50 years and more have passed since that day,
When beside my bike on the beaten track I lay.
Laying in heather, purple up to my chin,
Thinking of life and what the future may bring.
Looking up into the clear blue sky,
Contemplating the world; what and why.
Thinking of life and what the future might bring,
As Skylarks flung themselves upwards to sing.
My childhood had been a curious one,
Torn by war, I innocently thought fun.
Sneak airborne raiders, run helter skelter,
Many nights spend in an air raid shelter.
Schooling really was but a total farce,
Kids thirty and more to each class.
Taught by teachers who couldn't care less,
Education that got nowhere, a total mess.
Never taught almost any of the skills,
Often under desks in air raid drills.
Absent fathers off fighting the war.
Shortages, always wanting more.
Life as a child, without any toys,
Games in the street with girls and boys.
Mothers working themselves to a frazzle,
Their clothes but rags; no razzle dazzle.
But we thought life was very sweet, enjoyed by us all,
As we didn't know different. We just had a ball.
Football, marbles, o'grady sav's tip it and run,
Those were our games. We just had fun.
No graffiti, no muggings, no locking of doors.
Pocket money given for doing my chores,
What a terrible life, now I'm often told -
Smile at the memory. I am getting quite old!
March 8, 2011
In Limbo
One thing I think we may have had then;
A black and white T.V. to pick up the gen.
I still remember the shows on the T.V.,
If I'm honest, most didn't appeal to me.
Now out of school, I'd watch just the same.
Contestants playing a stupid and silly game.
Winners take the money or go for a prize;
Audience do this or that, not very wise.
Wilfred Pickles and Miss Carson on the piano.
What it was all about, I still do not know.
Miss Carson, we were much later to meet;
As Ena Sharples on Coronation Street.
Muffin the mule, one for the younger set;
A puppet show you could never forget.
Dixon of Dock Green, a very old copper,
Jack Warner, he never came a cropper.
We still used to listen to our valve radio's
I.T.M.A. star, Handly, one of my favourite shows.
Paul Temple, the Flying Scotsman theme.
A detective who was never to be seen.
One of the silliest shows I can now recall,
Just didn't seem, to me, quite right at all.
Archie, now he was the star of the show,
A ventriloquist's dummy, don't you know.
Hughie Green had a talent show spot.
Stars were made out of it quite a lot.
Dick Barton, Jock and sidekick Snowy, too.
These were the shows, to name but a few.
Fishing and a Story
It seemed the river Orwell was no too polluted,
For this type of fishing it was very well suited.
To the next river, for some bait we went,
Live worms, for this job they were heaven sent.
We dug up almost a bucket full, too much for me.
"Dad, why on earth do we need this lot?" just wait and see.
Covering them with a wet Hessian sack,
On dad's motorbike we soon got back.
"By this method we get eels, a hundred and more!
But today" dad continued "we'd be lucky to get a score".
I still couldn't fathom why we needed this amount.
There must have been hundreds, but of course I didn't count,
It was very early next morning when we left the house.
Mum and sis sleeping, so we were quiet as a mouse.
To seaward end of the docks, on bikes we did go,
"The tides going out boy, so you can just row"
In about five feet of water, that I knew,
We anchored seawards when the tide ceased to flow.
We'd fish here while the tide is slack,
When we had finished, the flow will take us back.
Now I witnessed the most amazing thing,
Dad was threading worms on a green, hairy string.
He seemed to put fifty or more in a long line,
All were skewered on the hairy green twine.
Then he gathered them into a ten-inch ball,
Threaded a cord through the middle of it all.
The other end of the cord, to end of broomstick tied,
He made up two of these, I couldn't figure out, tho' I tried.
Saw me looking at him with some sadness,
As last he explained the reason for his madness.
"Eels have tiny, pointed teeth all facing to the rear,
This is how we'll catch them, make sure you're clear"
"They will try to eat those tasty worms in a bunch.
Come on lad, it's a free lunch?"
We all know, tho' in life nothing's for free,
Experience has taught that to you and me.
The eels take a bite at the bunch of worm,
No matter how they wiggle and squirm,
The hairy cotton gets caught in their teeth,
We feel them moving five foot beneath.
Gently we lift them, carefully standing,
Or roll cord on the pole when landing.
As we were to be here for quite a stay,
Dad told me the story of the house over the way.
The house was almost hidden, difficult to see.
This is the story as he told it to me.
When delivering newspapers? The name of the pub?
"Margaret Catchpole", now here's the nub...
Margaret, in the eighteenth century, had a lover.
A smuggler, but she loved no other.
He only had a quite small sailing ship,
When the coast was clear, she gave him the tip.
He was a smuggler of casks of brandy,
Never caught, tip-off was very handy.
If he saw a lighted lamp in her window,
Into unload the brandy he would go.
He got the stuff in London's city,
That's far away, more's the pity.
But the Customs and Excise had watched the beam,
They realized her lover's and Margaret's scheme.
Set a trap in Margaret's abide,
She knew lover would take the next tide.
Maggie had to warn her lover, of course,
She slipped from the house, saddled a horse.
Rode that horse throughout the dark night,
After a seventy mile ride, London in sight.
In the darkness a magnificent ride,
Got to her lover before total high tide.
That's the story to me my dad told.
What a woman, so brave and so bold.
Back to fishing, we had got quite a lot,
Dad looking forward to some in the pot.
Now I mention this method of a bunch let to dangle,
To all that I know, those who love to angle,
The method I know is similar to crabbing,
Told my my ol' man, this method was 'babbing'.
Look on the 'net, there you will see,
Maggie "horse thief" deported to Hawkbury.
She did quite well in Australia for life,
Lived there respected as the local midwife.
For this type of fishing it was very well suited.
To the next river, for some bait we went,
Live worms, for this job they were heaven sent.
We dug up almost a bucket full, too much for me.
"Dad, why on earth do we need this lot?" just wait and see.
Covering them with a wet Hessian sack,
On dad's motorbike we soon got back.
"By this method we get eels, a hundred and more!
But today" dad continued "we'd be lucky to get a score".
I still couldn't fathom why we needed this amount.
There must have been hundreds, but of course I didn't count,
It was very early next morning when we left the house.
Mum and sis sleeping, so we were quiet as a mouse.
To seaward end of the docks, on bikes we did go,
"The tides going out boy, so you can just row"
In about five feet of water, that I knew,
We anchored seawards when the tide ceased to flow.
We'd fish here while the tide is slack,
When we had finished, the flow will take us back.
Now I witnessed the most amazing thing,
Dad was threading worms on a green, hairy string.
