman on his arm .... And the jeweller who had a stall in the market ... his wife, generally talked about very sniffily and with knowing looks, had scarlet lips and nails and wore fur coats, and a live-in 'maid' who by contrast wore ragged plimsols. <br /><br />Then there was an old former miner who lived in a cottage at the top end of our garden. One evening their chimney caught fire. The fire brigade attended, directing their hoses down the chimney; through the open front door we could see the room inside, sooty, smoky, and awash with black water. Outside the old man stood watching implacably. "Tis all very interesting!' was all he kept saying. I've actually used that line in my latest book in the series The Families of Fairley Terrace. <br /><br />Oh, I could go on and on .... these are just a few of the characters who peopled my childhood world. As I write I can see them so clearly, yet nowadays the eccentrics seem to be few and far between. Is it because of the way life has changed? We no longer have doors left unlocked all day, or extended families where several generations lived under the same roof, and the eclectic mix in a neighbourhood is no more. In a strange way, it seems to me, the soaps such as Coronation Street are much more like life among neighbours was in those long-gone days although the story lines reflect modern problems. The mix of eccentric characters is there, the squabbles, even the way they are taken in to one another's houses when they find themselves without a roof over their heads for one reason or another, just as my Gran took in our next door neighbours. They even still have rollers and hair driers in Audrey's salon .... but that's another story entirely. <br /><br />For now I am just grateful that I have such clear and wonderful memories to draw on when writing my stories! <br /><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhvLbW7THHb_gr-Hj-4e5aakMd_kY00-QkU1aTpPRcW0TLSC4kw-hjAaZt8MwvAhz8tPqniMqEY5kiHJR8MGOY2SOTQU88-JRO4dq9yl-ZKYykFQGq-zwSEUO9vTbYdqh8LIgiu1lld6eXIZRj-r6CsRwnwNx8WG3EpyKheLiI8vxy81Hke4rxHyxDaWb8UdOwthsvqYi3IV1iPbA=" />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwLkAMJReFL5W_HGyCZOh0HYOjt_d_SrZ5uGl0MJ4nEhcahfWjjTi1PlXG5TfzIi1rds0VKpWB1ViCkYup5ilJ1O9WDyGdw9IW-criCOh3x479_54_hyphenhyphenrG1V5zTJf8ujDvj7afqr9CpU/s1600/THE+MINER%2527S+DAUGHTER+hb-754979.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwLkAMJReFL5W_HGyCZOh0HYOjt_d_SrZ5uGl0MJ4nEhcahfWjjTi1PlXG5TfzIi1rds0VKpWB1ViCkYup5ilJ1O9WDyGdw9IW-criCOh3x479_54_hyphenhyphenrG1V5zTJf8ujDvj7afqr9CpU/s320/THE+MINER%2527S+DAUGHTER+hb-754979.jpg" /></a><br />Second in The Families of Fairley Terrace series - due out in hardback and e-book in September!<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> <div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent;"></span></span>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-60734886462341457012015-03-29T09:18:00.001-07:002016-01-08T12:59:35.391-08:00Moving On<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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So - I've finally decided - it's time to move on. Quite a wrench as we have been here since 1984, but the house and garden are much too big for me to manage and I really don't need all this space since I lost Terry almost two years ago. <br /><br />Where on earth I will find room for all my books and files in a much smaller home I can't imagine, though! I have SOOO much what I suppose could be called clutter, but which I can't really get rid of - when writing a book I will suddenly remember a reference that might be useful that I haven't looked at in more years than I care to remember. <br /><br />Thirty-three years - where have they gone? I remember moving in so clearly. The house was Terry's dream, set on a hill with far reaching views across the valley. The extra space was wonderful for two fast-growing-up daughters. But to begin with I really missed our old house in Midsomer Norton. I missed being able to lie in bed and listen to the river tinkling over the stones at the bottom of our garden. I missed the three miniature apple trees and my row of sweet peas which I would sit beside and write in summer. Most of all I missed living on a modern estate surrounded by families all with children round about the same age as ours. It was wonderful - the houses on two parallel roads backed onto an access road with the garages and parking spaces, and if on a frosty morning someone's car wouldn't start men would emerge from all the houses and help push the offending vehicle until they got it going. <br /><br />One day just before Christmas Terry seemed to be the only man around and he was unable to push Veronica's car fast enough to get going on his own. Now I had bought him some jump leads for Christmas, but I wanted them to be a surprise. So I ran put of my front door, round to my neighbour's explained the situation, and she took them out the back, telling Terry she had just found her husband Peter's jump leads. Problem solved. But we did have a laugh about it - Terry was using his own jump leads without knowing it! <br /><br />Of course we have had some very happy times here. The big garden and the huge variety of walks within easy reach were ideal for our dogs. We've had wonderful parties and family get-togethers and both girls were married from here. But will I miss this house as much as I missed the old one? Somehow I don't think so. Lovely home though it has been, I still think the happiest times of my life were in that house in Riverside Walk. <br /><br />Now I plan to move to Bristol, so as to be nearer to my two daughters. That too will be a wrench, but hey, it's time to look to the future! <br /><br />I suspect this moving lark may well inspire a good few blogs along the way. Though I must admit I'm hoping to get through it without too many traumatic moments!!! I'll keep you posted! <br /> </div>
Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-57387983513889646312014-10-16T04:01:00.001-07:002014-10-16T05:56:58.483-07:00INSPIRATION FOR "ALL THE DARK SECRETS" by JENNIE FELTON<div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;">
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INSPIRATION FOR "ALL THE DARK SECRETS" by JENNIE FELTON </div>
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'In this grave is deposited the remains of the twelve undermentioned sufferers, all of whom were killed ... by the snapping of the rope as they were on the point of descending into the pit. the rope was generally supposed to have been maliciously cut.'</div>
