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Posts tagged ‘childhood memories’

Living in the Past II – and my Superpower

There is a lot of nostalgia for the past floating around at the moment. Things were so much simpler, there was a stronger sense of community, we knew our place in the world… Well, I lived in this “past” and I struggle to recognise it from the discussions around me. This is the past I remember and it bears little resemblance to the comfortable, secure world described by some.

I grew up in the 50s and 60s on the fringes of Greater London. My overwhelming impression of this time was being cold. There was the “Big Freeze” of 1963 of course but every winter – and many springs and autumns – were extremely chilly too. Hardly anyone had central heating or double glazing. We woke in the morning and drew pictures on the ice inside the windows. Beds at night were often damp as well as cold and adding more heavy wool blankets didn’t help for hours. I was lucky for we had a new-build home whilst a lot of my friends lived in “pre-fabs” – prefabricated houses thrown up to alleviate the desperate housing shortage. Designed for ten years wear, some are still in use today. And they really are cold.

Most of us wore home-made clothes (even school uniform sometimes) and our mothers sewed and knitted an astonishing range of garments from anything they could get their hands on. I had a duffle coat made from old army blankets and all my hats, gloves and scarves were made by my mother. But the worst clothes ever were socks. Hand knitted wool socks. How we hated them! They itched and scratched and never stayed up so we had to use rubber bands that dug in and stopped the circulation to our feet. They just sucked up the moisture so they were always damp. But this was nothing until combined with the curse of my generation – chilblains.

For those of you unfamiliar with this ailment, chilblains are painful little lumps that erupt over toes, fingers, ears and noses when the small blood vessels get too cold and then warm up again. They are also horribly itchy and if scratched feel as if they are burning. Combine chilblains with damp wool socks and you have total misery for months on end.

Sometimes I get cranky when people eulogise the past. It had its moments but nothing was perfect. A lot of it wasn’t very nice. We were insular, tired and poor and no-one who experienced it would want to go back. So to prove my point I choose my superpower. I would like to inflict chilblains for a week. They sum up the era somehow. Try it for a few days and see how nostalgic you might be then.

First Steps in Writing – My earliest story

Every writer, published or not, takes their first steps into the unknown sometime.  Often that moment is lost in the past, a distant memory from school or left to moulder between the covers of an embarrassing teenage diary.  As we practise, our prose becomes more polished and those of us using a word processor have our spelling corrected but the journey begins with one tiny venture.

I have been sorting through a box of papers and photographs from my parents’ house and amongst the old birthday cards and monochrome snaps was – my very first story.  Written a few days after my eighth birthday, it has all the flaws of a juvenile (and handwritten) piece but reading it yesterday I could recognize my hand.  I don’t know why my mother chose to keep this fragment of my childhood ambitions.  Perhaps she always knew I would become a writer in the end.  I hope so.

So, for your amusement here is my very first oeuvre, spelling mistakes and all.


The Three dwafs

Once apon a time there were three dwafs.  The eldest one said

lets go into the wood to pick berries.  Now the yongest said

can I eat some?  Then they went out.  But the yongest aet to

many.  So the others left him wich was a very foolish thing to do

for very soon who should come along but grey wolf himself. Ho ho

ho laughed gray wolf.  I have found my dinner.

 

 

When I showed this to a couple of friends they read it and turned over, looking for the happy ending.  But there isn’t one.  Even at the tender age of eight I had already developed a callous streak, it seems.  I don’t think my mother would have been surprised to see I have become a crime writer.  The signs were there, from the very first baby steps.  Thankfully my spelling and punctuation have improved since then and there is always the spell-check on my word processor to spare my blushes but it was rather touching, finding this – and to see just how far I have come over the years.