He seemed to put fifty or more in a long line,
All were skewered on the hairy green twine.
Then he gathered them into a ten-inch ball,
Threaded a cord through the middle of it all.
The other end of the cord, to end of broomstick tied,
He made up two of these, I couldn't figure out, tho' I tried.
Saw me looking at him with some sadness,
As last he explained the reason for his madness.
"Eels have tiny, pointed teeth all facing to the rear,
This is how we'll catch them, make sure you're clear"
"They will try to eat those tasty worms in a bunch.
Come on lad, it's a free lunch?"
We all know, tho' in life nothing's for free,
Experience has taught that to you and me.
The eels take a bite at the bunch of worm,
No matter how they wiggle and squirm,
The hairy cotton gets caught in their teeth,
We feel them moving five foot beneath.
Gently we lift them, carefully standing,
Or roll cord on the pole when landing.
As we were to be here for quite a stay,
Dad told me the story of the house over the way.
The house was almost hidden, difficult to see.
This is the story as he told it to me.
When delivering newspapers? The name of the pub?
"Margaret Catchpole", now here's the nub...
Margaret, in the eighteenth century, had a lover.
A smuggler, but she loved no other.
He only had a quite small sailing ship,
When the coast was clear, she gave him the tip.
He was a smuggler of casks of brandy,
Never caught, tip-off was very handy.
If he saw a lighted lamp in her window,
Into unload the brandy he would go.
He got the stuff in London's city,
That's far away, more's the pity.
But the Customs and Excise had watched the beam,
They realized her lover's and Margaret's scheme.
Set a trap in Margaret's abide,
She knew lover would take the next tide.
Maggie had to warn her lover, of course,
She slipped from the house, saddled a horse.
Rode that horse throughout the dark night,
After a seventy mile ride, London in sight.
In the darkness a magnificent ride,
Got to her lover before total high tide.
That's the story to me my dad told.
What a woman, so brave and so bold.
Back to fishing, we had got quite a lot,
Dad looking forward to some in the pot.
Now I mention this method of a bunch let to dangle,
To all that I know, those who love to angle,
The method I know is similar to crabbing,
Told my my ol' man, this method was 'babbing'.
Look on the 'net, there you will see,
Maggie "horse thief" deported to Hawkbury.
She did quite well in Australia for life,
Lived there respected as the local midwife.
Getting Older
Now I began to grow skinny and tall.
One of the highest in the assembly hall.
In those days my hair was long and blond,
Of barber shops, I was none too fond.
The money I earned on my paper round
Was handy for clothes, as I left the ground.
We, at that age, didn't ask girls for dates,
Better roaming the countryside with mates.
I remember swimming with my dad;
Not a good swimmer, but not too bad.
From a boat in the Orwell, swum to the shore.
Happy, war, who could ask for more?
Across the sand trickled a little stream,
Full of ezvers, quivering backs a golden sheen.
Back to the boat for the bailing tin,
What better place to put the ezvers in?
When we got home; fried them, put on toast.
Gave me some, but he ate the most,
Often now I would look at my sis,
Monday's movies with mum, wouldn't miss.
The routine now both of us knew,
Get to town, join in if a queue.
In those days most were suitable flicks,
Not blood and thunders, just for kicks?
Mostly these treats were on a Monday night.
Around about seven mum would loom in sight,
She always carried with her, her favorite thing,
In a brown paper bag all wrapped with string.
Shuffling forwards towards the doors in a queue
Perhaps mum greeting some other she knew.
Into the cinemas, before the program begun,
Sister on one side, me on the other, in the middle, mum.
Ads would begin, then perhaps a documentary.
Cartoons perhaps, the Pathe news, entertainment aplenty.
Now mum would open her little treat,
Shell the 'money nuts' and proceed to eat.
By the time the "B" movie was over and finished,
The bag was almost empty, her treat diminished.
"Let's move" would say mum, as the cinemas lit,
"I think we'd do better forward or back a bit".
Sis and I knew the routine so well,
The place sat; floor covered in shell.
Forward or back we moved with great poise,
Avoiding the shells, for they made so much noise.
If a newcomer, finding their seat,
Cracking mum's shells beneath their feet.
Then the main movie would come on the screen,
Romantic, dramas, in places mum's never seen.
Things happened with which boys could hardly cope.
Government took rationing off household soap.
Now the excuse, used for so many past years,
Saving soap, not washing behind our ears!
Girls in our class started growing in places,
Ensuring us boys never looked at their faces.
This gave us lads other interests;
Stopped hunting small birds nests.
The girls stopped too, playing with toys,
Only now they only fancied older boys.
About this time 'the Festival of Britain' was on,
The school took all us senior boys along.
A photo of us boys, in flannels and a jacket;
I bet that trip cost our parents a packet.
Remember the shot tower and the 'Skylons'?
Just like the bomb later, they got it all wrong.
Hardly recall that day in the capital city,
All the lads there, lost touch, was a great pity.
All of this was in 1951,
Another year at school and I'd be done.
Another celebration in Christchurch Park,
Dressed as medieval peasant, that was a lark.
Now I began to dwell on my future life,
Only thing certain was I'd take a wife.
Already at school we'd been given the tip,
Us lads could forget an apprenticeship.
Of course, unless your dad was in a trade,
Then twas likely, you would have it made.
Dad a docker, education exceedingly poor.
Certainly didn't want to be a stevedore.
Not for me a life of carry wood and sacks;
Being killed by dust, with aching backs.
One of the highest in the assembly hall.
In those days my hair was long and blond,
Of barber shops, I was none too fond.
The money I earned on my paper round
Was handy for clothes, as I left the ground.
We, at that age, didn't ask girls for dates,
Better roaming the countryside with mates.
I remember swimming with my dad;
Not a good swimmer, but not too bad.
From a boat in the Orwell, swum to the shore.
Happy, war, who could ask for more?
Across the sand trickled a little stream,
Full of ezvers, quivering backs a golden sheen.
Back to the boat for the bailing tin,
What better place to put the ezvers in?
When we got home; fried them, put on toast.
Gave me some, but he ate the most,
Often now I would look at my sis,
Monday's movies with mum, wouldn't miss.
The routine now both of us knew,
Get to town, join in if a queue.
In those days most were suitable flicks,
Not blood and thunders, just for kicks?
Mostly these treats were on a Monday night.
Around about seven mum would loom in sight,
She always carried with her, her favorite thing,
In a brown paper bag all wrapped with string.
Shuffling forwards towards the doors in a queue
Perhaps mum greeting some other she knew.
Into the cinemas, before the program begun,
Sister on one side, me on the other, in the middle, mum.