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This is the inscription on a gravestone in the churchyard of St John's, Midsomer Norton, just a few miles from the Somerset mining town of Radstock where I was born and grew up, and where I now once again live. In these few words it tells the terrible story of how twelve men and boys, the youngest aged just 13, died on that November day, and it gave me inspiration for ALL THE DARK SECRETS, though I have taken the liberty of setting my story sixty years later, in 1895.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In those days the Somerset coalfield was a thriving industry, producing high quality coal, but the narrow, faulted seams were difficult to work and not high enough for pit ponies to be used, and so-called 'carting boys' were employed to drag the hewed coal from the face to the roadways by means of the infamous 'guss and crook' - a putt attached by a rope round the boy's waist which he then dragged on hands and knees.</div>
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My own father, who was middle-aged when I was born, had been one of the carting boys, and w<span style="font-size: 100%;">hen I was young, I loved hearing him relate tales of those days, some funny, some tragic, and they were the inspiration for THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, the first of the Hillsbridge quartet (available now from Macmillan Bello) under my own name, Janet Tanner.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The tragic Wellsway accident that gave me my starting point for a new series of sagas which will follow the families who live in a terrace of mining cottages - The Ten Houses. Several of these lost loved ones that terrible day, and each and every one was affected by it in some way. Maggie, the central character of ALL THE DARK SECRETS is a strong young woman who loses both her father and her fiance in the tragedy - ALL THE DARK SECRETS tells her story. And over all hangs the question - who was responsible for the cutting of the rope?</div>
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I've just delivered the second book in the series, most of which takes place 10 years later, and tells the story of two young sisters who lost their father in the 'accident' and whose lives were changed forever.</div>
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This one also has a background of the music halls of the time.</div>
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I hope I've given you a flavour of my new series of sagas - and that you will want to read them! ALL THE DARK SECRETS is out now in hardback and as an e-book; the paperback is due in January.</div>
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Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-68455852869632325792014-09-28T12:11:00.003-07:002014-09-28T12:11:45.892-07:00EXCITING NEWSA new book and a new name.<br />
<div>
<br />
I am now also <b>JENNIE FELTON</b></div>
<div>
<br />
<div>
<b>ALL THE DARK SECRETS</b> is the first in a series of family sagas set in the Somerset coalfield around the turn of the last century. In 1895 a tragedy at the pit changes forever the lives of the families who live in The Ten Houses. Maggie Donovan loses both her father and fiancé, and struggles to keep the family together while also struggling with an unexpected new love ... <br />
But it is clear that the tragedy was no accident – but who could have been responsible for such a terrible thing?</div>
<div>
<b>ALL THE DARK SECRETS</b> is out now in hardback and as an e-book. <br />
<br />
Paperback will follow in January 2015. My publishers are Headline.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Rich Spencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03011847046826077126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-17346350777824101952014-04-27T04:14:00.001-07:002014-04-28T03:37:34.678-07:00UP IN THE BLUE - ALONE!<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjjdmiEQnG9Mjjj1TmwZwY2i5d0lyfvz8xCLBKZ75ob-0ZAUr-A8pu428E5FPes8u4JmN4NytSPv1gZg3rVguHB6WHGaLTmBQ0FeLisx-zxtmAZ9nFWEmM7QwcgBp4QJqgOYBsFqheOQ/s1600/Flying+Pics+001-774936.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjjdmiEQnG9Mjjj1TmwZwY2i5d0lyfvz8xCLBKZ75ob-0ZAUr-A8pu428E5FPes8u4JmN4NytSPv1gZg3rVguHB6WHGaLTmBQ0FeLisx-zxtmAZ9nFWEmM7QwcgBp4QJqgOYBsFqheOQ/s320/Flying+Pics+001-774936.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /> Soon it was time for my first solo land-away. <br /><br />Dunkeswell is a little airfield on the Somerset levels - very easy to find for someone who disliked navigation as much as I did. Take off from Bristol, turn out over Cheddar lake, head for the M5 motorway and follow it down until you spot the Wellington Monument, turn left, and look out for the airfield. The only likely mistake would be getting the wrong airstrip - there were two disused ones close by. Not even an idiot like me could mistake the correct one, though - look for other little aircraft and a clubhouse. <br /><br />There's something incredibly peaceful about flying alone. Apart from the radio, relayed through your headset, there is no sound but the gentle hum of the engine and the occasional buffeting of the wind. And for most of the time out there over open countryside the radio is quiet - it's only when you need to talk to Air Traffic Control or they need to talk to you that it crackles into life. (Of course, if you have a passenger you hear them through the headset too, but on a solo flight nothing much interrupts the silence. And when I flew in Florida, they didn't use headsets at all, which I found most disconcerting, but that's another story) <br /><br />Flying alone also really concentrates the mind. Quite apart from keeping a sharp eye out to make sure you're on course, and that there is no microlight - or jet plane! - in your sights, you have to remember to check the pitot heat every 10-15 mins to ensure the pitot tube doesn't freeze up - something else that was totally different in Florida, where it is rarely cold enough to have to worry about such things. At the same time as the peace, I felt truly alive. <br /><br />Anyway, I made Dunkeswell safely, landed, locked up the plane and went into the clubhouse for a much needed coffee before flying back to Bristol. First land-away safely accomplished - but a bigger challenge still to come - a triangular land-away, . But for today I wasn't going to worry about that. I'd taken a plane away from the airfield on my own and brought it safely back. <br /><br />Result! And another important step towards getting my licence!