Ads would begin, then perhaps a documentary.
Cartoons perhaps, the Pathe news, entertainment aplenty.
Now mum would open her little treat,
Shell the 'money nuts' and proceed to eat.
By the time the "B" movie was over and finished,
The bag was almost empty, her treat diminished.
"Let's move" would say mum, as the cinemas lit,
"I think we'd do better forward or back a bit".
Sis and I knew the routine so well,
The place sat; floor covered in shell.
Forward or back we moved with great poise,
Avoiding the shells, for they made so much noise.
If a newcomer, finding their seat,
Cracking mum's shells beneath their feet.
Then the main movie would come on the screen,
Romantic, dramas, in places mum's never seen.
Things happened with which boys could hardly cope.
Government took rationing off household soap.
Now the excuse, used for so many past years,
Saving soap, not washing behind our ears!
Girls in our class started growing in places,
Ensuring us boys never looked at their faces.
This gave us lads other interests;
Stopped hunting small birds nests.
The girls stopped too, playing with toys,
Only now they only fancied older boys.
About this time 'the Festival of Britain' was on,
The school took all us senior boys along.
A photo of us boys, in flannels and a jacket;
I bet that trip cost our parents a packet.
Remember the shot tower and the 'Skylons'?
Just like the bomb later, they got it all wrong.
Hardly recall that day in the capital city,
All the lads there, lost touch, was a great pity.
All of this was in 1951,
Another year at school and I'd be done.
Another celebration in Christchurch Park,
Dressed as medieval peasant, that was a lark.
Now I began to dwell on my future life,
Only thing certain was I'd take a wife.
Already at school we'd been given the tip,
Us lads could forget an apprenticeship.
Of course, unless your dad was in a trade,
Then twas likely, you would have it made.
Dad a docker, education exceedingly poor.
Certainly didn't want to be a stevedore.
Not for me a life of carry wood and sacks;
Being killed by dust, with aching backs.
Morris Dancing
Remember the hated school dancing class?
We boys thought the whole thing an utter farce.
Then he put us lads in quite a whirl,
Would we like to dance without a girl?
He told the dance wouldn't be the same.
"Okay", we said, put us all in the frame.
He had us marching around the hall,
Weeded out those who were far too small.
We marched with our arms down to the side,
Why this was required of us, he did not confide.
He had us face in two equal lines,
This time we had to just mark time.
Then it got more difficult; oh brother!
When one leg was up, hop on the other.
At this stage we had no qualms,
Told us how to swing our arms.
Then we were marching, hopping an' prancing,
Surely this was a funny way to be dancing?
He told us when ready, we'd perform at various places,
That put a smile on our boyhood faces!
When younger we'd danced around the Maypole,
But this was much more difficult on the whole.
He had us hold a cloth as we flayed the air,
"Don't drop them, make sure you hold it there!"
At last we asked "Come on, sir! What are we doing?"
At that point he could see trouble was brewing.
"Before I tell you, first we do the sticks.
Now mind your fingers, they are hard to fix."
"Now gather 'round lads, this is the story.
Before long you'll be covered in glory.
No longer will you be a group of chancers,
When I've finished, I'll make you fine Morris Dancers."
Not to do this by half, but to do it well,
Issued white shirt, hat, trousers and a thing of bell.
The bell shin pad, we tied around our calf,
Our performance improved by at least half.
When the bells did jingle and dangle,
Our flags on sticks, took on the same angle.
Our school master, performing at our head,
Danced around the country, no more to be said.
To do it, it seemed to us such a joy,
And no! We didn't feel like a Nancy boy!
We only did it, just that one year,
As awkwardness of youth forbade, I fear.
We boys thought the whole thing an utter farce.
Then he put us lads in quite a whirl,
Would we like to dance without a girl?
He told the dance wouldn't be the same.
"Okay", we said, put us all in the frame.
He had us marching around the hall,
Weeded out those who were far too small.
We marched with our arms down to the side,
Why this was required of us, he did not confide.
He had us face in two equal lines,
This time we had to just mark time.
Then it got more difficult; oh brother!
When one leg was up, hop on the other.
At this stage we had no qualms,
Told us how to swing our arms.
Then we were marching, hopping an' prancing,
Surely this was a funny way to be dancing?
He told us when ready, we'd perform at various places,
That put a smile on our boyhood faces!
When younger we'd danced around the Maypole,
But this was much more difficult on the whole.
He had us hold a cloth as we flayed the air,
"Don't drop them, make sure you hold it there!"
At last we asked "Come on, sir! What are we doing?"
At that point he could see trouble was brewing.
"Before I tell you, first we do the sticks.
Now mind your fingers, they are hard to fix."
"Now gather 'round lads, this is the story.
Before long you'll be covered in glory.
No longer will you be a group of chancers,
When I've finished, I'll make you fine Morris Dancers."
Not to do this by half, but to do it well,
Issued white shirt, hat, trousers and a thing of bell.
The bell shin pad, we tied around our calf,
Our performance improved by at least half.
When the bells did jingle and dangle,
Our flags on sticks, took on the same angle.
Our school master, performing at our head,
Danced around the country, no more to be said.
To do it, it seemed to us such a joy,
And no! We didn't feel like a Nancy boy!
We only did it, just that one year,
As awkwardness of youth forbade, I fear.
My New Bike
In the summer I had won a big race!
A new bike dad promised, couldn't lose face.
As Xmas approached, I was really excited;
Got the bike, I was absolutely delighted!
It was the biggest present ever given to me,
As from the wrappings, I quickly tore it free!
A big, sturdy upright Raleigh bicycle;
Couldn't wait to show it to my chum Michael!
I sat on it in our kitchen, I got the feel,
A brand new bike. Mine! Is it for real?
Big hefty, Sturmy Archer gears n' dynamo,
Just couldn't wait to have a go!
The dynamo worked off the the wheel tyre,
Connected to the light by a very thin wire.
Now I had a new, big, grown-up bike
I could travel anywhere I like.
A new bike dad promised, couldn't lose face.
As Xmas approached, I was really excited;
Got the bike, I was absolutely delighted!
It was the biggest present ever given to me,
As from the wrappings, I quickly tore it free!
A big, sturdy upright Raleigh bicycle;
Couldn't wait to show it to my chum Michael!
I sat on it in our kitchen, I got the feel,
A brand new bike. Mine! Is it for real?
Big hefty, Sturmy Archer gears n' dynamo,
Just couldn't wait to have a go!
The dynamo worked off the the wheel tyre,
Connected to the light by a very thin wire.