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-xDweIKpkvOw%2FU1zmm0YReLI%2FAAAAAAAAATk%2Fa0lmu8sptfI%2Fs320%2FFlying%252BPics%252B001-774936.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjjdmiEQnG9Mjjj1TmwZwY2i5d0lyfvz8xCLBKZ75ob-0ZAUr-A8pu428E5FPes8u4JmN4NytSPv1gZg3rVguHB6WHGaLTmBQ0FeLisx-zxtmAZ9nFWEmM7QwcgBp4QJqgOYBsFqheOQ/s320/Flying+Pics+001-774936.jpg" -->Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-53801906549741588472014-02-26T07:50:00.001-08:002014-02-26T07:50:28.001-08:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'><table width="100%" height="100%" align="center" id="role_layout" style="background: rgb(186, 214, 103);" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" valign="top"> <tbody><tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> <table width="610" height="100%" id="role_layout" style="background: rgb(186, 214, 103);" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" valign="top"> <tbody><tr id="role_ornament"> <td align="center" valign="top" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><img width="610" height="130" src="http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/spring/spring_top.gif"></td> </tr> <tr height="100%"> <td align="left"> <div id="role_body" style="font: 100%/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; padding: 20px; height: 100%; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;" contenteditable="true"><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div><font style="background-color: transparent;">Apologies for the bizarre layout!!!</font></div> <div> </div> <div></div> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_2_a99c27b2-d284-468f-8e2c-107bd5936129"> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><table width="100%" height="100%" align="center" style="background: rgb(45, 196, 187);" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tbody><tr valign="top"> <td align="center" valign="top"><table width="100%" align="center" style="background: rgb(45, 196, 187);" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" valign="top"><tbody><tr align="center" valign="top"><tr><td width="100%" height="125" background="http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/aloha/aloha_tile.gif" valign="top"><img width="750" height="125" src="http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/aloha/aloha.gif"></td></tr><tr><td width="650" align="left"> <div style="font: 100%/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; padding: 20px; height: 100%; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_2_c490d022-5edc-464e-ad4b-af4434fa04ab"> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_2_2e6c83c5-8d57-48d7-9cbf-a826ede2311f"> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: transparent;"></font><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;">STRETCHING MY WINGS</font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;">EARLY DAYS TO FIRST SOLO</font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div align="left" class="envelope" style="float: none;"><font style="background-color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk3GWRZia2CPukROzipItlVJQQA83rlYOiqw6hSZXS2sW3Z1H7zZft_Q15joB2gCus2WTFbDX3A_r1j0pjeps30jCDeK8A4m9OBxb6AyKYjyZf-qwlD7MubjL-G_G1zJJwUBC_o91rkg/s1600/Me%252C+flying+%25282%2529025-728002.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk3GWRZia2CPukROzipItlVJQQA83rlYOiqw6hSZXS2sW3Z1H7zZft_Q15joB2gCus2WTFbDX3A_r1j0pjeps30jCDeK8A4m9OBxb6AyKYjyZf-qwlD7MubjL-G_G1zJJwUBC_o91rkg/s320/Me%252C+flying+%25282%2529025-728002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5984735544240404210" /></a></font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;">From the exhilaration of that first trial lesson the hard work began - but it was so exciting. I learned to read what had looked like a mesmerising array of dials, how to put on flaps and keep the plane 'in trim' and so much more. We did 'steep turns' with the wing at seventy degrees angle to the ground, we did the drill for emergency landings - look for a suitable field, check wind direction by observing smoke from chimneys etc, don't forget to put in a radio call to alert air traffic control, and so on. We did stalling practice, which was really scary. 'Stall' is wing stall, not engine stall, and is usually caused by climbing too steeply, so of course, I had to do just that. We'd climb to 3000 ft and then lift the nose again, more, more, more until we stalled - those minutes (or seconds, most probably!) I found really nerve wracking. Once I was able to do something to correct that horrible plunge downward I felt much better!</font></span></div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;">And then of course there were the take-offs and landings. 'Touch and goes' we called them. I'd take off, fly a circuit of the airfield, land, and immediately put on power to take off again. We'd do five or six of these circuits in succession. Sometimes we'd pop over to the BAe runway at Filton, cheaper and less busy than Bristol Airport, sometimes we'd fly down to the grass strip at Compton Abbas in Dorset and practise there. But I have to confess I liked Bristol Airport best, with its lovely long runway and familiar surroundings. And it was there that I did my first solo.</font></span></div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;">I knew the time for it was approaching fast, and tried to prepare myself. But my tummy churned all the same when, after three or four 'touch-and-goes' one afternoon, my instructor asked: 'OK, do you want to go round on your own?' My first thought was <em>No! No! I don't! </em>Once I'd taken off there could be no going back - I'd just have to land all by myself. But I knew if I showed the slightest hesitation he would think I wasn't ready and I'd have to wait for another day. Terry had done his first solo a few days before - I couldn't get left behind! 'Yes, all right,' I said. 