Now I had a new, big, grown-up bike
I could travel anywhere I like.
A Hard Day's Night
Dad would spend a deal of his leisure time,
Rolling from skines, balls of twine.
A netting took, with the twine wrapped 'round,
He would make a net four foot from the ground.
At first I wondered what this net was for,
"You'll find out one day", he'd say no more.
It wasn't suitable for a local fish to get,
And three inch by three no fish it would net.
He carried on making this mysterious thing,
Used up balls and balls of twine string.
It finished up at least forty yards or more,
To the shed and back from our front door.
Then one frosty, misty, cold autumn morn,
Woke up, found net and my father gone.
Mum said "He left last night before it was dark.
Don't ask me, took net, up to some devious lark".
The mist didn't clear until about five-thirty,
Dad came home not long after, cold and dirty.
Told mum this story of his long night,
Only this time nothing seemed to go right.
Him and his mates would drag this net across a field
Just before dark to see what it would yield.
A newly cut corn field, just some stubble,
Catch many a rabbit, there'd be no trouble.
Spread the net from side to side,
Walk forward, over stubble it would glide.
Rabbits would panic when they heard it coming;
Every which way, in fear, they be running!
Lots of them would run headfirst into the net.
Mates behind dispatch them, collect as many as they could.
Then one of the team whispered "Hush, don't make a noise.
There's someone ahead of us, lay down boys."
They lay there shivering all through the night.
There was someone in the field alright.
Dad explained they could not go, collect their gear,
Police, gamekeepers, all around them they fear.
It certainly had given them quite a fright;
They lay there freezing all that autumn night.
No other plan could they possibly hatch;
Leave the net; also must leave their catch.
They knew to the hedge; bikes they must get,
Freezing cold, scared, tired and soaking wet.
They still had to report to work at eight,
Just dropped in at home, couldn't be late.
Dad got home that night, told us the full story,
Not a tale that will go down in glory.
Once a work, dad's mates tried to relate.
"Hold on" said the other gang "wait till you hear this, mate".
Of course, you may well have guessed by now,
Their mates we netting, telling them how.
Dad and his team instantly they knew,
The noise they heard was the other crew!
Not wanting to look silly, they didn't let on,
But passed the word when the others had gone.
None of us should ever say a single word,
To tell the truth would make all look absurd.
Rolling from skines, balls of twine.
A netting took, with the twine wrapped 'round,
He would make a net four foot from the ground.
At first I wondered what this net was for,
"You'll find out one day", he'd say no more.
It wasn't suitable for a local fish to get,
And three inch by three no fish it would net.
He carried on making this mysterious thing,
Used up balls and balls of twine string.
It finished up at least forty yards or more,
To the shed and back from our front door.
Then one frosty, misty, cold autumn morn,
Woke up, found net and my father gone.
Mum said "He left last night before it was dark.
Don't ask me, took net, up to some devious lark".
The mist didn't clear until about five-thirty,
Dad came home not long after, cold and dirty.
Told mum this story of his long night,
Only this time nothing seemed to go right.
Him and his mates would drag this net across a field
Just before dark to see what it would yield.
A newly cut corn field, just some stubble,
Catch many a rabbit, there'd be no trouble.
Spread the net from side to side,
Walk forward, over stubble it would glide.
Rabbits would panic when they heard it coming;
Every which way, in fear, they be running!
Lots of them would run headfirst into the net.
Mates behind dispatch them, collect as many as they could.
Then one of the team whispered "Hush, don't make a noise.
There's someone ahead of us, lay down boys."
They lay there shivering all through the night.
There was someone in the field alright.
Dad explained they could not go, collect their gear,
Police, gamekeepers, all around them they fear.
It certainly had given them quite a fright;
They lay there freezing all that autumn night.
No other plan could they possibly hatch;
Leave the net; also must leave their catch.
They knew to the hedge; bikes they must get,
Freezing cold, scared, tired and soaking wet.
They still had to report to work at eight,
Just dropped in at home, couldn't be late.
Dad got home that night, told us the full story,
Not a tale that will go down in glory.
Once a work, dad's mates tried to relate.
"Hold on" said the other gang "wait till you hear this, mate".
Of course, you may well have guessed by now,
Their mates we netting, telling them how.
Dad and his team instantly they knew,
The noise they heard was the other crew!
Not wanting to look silly, they didn't let on,
But passed the word when the others had gone.
None of us should ever say a single word,
To tell the truth would make all look absurd.
Choir Boy
I joined the church choir, seemed the thing to do.
Mates were in it, at least one or two.
We got paid, maybe it was the reason why,
I had a very good voice, no solos, far too shy.
About twelve of us boys, all sopranos of course.
Men, altos, tenors, baritones, why didn't he get hoarse?
St Augustine's was the church in which we sung.
Sometimes we boys, the church bells we rung,
Sometimes on Saturday, on couple's wedding days,
Work on a Saturday! Didn't mind, it pays!
Other gigs were so very, very sad,
Funerals especially of a young girl or lad.
The church had an organ, beyond its outer visage,
We knew not its range, not at this stage.
The organist, a master of music and playing,
After morning service, to test the organ, was staying.
Us lads gathered 'round to see what he'd do,
He played trumpets, drums, stringed instruments too!
Half circles of keys, four or five, knobs aplenty,
His feet flying over wood peddles, at least twenty!
We implored him to play modern, maybe a mod song.
He started to play, not a key, knob or foot wrong.
But it was jazz he was to play; trumpets, drums and saxophones.
All of us thought, including him, that we were alone.
Unbeknownst to us all, an old lady had walked in,
Heard trumpets, the Almighty has called her in.
She sat in a pew; fervently she prayed,
Got up, a very swift exit she made.
About this time a new cousin arrived.
He was about four, going on five.
Uncle had married a lady from Germany;
Mum minded him, so houses they could see.
Of course the lad, a stranger then;
Of the other's language neither could ken.
He spoke, no ken, he got very frustrated,
What he wanted he indicated.
Open mouth, point something in here,
Mum plied him with food, poor little dear.
Not hungry, well what was he thinking?
He pointed at the tap 'drinking! drinking!'
Mates were in it, at least one or two.
We got paid, maybe it was the reason why,
I had a very good voice, no solos, far too shy.
About twelve of us boys, all sopranos of course.
Men, altos, tenors, baritones, why didn't he get hoarse?
St Augustine's was the church in which we sung.
Sometimes we boys, the church bells we rung,
Sometimes on Saturday, on couple's wedding days,
Work on a Saturday! Didn't mind, it pays!
Other gigs were so very, very sad,
Funerals especially of a young girl or lad.