'Pull over then,' he said. I duly pulled over to the nearest holding point. My instructor spoke to the control tower, telling them he was sending a pupil on first solo, and got out, leaving me alone in the plane. And the funny thing was I was suddenly quite calm and confident, as if I was in my car. Take-off came easily to me now. I flew a perfect circuit, turned and called in 'Finals' and concentrated on the heavy workload that is landing. I came in at just the right height and speed over the A38 and touched down with only the smallest of bounces. I'd done it! Been in the air all alone and got back in one piece to tell the tale! It was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life - and the certificate I was given to prove I'd done it became one of my most prized possessions. </font></span></div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;">But of course there was still a long way to go to get my licence. In reality, the adventure had only just begun ....</font></span></div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <div><span><font style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <div><span><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"></font></span> </div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font></font><font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font></div> <font style="background-color: white;"> </font></font> </div> </div> </div> </td></tr></tbody></table></td> </tr></tbody></table></font> </div> </div> </font></div> </td> </tr> <tr id="role_ornament"> <td align="center"> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> </td> </tr></tbody></table></font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-62366505573478701912014-01-09T09:11:00.001-08:002014-01-10T05:53:23.347-08:00<table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" id="role_layout" style="background: rgb(160, 215, 247); height: 100%px; width: 100%px;" valign="top"><tbody>
<tr id="role_ornament"><td align="left" background="http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/clouds/clouds.jpg" height="107" style="background-repeat: repeat-x; height: 107px; width: 100%;" valign="top"><br />
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<tr><td align="left" height="100%" valign="top"><div contenteditable="true" id="role_body" style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 110%/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; height: 80%; padding: 20px;">
<div>
<span style="background-color: transparent;">First,
an apology - I have been very busy finishing a new book, a family saga -
and so haven't blogged for a while. More exciting news about this
later, on my home page. </span></div>
<div>
But at last, here I am
again. I'm taking a break from my stories of life as a real-life
Heartbeat Wife to tell how I came to learn to fly and gain my Private
Pilot's licence. I'm calling it<span style="font-size: x-small;">:</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: small;">INTO THE BLUE</span></div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<div align="left" class="envelope" style="float: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHIENnPfa1PxxHoHsrg9topnPSkRBDfIelDHAiTkG2PG4cwE_IfOvzS6fiQDHJCLvNaiH-Q0zJUbv2-gp85deX5LGOXnwKQUaFK2a4DYtbBtHT5T4dc2Z-0VD5-gJaJvKeQT5IVNyR78/s1600/Me%252C+flying+%25283%2529026-704103.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHIENnPfa1PxxHoHsrg9topnPSkRBDfIelDHAiTkG2PG4cwE_IfOvzS6fiQDHJCLvNaiH-Q0zJUbv2-gp85deX5LGOXnwKQUaFK2a4DYtbBtHT5T4dc2Z-0VD5-gJaJvKeQT5IVNyR78/s320/Me%252C+flying+%25283%2529026-704103.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5966944398521708706" /></a> Me in the left-hand seat.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span> <br />
<div align="center">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span> <br />
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'd
always wanted to learn to fly. I'd gone on a 'Pleasure Flight' as they
used to be called when on holiday in Scarborough with my sister when I
was in my late teens and absolutely loved it. Before going I was pretty
nervous, especially when we got to the airfield and I saw the size of
the plane - so tiny! with the wings just about the height of my chest.
But the moment we took off I was hooked, loving the sensation of freedom
and the fields cartwheeling under that little tilted wing.</span></div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<div align="left">
<span style="font-size: small;">It
was an unfulfilled ambition, though. Until my 50th birthday. Terry,
my husband, kept me in suspense about a "surprise present" until the day
came. We were 'going somewhere', and perhaps he'd better explain as I
might want 'to wear something suitable'. When he told me he had booked
me a trial flying lesson at Bristol airport I was so excited, and even
wondered briefly if the 'something suitable' should be a leather helmet
and long scarf ... well, it was late November ... I settled, however,
for trousers and flatties. </span></div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<div align="left">
<span style="font-size: small;">At
Bristol & Wessex Flying Club I was shown the plane I would be
flying - a PA28 - and then given a briefing in a very official looking
office. I must confess I was quite bemused by all the technical terms,
explanations of how a plane actually flies, and so much more. Then my
breezy and cheerful instructor took me on a 'walk round', checking
fuselage, flaps, etc, and installed me in the 'left-hand seat' - in a
plane the captain sits on the left hand side of the cockpit. He climbed
in beside me. Terry, I should mention, was already installed in one of
the two seats behind us. And then we were on the runway and taking
off, the ground gently dropping away beneath us, looking down on
treetops, bouncing a little in the turbulence over the wooded area, then
turning towards the Somerset levels with Cheddar lake sparkling in the
bright sunlight and Glastonbury Tor rising ahead.</span></div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<div align="left">
<span style="font-size: small;">My
instructor, Mike, took off, of course, but once we were over open
countryside he invited me to take over. All he wanted me to do was fly
'straight and level' - which is easier said than done when you've never
flown before. The most magical and scariest words I'd ever heard were
'You have control' .... I had control! Jeepers! (Of course, his
helping hand was never far away, otherwise I doubt I'd be here to tell
the tale).</span></div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<div align="left">
<span style="font-size: small;">It
lasted a bit less than an hour, that first flight, but I was hooked.