The church had an organ, beyond its outer visage,
We knew not its range, not at this stage.
The organist, a master of music and playing,
After morning service, to test the organ, was staying.
Us lads gathered 'round to see what he'd do,
He played trumpets, drums, stringed instruments too!
Half circles of keys, four or five, knobs aplenty,
His feet flying over wood peddles, at least twenty!
We implored him to play modern, maybe a mod song.
He started to play, not a key, knob or foot wrong.
But it was jazz he was to play; trumpets, drums and saxophones.
All of us thought, including him, that we were alone.
Unbeknownst to us all, an old lady had walked in,
Heard trumpets, the Almighty has called her in.
She sat in a pew; fervently she prayed,
Got up, a very swift exit she made.
About this time a new cousin arrived.
He was about four, going on five.
Uncle had married a lady from Germany;
Mum minded him, so houses they could see.
Of course the lad, a stranger then;
Of the other's language neither could ken.
He spoke, no ken, he got very frustrated,
What he wanted he indicated.
Open mouth, point something in here,
Mum plied him with food, poor little dear.
Not hungry, well what was he thinking?
He pointed at the tap 'drinking! drinking!'
Saturday Pictures
I don't know when we started to go
To the kids Saturday morning picture show.
I remember the cost to get us in was six pence,
I think mum gave a bob each, that would make sense.
A tuppenny tram ticket for me and my sis,
Mum sent us off with a loving hug and kiss.
We were members, a badge no special treat.
Perhaps got in sooner, there chums to meet.
Finally the movies, they would begin.
All kids shouting, what a din!
Old favorite, Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny;
Loved those cartoons, they were so funny!
Then I believe a sort of documentary.
Some were sure to fascinate me,
Next a cowboy film, starring perhaps Tom Mix, oldish gent;
All the kids would, as the name came up, they'd shout in cement!
Hopalong Cassidy I also call to mind;
White hair, black stetson, old with a fat behind!
A horse called Trigger and his rider Roy Rogers,
Both were up to all the western dodges.
In my head it was a sure fired thing,
The horse was smarter, just couldn't sing.
Of course, before we all left the ring,
We all stood, God Save the King.
Put my sister on the bus for our stop,
Then run home, like I did the butcher's shop.
Run one lamppost, to next a swift walk,
If I saw mates, no time for a talk.
Because the bus had to make several stops
I was normally first to stop by our shop.
Mum liked the morning free when we were at pics!
She makes the cakes, fighting over bowl licks.
Morning kid's pictures soon went out of fashion,
When all day Bingo became such a passion.
Some cinemas closed down due to the new television,
In our house yet there was certainly no such provision.
Airlift to Berlin, reminded me of the war.
Relief planes over our house seemed to roar.
Now the Reds and Allies were not too bold;
This was a different war, called 'Cold'!
The Reds wanted Berlin all theirs to be.
But determined Yanks, French and us kept it free.
About forty-eight nothing much more to be said.
Oh! Yes, it was then they stopped rationing bread!
All this time my paper route I plied.
No rubbish foods went in my inside.
I think us kids were much healthier then,
Not stuck inside, watching TV from morning to ten.
Up like a lark, no school, raced out to play,
Not moping around in bed most of the day.
We were fit, slim and fast on our feet,
The like today you will be lucky to meet.
To the kids Saturday morning picture show.
I remember the cost to get us in was six pence,
I think mum gave a bob each, that would make sense.
A tuppenny tram ticket for me and my sis,
Mum sent us off with a loving hug and kiss.
We were members, a badge no special treat.
Perhaps got in sooner, there chums to meet.
Finally the movies, they would begin.
All kids shouting, what a din!
Old favorite, Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny;
Loved those cartoons, they were so funny!
Then I believe a sort of documentary.
Some were sure to fascinate me,
Next a cowboy film, starring perhaps Tom Mix, oldish gent;
All the kids would, as the name came up, they'd shout in cement!
Hopalong Cassidy I also call to mind;
White hair, black stetson, old with a fat behind!
A horse called Trigger and his rider Roy Rogers,
Both were up to all the western dodges.
In my head it was a sure fired thing,
The horse was smarter, just couldn't sing.
Of course, before we all left the ring,
We all stood, God Save the King.
Put my sister on the bus for our stop,
Then run home, like I did the butcher's shop.
Run one lamppost, to next a swift walk,
If I saw mates, no time for a talk.
Because the bus had to make several stops
I was normally first to stop by our shop.
Mum liked the morning free when we were at pics!
She makes the cakes, fighting over bowl licks.
Morning kid's pictures soon went out of fashion,
When all day Bingo became such a passion.
Some cinemas closed down due to the new television,
In our house yet there was certainly no such provision.
Airlift to Berlin, reminded me of the war.
Relief planes over our house seemed to roar.
Now the Reds and Allies were not too bold;
This was a different war, called 'Cold'!
The Reds wanted Berlin all theirs to be.
But determined Yanks, French and us kept it free.
About forty-eight nothing much more to be said.
Oh! Yes, it was then they stopped rationing bread!
All this time my paper route I plied.
No rubbish foods went in my inside.
I think us kids were much healthier then,
Not stuck inside, watching TV from morning to ten.
Up like a lark, no school, raced out to play,
Not moping around in bed most of the day.
We were fit, slim and fast on our feet,
The like today you will be lucky to meet.
Mum's Job
Mum was a little tiny tot,
'Course I loved her quite a lot.
She was the one who gave discipline,
Tho' by now hardly up to my chin.
Stealing or lying was really bad.
If caught the belt was what you had.
And I still don't think it's wrong;
I knew the consequences all along.
Punishment given, she would give me a hug.
She'd kiss me; she loved her little thug!
Money was still short in our house; mum I'd see
Working in in churchman's cigarette factory.
She hated the job and that awful smell,
But the extra money helped; went down well.
Mother had a great sense of wicked fun.
Treat her right or she's give you a run.
Lots of things she taught sister and me;
To prepare lunch, dinner, or our tea.
About this time, me, under her arm she took;
Teaching me to be a worthwhile cook.
About this time we reached a very high ridge.
Mum, at the co-op, bought a gas-fired fridge.
She'd make us breakfast, sit us down,
See to us before she left for town.
We might have a porridge or a boiled egg;
Mum cut my soldiers, sister would beg.
Maybe toast with marge and marmalade,
Or just bread and jam; mum's homemade.
Occasionally we have some corn flakes,
Funny man on packet; now no one makes.
Dad had gone to work, sunshine or freeze.
Same old sarnies, thick slices of bread and cheese.