And so was my passenger, Terry .... He'd recently retired from the
police force, and so we made the momentous decision .. we were both
going to take the lessons we needed to get our private pilot's
licences. And what a decision that was! It took over our lives, cost
us a lot of money, meant we had to spend hours and hours poring over the
manuals that taught us about everything from air technical to
meteorology, navigation and air law and the etiquette and jargon needed
to use the radio to talk to air traffic control, and know it all well
enough to pass seven written exams. There were plenty of times when I
wondered what on earth I was doing - such as when I had to set off for
my first solo land-away, or when I thought I was lost over the wilds of
Wales (I wasn't). But we never for one moment regretted it. And I
think gaining my licence is the achievement I am most proud of. Often I
was scared to death, but I did it. (Conversely, Terry relished every
moment). And there were so many adventures along the way!</span></div>
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<br />Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-83658745969081603762013-09-25T02:26:00.001-07:002013-09-25T02:26:17.688-07:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_b8133e21-729d-4d1c-b198-1a2f6b3e0257"> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent;"> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: transparent;">THE ALIENS HAVE LANDED!</font></div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center"> <div align="left" class="envelope" style="float: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZiiIllLnPCwvDdUo84sbtqx91gzDMWtLkNOV1VbUI-lebWebmpXnkf5dBtZPXOXJhCieMJ11ci7jIOFbBTvQwdBPM6XCyh4p-9pA_JOKm15GCQZObZB2-llBlfoDGcrsdg3AkFqaKr8/s1600/martian-777689.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZiiIllLnPCwvDdUo84sbtqx91gzDMWtLkNOV1VbUI-lebWebmpXnkf5dBtZPXOXJhCieMJ11ci7jIOFbBTvQwdBPM6XCyh4p-9pA_JOKm15GCQZObZB2-llBlfoDGcrsdg3AkFqaKr8/s320/martian-777689.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5927489426275548162" /></a></div> <div><span></span></div> </div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center">Latest instalment of </div> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: transparent;"></font> </div> <div align="center"><font style="background-color: transparent;">HEARTBEAT WIFE</font></div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="center"> </div> <div align="left">A huge assortment of callers came to our door when we lived in the Police Station in Nailsea. There were the routine matters - people coming to produce their driving documents and the like, people with queries, people wanting to report a loss - a dog, a watch, a wallet, people wanting to complain about their neighbours or some unseemly going-on. </div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">And there were the phone calls too - one afternoon when Terry was off duty I answered the telephone to be greeted by the words: 'There's a pigeon in my garden and it seems exhausted. What should I do?' Feeling unqualified to give her advice, I went out to Terry, who was mowing the lawn, and repeated the conversation. 'Tell her to put the oven on,' was his typically black-humoured reply. Of course, he was joking - Terry could never be cruel to any living creature - he wouldn't destroy a spider's web or kill a wasp, let alone a pigeon. On his further instructions, I went back to advise the lady caller that she should put out water and food for it, and leave it alone, and after a rest it would probably go on its way. </div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">Perhaps the most bizarre incident happened, as it so often seemed to, on a Saturday evening. Terry was out 'on his beat' (or motor cycle, to be more precise) and I had just finished giving my youngest daughter her 10 o'clock feed when there was a ring at the doorbell. I went to answer it with her in my arms. And saw the letter box open and a pair of eyes staring at me through it.</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">Now this is perhaps the most difficult bit of my blog. How to describe the two sisters who lived a few doors from us in Station Road, without being dreadfully un-PC. I'll try to be kind. The one was what my mother would have called 'not quite all there', though in retrospect the other was not much better! It was she who was at our door, and because she was 'vertically challenged' her eyes were level with our letter box. With some trepidation, I opened the door - bear in mind, it was close on 11 pm. The little lady wasted no time in telling me why she was calling for help.</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">'There are Martians in the school playing field. They're directing lazers into my bedroom and they're burning me up!' (Our houses backed onto what was then Nailsea Comprehensive School grounds)</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">Well, what would you have said? I tried, without success, to suggest it might be youngsters with torches. She wouldn't have it. Definitely Martians. I tried to convince her they meant her no harm. She was adamant. They were trying to kill her. She could feel the lazer rays scorching her skin, getting right inside her. This idiotic conversation went on for far too long. It was cold, dark, and I had a young baby in my arms. Eventually I assured her I would get my husband to investigate and closed the door but for a long while she continued to knock, ring, and shout through the letterbox that she couldn't go home or she would be either exterminated or 'beamed up'. I had a look through our bedroom window when I went upstairs to put Suzie back to bed - it overlooked the self-same playing fields - and could see nothing whatever. No car headlights, no torch beams ... nothing. </div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">Eventually the little lady gave up and went away. I fully expected her to make a complaint to Terry's senior officers that she had received no help whatever in her hour of need, but to my knowledge that never happened. Unless of course it did, and was binned ...</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left">As I'd like to say to the writers of Heartbeat .... You couldn't make it up!</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left"> </div> </font></font> </div> </div> </font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-21560845407711099062013-09-02T02:32:00.001-07:002013-09-02T02:32:48.612-07:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_2_e5a471d8-0d44-41ea-a0b4-0af11ebfcec8" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_e1b838d7-2e9c-4d6f-b66e-1b359fecfff0" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_3b28275c-e3dc-468a-b29c-a5f12254644f" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_4897c160-ce7e-405a-abb3-a7d05d87ba3d" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_f97a6bff-1870-4235-a26f-06d6795b8959" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><table width="100%" height="100%" align="center" id="role_layout" style="background: rgb(160, 215, 247);" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" valign="top"><tbody><tr id="role_ornament"><td height="107" align="left" valign="top"> <div style='background: url("http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/clouds/clouds.jpg") repeat-x; width: 100%; height: 107px;'></div> </td></tr><tr><td height="100%" align="left" valign="top"> <div id="role_body" style="font: 110%/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; padding: 20px; height: 80%; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;" contenteditable="true"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_0082b446-ad39-4090-bfce-b77b629541f4" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"></font> <div align="center" style=""><font color="royalblue" face="Times New Roman, Times, serif" style="background-color: transparent;"><strong></strong></font> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">EXCITING TIMES!</div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""><font color="royalblue" face="Times New Roman, Times, serif" style="background-color: transparent;"><strong>I WAS A REAL LIFE '<font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"></font>HEARTBEAT' WIFE</strong></font></div> <strong><font face="Times New Roman"></font></strong></font></div> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"></font></div> <div style=""> </div> <div style=""><font face="Arial" size="2"></font> </div> <div style=""><font size="2">So many things happened while we living in the little Police Station/House at Nailsea - amusing, sad, downright weird! - that I hardly know where to begin! And this blog won't be very long because I have had an operation on my hand, and typing is difficult. So I'll start with a dramatic event! I'll call it:</font></div> <div align="center" style=""><font size="2"></font> <font size="2"></font></div> <font size="2"></font> <div align="center" style=""><font size="2">REVENGE OF THE HELLS' ANGELS </font><font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""><font size="2"></font> <div align="left" class="envelope" style="float: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJWsl_8_CXeKwLDpt_kFrg6Lpc3tv22h2XDQms8ZR3SCpLS0Bza8FXy0WWxnrm0Om83YAEcGnpwxn4WucllYHPqpw9pXSCVGfknp77VezzA8jidLzwYkuTQl7fSqrv4x4NHZHWt1ygt5M/s1600/caution-dont-piss-off-the-biker-768613.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJWsl_8_CXeKwLDpt_kFrg6Lpc3tv22h2XDQms8ZR3SCpLS0Bza8FXy0WWxnrm0Om83YAEcGnpwxn4WucllYHPqpw9pXSCVGfknp77VezzA8jidLzwYkuTQl7fSqrv4x4NHZHWt1ygt5M/s320/caution-dont-piss-off-the-biker-768613.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5918956149199975330" /></a></div> <div style=""><span></span></div> <font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">One Saturday evening there was an accident on the major road involving a car and a motor cycle. Not so unusual, you might say. But in this case, the motor cyclist hit by the car was one of a huge group of Hells' Angels. And they were in no mood to exchange names and addresses and go on their way! Oh no, not they. They wanted retribution, and nothing less.</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">Terry, on his BMW, was the first officer on the scene, and spent some hairy minutes trying to calm a vast group of angry bikers (50-70 of them I seem to remember!)</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">and prevent them from lynching the terrified car driver before back-up arrived. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">The motorist and his passenger were then taken into custody and taken to Long Ashton Police Station for their own safety. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">The Hells' Angels were furious. One of their own had been injured, and they were baying for blood. They followed, and a mob surrounded the police station, demanding that the unfortunate motorist be handed over to them. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">The first I knew of this was a telephone call at about 9 pm. I was just feeding and changing baby Suzie, but I answered the phone anyway - I always did - I so enjoyed being back in the thick of things. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">This call though was rather alarming. Or should have been if I hadn't craved excitement. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">The Hells' Angels were threatening to take hostages - police wives from country beat stations - whom they planned to exchange for their intended victim - the hapless driver. We 'out in the sticks' - as Nailsea was in those days - were to lock our doors <font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">and</font> on no account open them to anyone until we were advised otherwise.</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">I was, I suppose, a little worried since I had two young children in the house. But mostly I remember getting quite a kick out of feeling part of the action. It could have been a Hollywood block-buster!</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">The siege of the police station at Long Ashton continued for some hours. By this time the offending driver and his passenger had been locked in the cells for their own protection. I think a very senior officer, maybe even the Chief Constable himself, and/or the Divisional Commander, hightailed it to Long Ashton and addressed the vengeful mob who were still outside, and eventually they realised they were not going to get their way and dispersed. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">It must have been getting on for midnight before I got the call to say things had calmed down, but I should still be wary of a possible attack. </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">It was only when Terry came off duty that I realised just how hairy it had been for him, the only police officer up on the main road facing down dozens of furious Hells' Angels and trying to protect the motorist and his passenger from what would undoubtedly have turned very violent. I was very proud of him, and a bit ashamed that I had quite enjoyed the whole incident!</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2">Next time - a couple of humorous stories ....