Weekends, if all of us were there,
We'd sit down to the best of fare.
Saturdays were a bit of take-your-pick,
A fry up, a salad, fish n' chips, couldn't lick.
During this period my mum would also bake
Sausage rolls, jam tarts, buns, even a fruit cake.
In the pantry she knew how much was there,
But dad would snaffle them, he didn't care.
Sis and I would quickly explain to mum,
Dad took them; or get a very sore bum!
Sundays, roast beef, pork or maybe lamb.
Maybe boiled bacon, we called a ham.
All would be served with their own sauce.
Mustard, horse radish, apple and mint of course!
Next day for dinner; lunch, so to speak,
Left over roast, and bubble an' squeak.
'Course I loved her quite a lot.
She was the one who gave discipline,
Tho' by now hardly up to my chin.
Stealing or lying was really bad.
If caught the belt was what you had.
And I still don't think it's wrong;
I knew the consequences all along.
Punishment given, she would give me a hug.
She'd kiss me; she loved her little thug!
Money was still short in our house; mum I'd see
Working in in churchman's cigarette factory.
She hated the job and that awful smell,
But the extra money helped; went down well.
Mother had a great sense of wicked fun.
Treat her right or she's give you a run.
Lots of things she taught sister and me;
To prepare lunch, dinner, or our tea.
About this time, me, under her arm she took;
Teaching me to be a worthwhile cook.
About this time we reached a very high ridge.
Mum, at the co-op, bought a gas-fired fridge.
She'd make us breakfast, sit us down,
See to us before she left for town.
We might have a porridge or a boiled egg;
Mum cut my soldiers, sister would beg.
Maybe toast with marge and marmalade,
Or just bread and jam; mum's homemade.
Occasionally we have some corn flakes,
Funny man on packet; now no one makes.
Dad had gone to work, sunshine or freeze.
Same old sarnies, thick slices of bread and cheese.
Weekends, if all of us were there,
We'd sit down to the best of fare.
Saturdays were a bit of take-your-pick,
A fry up, a salad, fish n' chips, couldn't lick.
During this period my mum would also bake
Sausage rolls, jam tarts, buns, even a fruit cake.
In the pantry she knew how much was there,
But dad would snaffle them, he didn't care.
Sis and I would quickly explain to mum,
Dad took them; or get a very sore bum!
Sundays, roast beef, pork or maybe lamb.
Maybe boiled bacon, we called a ham.
All would be served with their own sauce.
Mustard, horse radish, apple and mint of course!
Next day for dinner; lunch, so to speak,
Left over roast, and bubble an' squeak.
Dad
Things were still rationed, but now dad was home.
In the garden weeding, turning over the loam.
Pigeon in his loft, I had to clean and feed.
Raced, sometimes they would succeed.
Flowers dad grew in the garden by the road;
Chrysene, the Mum, Dahlias of which he showed.
At least two had to be the same,
Lots more to this flower showing game.
The main type shown flowered like a ball,
Shown mainly in the nearby scouting hall.
The main crops he grew were vegetables;
All sorts of things just for our table.
Of course, there were the chickens we had,
The eggs we got, we were really glad.
In those days chicken was a very dear meat,
To have one on Sunday was by way of a treat.
A couple of other meats we had for our table.
Dad would 'poach them' whenever he was able.
Pheasant, hare or a wild rabbit, so tasty.
Before Myxomatosis, so don't get so hasty.
Rabbits were caught mainly with a wire snare;
In those days, gamekeepers, the only ones to care.
Pheasants! They were now another thing.
They were caught in a gin trap spring.
Now they're banned and I'm so glad,
Caught by a foot and injured bad.
Sometimes dad and I would go for a ride,
He'd point out bird droppings on each side.
Dad told me pheasants roost up in a tree,
Droppings tell us where they are likely to be.
We'll wait in pub till there's a darkening sky,
On the way home I would soon see why!
As we would approach the spot he would hand me his trusty steed,
Slowly, quietly, forward he would creep, finger on lips, hush to keep.
If he saw the bird was there, slowly and with the greatest care,
A hit next Sunday lunch; bird for our fare.
From his poacher's pocket, fetch his wooden catapult.
Twang! Thump! Got it! Accurate to a fault!
Into his pocket that game bird would go,
A special pocket so the prize would not show.
Then it was hung behind the coal house door;
A couple of days or often several more.
Given the job, boiling water I'd plunge the bird in,
When plucking it, it saved ripping the skin.
I didn't care for it as a roasted meal,
Best casserole is how I'd always feel.
In the garden weeding, turning over the loam.
Pigeon in his loft, I had to clean and feed.
Raced, sometimes they would succeed.
Flowers dad grew in the garden by the road;
Chrysene, the Mum, Dahlias of which he showed.
At least two had to be the same,
Lots more to this flower showing game.
The main type shown flowered like a ball,
Shown mainly in the nearby scouting hall.
The main crops he grew were vegetables;
All sorts of things just for our table.
Of course, there were the chickens we had,
The eggs we got, we were really glad.
In those days chicken was a very dear meat,
To have one on Sunday was by way of a treat.
A couple of other meats we had for our table.
Dad would 'poach them' whenever he was able.
Pheasant, hare or a wild rabbit, so tasty.
Before Myxomatosis, so don't get so hasty.
Rabbits were caught mainly with a wire snare;
In those days, gamekeepers, the only ones to care.
Pheasants! They were now another thing.
They were caught in a gin trap spring.
Now they're banned and I'm so glad,
Caught by a foot and injured bad.
Sometimes dad and I would go for a ride,
He'd point out bird droppings on each side.
Dad told me pheasants roost up in a tree,
Droppings tell us where they are likely to be.
We'll wait in pub till there's a darkening sky,
On the way home I would soon see why!
As we would approach the spot he would hand me his trusty steed,
Slowly, quietly, forward he would creep, finger on lips, hush to keep.
If he saw the bird was there, slowly and with the greatest care,
A hit next Sunday lunch; bird for our fare.
From his poacher's pocket, fetch his wooden catapult.
Twang! Thump! Got it! Accurate to a fault!
Into his pocket that game bird would go,
A special pocket so the prize would not show.
Then it was hung behind the coal house door;
A couple of days or often several more.
Given the job, boiling water I'd plunge the bird in,
When plucking it, it saved ripping the skin.
I didn't care for it as a roasted meal,
Best casserole is how I'd always feel.
A Job
My dad told me "I think I've got you a job!"
"Good!" I thought "I could earn a few bob."
For this job, boy had to be twelve;
Being tall, they didn't really delve.
I'd be a newsagent's delivery lad.
As the newcomer my route was bad.