</font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2"> </font></div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="left" style=""><font size="2"></font> </div> <div align="left" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div style=""> </div> <font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><br> </div> <div align="center" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><br> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><font color="blue" face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"></font> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </div> <div align="left" style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><br> </div> </font> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><img name="FWaD7hH9H16ZKM:" class="rg_i" style="width: 240px; height: 180px; margin-top: 0px; margin-left: -4px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSmARO5AabqSgStrBgymcP9-IfgqLX9nrj1LobicN5LD00yxLC5Q" sb_id="ms__id742" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSmARO5AabqSgStrBgymcP9-IfgqLX9nrj1LobicN5LD00yxLC5Q" data-sz="f"></div> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <!-- end of AOLMsgPart_1_0082b446-ad39-4090-bfce-b77b629541f4 --></div> </div> </td></tr><tr id="role_ornament"><td height="48" align="center" valign="top"> <div style='background: url("http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/clouds/grass.gif") repeat-x; width: 100%; height: 48px;'></div> </td></tr></tbody></table></font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-31782323909783140992013-07-19T03:23:00.001-07:002013-07-19T03:37:29.967-07:00And so to Nailsea<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">And so to Nailsea .... I LOVED Nailsea ... I LOVED almost everything about our time there. And it was the time I came closest to being a real-life Heartbeat Wife. Nailsea was a village beat in those days, and we lived in the police station, an old stone-built house with an office just inside the front door and a blue light above it. As an ex-civilian employee, I loved living 'over the shop', even if it did mean we could be interrupted at any time of the day or night by a telephone call or someone knocking at the door. I was back in my element! And oh, the scope of those calls, from the hilarious to the scary, and all stops in between. But more of that later. This blog will definitely run to more than one instalment!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Our time at Nailsea didn't get off to a very auspicious start, however. We moved in on a day of pouring rain to find that many of the interior walls were so damp they were running with water, and the whole house was grubby, to say the least of it. I had to scrub grease and dirt out of the channels in the draining board and give the cooker and all the kitchen paintwork a good scrub before we could even think of eating anything prepared there. Our three-piece suite wouldn't fit into the tiny front room, not even the 4-seater sofa we were so proud of (and which survives today, in spite of children and grandchildren leaping all over it for more than 40 years!) We decided to make that little front room the spare bedroom, and converted a bedroom upstairs into a lounge, which worked well.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The police station - our home - was situated close to the centre of town, just up the road from the first arcade of shops pictured above, and the garden backed onto the grounds of the comprehensive school. It operated as a two-man beat, which was worked on two shifts, 9am-5pm and 5pm-1am, alternating weekly. The other Nailsea beat policeman lived in a council house and he and Terry shared a motor-bike, which was, I think, a Triumph Tiger 500cc-twin. At the end of a shift one of them would drive to the other's home, where they would change over and drive the back to where they wanted to be. Terry loved that motor bike and was never afterwards without one - he was still riding a Triumph up to last September, though he did have Suzukis and BMWs in between. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Determined I would not become isolated as I had been in Minehead, I joined the local amateur dramatic society, then called the Nailsea Venturers. I have lovely memories of playing Daphne in Noel Coward's <i>Present Laughter, </i>and I made many friends, one of whom turned up years later at my drama group in Midsomer Norton, and who remains a close friend today. (Kay, you know who you are!) Another (who for reasons that will become obvious must remain anonymous!) gave me an experience that can still make me smile.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">At the time Nailsea was notorious for the so-called 'Key Parties' of the early '70s. It even got a mention in the News of the World, if I am not much mistaken. Large numbers of apparently respectable professionals were involved, along with some business people - speculation was always rife as to their identities, but a lot of expensive motor cars parked outside someone's house on a Saturday evening tended to give it away. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">After rehearsals, many of us Venturers would go for a drink together at a pub close to our rehearsal room, as Drama Club members often do. But one night one of the ladies, middle-aged (well, to me, aged only 25 or 26, definitely an <i>older</i> lady, but very attractive, very sophisticated, very friendly towards me) suggested we might go to a different pub. I must admit I was intrigued - the pub she mentioned, within easy walking distance of the police station, was known to be the haunt of the Wife Swappers, as we called the people who attended the key parties. And sure enough there were quite a few of them in the bar, including my friend's husband. Looking quite pleased with herself, she led me over to him. 'Here we are ... I've brought Janet.' He beamed. 'Can I buy you a drink?' I thanked him and asked (I think) for a gin and tonic. I have no doubt he thought he was onto something here. So I took great delight in chatting whilst finishing my drink and then saying sweetly: 'And now it's time I went home.' Which I did, bursting in the door scarcely able to wait to tell Terry: 'You'll never guess where I've been - with the wife swappers!' It was my first and last encounter with that merry band.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Oh, I loved Nailsea. I loved the little shops, the greengrocer's, the butcher's, the baker's, the hardware shop, the newsagents. I loved the people, all really friendly. Terry's shift pattern was perfectly manageable. Little Tracey (now known as Terri) started nursery in Tickenham and was picked up outside our door in a minibus. And my writing career began to really take off. My first short story, which I had sold to <i>Annabel</i>, the monthly glossy mag, appeared after we moved to Nailsea, and I was busily writing in every spare moment - after Suzie was born in 1970 that usually meant when I was up after feeding her in the middle of the night!