The shop, town end of the Duke's street,
Where the road and Bishop's Hill meet.
The rounds, on houses opposite Margaret Catchpole pub.
To start it from shop up a huge hill, there's the rub.
As the shop was three miles from my home,
Looked for a newsagent nearer, less to roam.
Found one near the St Augustine's church, Felixstowe road.
The snag being for an extra bob, we were delivering double the load.
Delivering mostly was not too bad; papers in a canvas sack.
Not slung; to door, insert, and then walk back.
Vicious dogs, they were a nasty pox;
Tough to reach the letter box.
Such dogs should be locked in the back,
Not place poor paperboys on the rack.
But we paperboys knew a thing or two.
After being attacked, well, wouldn't you?
Sometimes the dog would be kept inside.
A chance like this, we didn't let ride.
We'd put the paper halfway in the stop and hold;
Dog would go mad, snap at it, show it was so bold.
That day the paper could not be read,
Dog had ripped it into a shred!
On Thursdays we could not ride and post.
The Listener, Radio Times, delivered to most.
Our bags were full, placed on bike's handle bars.
Had to do two trips; delivery lasted for hours.
Sundays were almost just the same,
But Saturdays they really spoilt our game.
On this day we had to collect the dosh
From council houses, an' the what's posh!
Some customers were always out that day,
But we knew, we'd see the curtain sway!
Others always had some excuse,
Reasons they couldn't pay were so abstruse.
Perhaps if late, or hadn't collected enough,
The newsagent would often cut up rough.
But we'd pay him back for the slight pain
By leaving his paper rack out in the rain.
When raining, knock over the paper stand,
Soaking wet papers, we'd all feel grand!
All this took place before breakfast and school,
But with some money earn't we felt cool.
Two thirds of the money into the coffers went
To helping out mum, I felt like a grown up gent.
"Good!" I thought "I could earn a few bob."
For this job, boy had to be twelve;
Being tall, they didn't really delve.
I'd be a newsagent's delivery lad.
As the newcomer my route was bad.
The shop, town end of the Duke's street,
Where the road and Bishop's Hill meet.
The rounds, on houses opposite Margaret Catchpole pub.
To start it from shop up a huge hill, there's the rub.
As the shop was three miles from my home,
Looked for a newsagent nearer, less to roam.
Found one near the St Augustine's church, Felixstowe road.
The snag being for an extra bob, we were delivering double the load.
Delivering mostly was not too bad; papers in a canvas sack.
Not slung; to door, insert, and then walk back.
Vicious dogs, they were a nasty pox;
Tough to reach the letter box.
Such dogs should be locked in the back,
Not place poor paperboys on the rack.
But we paperboys knew a thing or two.
After being attacked, well, wouldn't you?
Sometimes the dog would be kept inside.
A chance like this, we didn't let ride.
We'd put the paper halfway in the stop and hold;
Dog would go mad, snap at it, show it was so bold.
That day the paper could not be read,
Dog had ripped it into a shred!
On Thursdays we could not ride and post.
The Listener, Radio Times, delivered to most.
Our bags were full, placed on bike's handle bars.
Had to do two trips; delivery lasted for hours.
Sundays were almost just the same,
But Saturdays they really spoilt our game.
On this day we had to collect the dosh
From council houses, an' the what's posh!
Some customers were always out that day,
But we knew, we'd see the curtain sway!
Others always had some excuse,
Reasons they couldn't pay were so abstruse.
Perhaps if late, or hadn't collected enough,
The newsagent would often cut up rough.
But we'd pay him back for the slight pain
By leaving his paper rack out in the rain.
When raining, knock over the paper stand,
Soaking wet papers, we'd all feel grand!
All this took place before breakfast and school,
But with some money earn't we felt cool.
Two thirds of the money into the coffers went
To helping out mum, I felt like a grown up gent.
Southend
The wives in their best bib and tuckers;
Men in suits, flat caps like their muckers.
I still have a copy of the 'official' photograph,
I look at it now and still have a laugh.
Photo taken, head count done, board the charabanc,
Police standing by, loved to have nicked the whole gang.
A box of sarnies on each of the couple of single-Decker bus;
Ladies, when they saw the many crates of beer, began to fuss.
Cackling of women, shouting at the men, could send you 'round the bend.
Where were we going? To the favorite stop of Londoners - Southend!
In fact, the full name of the resort was "Southend on the Sea";
Later, when we got there, I found the name a puzzle to me.
Oh! Yes it looked like the seaside when we first arrived.
All of the huts, ice cream, jellied eel, for which many dived.
Many opted for a trip on the paddle steamer as we arrived.
You know, the famous one of Dunkirk, that just survived.
Of course, it was a very great thrill; huge paddle, covering round,
To be on such a famous ship; to a museum anyway, still around!
Back to where we started, the men were all well oiled.
When I looked to see the sea, the trip for me was spoiled.
The sea had gone miles away; at least a tidy spell.
The beach, black, muddy, and my life, did it smell!
More whelks, jellied eels, some men feeling queer.
Something they'd eaten? Couldn't be that gallon of beer!
Fish and chips, wrapped in old newspaper;
Getting on the bus, what a caper!
Counting ten times got very wearing.
Drunks wives, crossed arms, glaring!
More sober ones tried numbers to tally.
Found the lot, onto the bus, there to rally.
Off we went, some heads were spinning,
Then all in the bus started the singing.
Even those who looked quite sick and pale
Put down themselves a lot more of the ale.
Stop! There's that bunch of trees we seek!
All men tumbled out to take a leak.
Ladies waited until the next nearest pub.
The men roused, more beer, that's lovely grub.
Again it took near half an hour; now too soon
To drag them from bar, the snug, even the saloon.
The two hour journey took four or more,
To pour out each by their front door.
Next time they took a trip down to the sea,
One thing was certain, you didn't see me!
Men in suits, flat caps like their muckers.
I still have a copy of the 'official' photograph,
I look at it now and still have a laugh.
Photo taken, head count done, board the charabanc,
Police standing by, loved to have nicked the whole gang.
A box of sarnies on each of the couple of single-Decker bus;
Ladies, when they saw the many crates of beer, began to fuss.
Cackling of women, shouting at the men, could send you 'round the bend.
Where were we going? To the favorite stop of Londoners - Southend!
In fact, the full name of the resort was "Southend on the Sea";
Later, when we got there, I found the name a puzzle to me.
Oh! Yes it looked like the seaside when we first arrived.
All of the huts, ice cream, jellied eel, for which many dived.
Many opted for a trip on the paddle steamer as we arrived.