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">I know, I know, I haven't talked much about the sometimes bizarre, sometimes frankly scary, things that went with being that Heartbeat wife ... there were so many of them they deserve an episode all their own. I'll do that very, very soon .... </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Watch this space! </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5913789841665243375.post-49057328349279691992013-06-14T04:52:00.003-07:002013-06-14T04:52:46.682-07:00<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_81f5ba86-f58a-4c4b-9cda-12e615e3a9bb" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_b643c8a9-9eac-4fc4-85ab-dc013caa27ce" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_3d5dfb01-7385-4335-bf26-877e92b87256" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> <div id="AOLMsgPart_1_40d17898-1af7-438c-9893-a8ff8aade3d8" style=""><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><table width="100%" height="100%" align="center" id="role_layout" style="background: rgb(160, 215, 247);" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" valign="top"><tbody><tr id="role_ornament"><td height="107" align="left" valign="top"> <div style='background: url("http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/clouds/clouds.jpg") repeat-x; width: 100%; height: 107px;'></div> </td></tr><tr><td height="100%" align="left" valign="top"> <div id="role_body" style="font: 110%/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; padding: 20px; height: 80%; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;" contenteditable="true"> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">g ha</font>it </font> <div style="color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><font color="black" face="arial" size="2"> <div align="center" style=""><font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent;"> <font size="4">'HEARTBEAT' WIFE</font></font></div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">PART 3</div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> <img width="259" height="194" class="rg_hi uh_hi" id="rg_hi" style="width: 259px; height: 194px;" alt="" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTvvP1jDUtwJaBMOKk2aDXcrMIxz3J21S3DgZY1vsIa8SYCGITX" data-width="259" data-height="194"></div> <div align="left" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">North Hill, Minehead</div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> Minehead, South Somerset . Minehead, with the sea lapping the golden beach. Exmoor and the Quantocks on the doorstep. Terry's dream posting. He had achieved his ambition to drive a powerful Road Motor Patrol car - his area stretched from Bridgwater in the north to the Devon border. We were expecting our first baby. We planned to get a dog. We would be a real family. What could be more perfect?</div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">Except that I hated it. I was so lonely, particularly in the evenings! Terry was working 4 shifts - nights, lates, days and earlies, with one weekend in four off. On nights he was getting ready to go to work at 10 pm, on lates (2-10 pm) he was at work, on earlies he wanted to go to bed early so as to be up at 5 am, and on days he often disappeared in the evening for a game of snooker with his partner. I'd always had a good social life, centred mainly around my various amateur drama clubs, but now, pregnant and perhaps a bit homesick, I found it difficult to become involved. Besides, we had the dog we'd wanted, an adorable yellow labador puppy we named Kim, and she couldn't be left alone for long, or she'd have chewed up everything we owned, just as she was chewing up my poor hands and arms! I found young women neighbours on our estate distant and unapproachable - perhaps they were wary of the long arm of the law! - and the other police wives were a tight little clique who'd known each other for ever, so that I felt like an outsider. In summer the town overflowed with visitors, in winter it was shuttered and bleak. When our longed for baby arrived, she cried incessantly when she was put down in her pram or cot, then fell asleep and refused to feed when she was picked up. I think now that maybe she had a neck problem, but it was very trying, and all my plans to walk her out in the afternoons, serene and beautiful in her huge Silver Cross pram, came to nothing. The dog kept going for walkies on her own, and to top it all, we were very, very hard up. I remember checking my purse at the end of the week to see if I could afford half a pound of sausages! </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">If it hadn't been for all these problems, though, my writing career might never have taken off. Between washing nappies, feeding little Tracey Louise, walking the dog, cleaning, cooking and ironing, I began writing short stories. Turning the ideas over in my head helped keep me sane, and I had the idea of trying to sell one and earning a little spare cash. I tried a story on Annabel, a glossy monthly, and to my enormous delight it was accepted! The cheque they sent me bought a much needed winter coat - £16 it was! - and the thrill of seeing my story in print has never been surpassed. </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> Not everything about Minehead was bad, of course. In fact, some of it was lovely. When Terry was due off duty at 2 pm we'd take a picnic up onto North Hill and sit amongst the gorse and heather. We'd drive down to Tarr Steps or the Devon coast. One early morning Terry took me down to the front to see the waves crashing over the sea wall; another time he brought home a huge red mullet (I think<font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif">!)</font> that a fisherman had given him. I loved our house, which had a long garden with a plum tree in it, and when Tracey had passed that interminable crying stage, I used take her for long walks in her push chair to the park and the sea front. </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style=""> Somewhat amusingly I had my first encounter with garlic in Minehead. I'd found a recipe for spaghetti Bolognese (how exotic!) and it called for "a clove of garlic". I had no idea what that was - and neither did the lady in the greengrocers. She tried to sell me cloves. Eventually I was enlightened, and I still use that recipe today, a great favourite with the grandchildren, who can scarcely believe there was a time when nobody was familiar with garlic bulbs!</div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> <div align="center" style="">But just when I'd got used to the place, it was time for another move. Nailsea - where we lived in the police station that was also the police house and I truly was a real life Heartbeat wife. But that of course, is another story ...! </div> <div align="center" style=""> </div> </font></div> </font></div> </div> </td></tr><tr id="role_ornament"><td height="48" align="center" valign="top"> <div style='background: url("http://o.aolcdn.com/cdn.webmail.aol.com/stationery/resources/v1/clouds/grass.gif") repeat-x; width: 100%; height: 48px;'></div> </td></tr></tbody></table></font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font></div> </div> </font>Amelia Carrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16552525817501546031noreply@blogger.com0