You know, the famous one of Dunkirk, that just survived.
Of course, it was a very great thrill; huge paddle, covering round,
To be on such a famous ship; to a museum anyway, still around!
Back to where we started, the men were all well oiled.
When I looked to see the sea, the trip for me was spoiled.
The sea had gone miles away; at least a tidy spell.
The beach, black, muddy, and my life, did it smell!
More whelks, jellied eels, some men feeling queer.
Something they'd eaten? Couldn't be that gallon of beer!
Fish and chips, wrapped in old newspaper;
Getting on the bus, what a caper!
Counting ten times got very wearing.
Drunks wives, crossed arms, glaring!
More sober ones tried numbers to tally.
Found the lot, onto the bus, there to rally.
Off we went, some heads were spinning,
Then all in the bus started the singing.
Even those who looked quite sick and pale
Put down themselves a lot more of the ale.
Stop! There's that bunch of trees we seek!
All men tumbled out to take a leak.
Ladies waited until the next nearest pub.
The men roused, more beer, that's lovely grub.
Again it took near half an hour; now too soon
To drag them from bar, the snug, even the saloon.
The two hour journey took four or more,
To pour out each by their front door.
Next time they took a trip down to the sea,
One thing was certain, you didn't see me!
The Outing
This rusty looking engine, could it be for real?
I think the way it worked was to spin a flywheel.
Against incoming tide we were really so slow,
But at about four knots, slowly we did seaward go.
We'd slowly make our way out off the Fludgers Arms.
A discharge pipe was there, we fished with no alarms.
Between the four of us we had no proper rods,
All made up of bits, all made of odds and sods.
We all had fishing reels; old ones made of wood.
Had to feel for a bite, of it became quite good.
Flat fish, Pollock, Flounders and four or five pound Codling,
Back home for supper this bounty we'd bring.
On their way back to our berth, someone would start a song,
It wasn't the fish, perhaps the rum, we'd fished for far too long!
Dad prepared the fish, mum cooked chips and fish in batter;
Chips fresh, but I'll never have fish again as good as the latter.
It must have been about this time, the dockers had their outing,
Of course, it could have been later in date, of that there's doubting.
I remember we all met outside the dockers canteen,
A more motley crew would be hard to be seen.
I think the way it worked was to spin a flywheel.
Against incoming tide we were really so slow,
But at about four knots, slowly we did seaward go.
We'd slowly make our way out off the Fludgers Arms.
A discharge pipe was there, we fished with no alarms.
Between the four of us we had no proper rods,
All made up of bits, all made of odds and sods.
We all had fishing reels; old ones made of wood.
Had to feel for a bite, of it became quite good.
Flat fish, Pollock, Flounders and four or five pound Codling,
Back home for supper this bounty we'd bring.
On their way back to our berth, someone would start a song,
It wasn't the fish, perhaps the rum, we'd fished for far too long!
Dad prepared the fish, mum cooked chips and fish in batter;
Chips fresh, but I'll never have fish again as good as the latter.
It must have been about this time, the dockers had their outing,
Of course, it could have been later in date, of that there's doubting.
I remember we all met outside the dockers canteen,
A more motley crew would be hard to be seen.
Our Gaff
Of our house, not much to be said;
Bricks and roof tiles, all in red.
Council owned, like all in our road.
Not much of a place, our abode.
On the door, a letterbox and rocker;
Key on a string tied on that knocker.
No fancy doorbell for you to ring,
Go around the back, walk right in.
Each side a small window, glass frosted well.
Bigger ones above, landing and my bedroom cell.
To the side was our back door,
The other opening to the ground floor.
To the right, a window four by four,
Letting light over the sink to pour.
Small window left there, it would seem,
To let out from bathroom all the steam.
'Round the corner, shoulder high wooden door
So coal man in his nutty slack could pour.
Next to the room where we did most living,
A six by four window, most light to us giving.
Two windows second floor to the beds
Where parents and sister made their z's.
Go in the door, one at the side, called back;
Kitchen sink, stove, a wood draining rack.
The stove, gas, old fashioned and grey.
When brand new, looked as if it had its day.
Above the sink was a cold water tap.
One other, above bath, where it was at.
This part of the house red brick, not nice.
In the winter time was as cold as ice.
Cold body, cold feet, I am telling you.
Mum lit the oven, she just had to do.
Above the sink on the tiled window sill,
A tin can holder, I can see it still.
Soap bits in it, mum would give it a few swishes,
Our liquid soap to wash up the dishes.
Bathroom, a copper, fired by coal or mainly wood.
No sink, an iron bath, clawed feet on which it stood.
Each week mum would do her major wash.
No machines, soap powder, all that tosh.
She would fire up copper till it got hot;
In bits of soap, sheets, towels, most all we'd got.
Sometimes after this I was left in charge,
But I was trained for the job, albeit large.
Poked and stirred with the copper stick
Until the water turned white and thick.
Into the the bath which was very near,
Rinsed till water ran quite clear.
Sort stuff out, ensure they didn't tangle,
Then put the lot through the mangle.
Hang on the line, what a lovely sight,
Flapping there, sheets a brilliant white.
Our fireplace, black, with its swinging arms.
Had to 'Zebbo' it, to add to its charms.
This our living room; a cheap sideboard
Where what valuables we had were stored.
In the corner a wind-up gramophone;
Told to leave that well alone.
We lived there for twenty-five years,
Knew no different, just like our peers.
Thus ended forty-seven, no more to tell.
After that winter, probably just as well.
Snow now, way into nineteen forty-eight.
School, or just wandering with a mate.
Often we would take off on our bike,
To other end of town, quite a hike.
Under or near a bridge on river, gipping,
Fishing for 'sticklebacks' go gripping.
The river then, more or less a stream,
In those days was remarkably clean.
With rod, net or what-me-not,
In jam jar the things we got.
A story I remember from that time of day,
As shoe and sockless we would carefree play.
This river, to the Orwell, then down to the sea
Was how Ipswich got its name to be?
In Saxon times the river had no name,
Told here's how Ipswich had got to fame.
The local headman was very well known,
In those far-off days, even before the phone.
The village he headed was called his name,
A wick before the the name of village ever came.
Then it was always known as 'Gyppes Wick'.
Over the ages, this evolved to Ipswich.
This is how the name Ipswich came told to me,
True or not, well just wait and see.
I also remember, dad took me to watch the town,
Third division south, no further to go down.
I remember only one player, bald, was called Mac.
Looked old, tubby, played at fullback.
Didn't go often, town wasn't that good,
Not much of a crowd, alone where we stood.
My swimming, no training, certainly no mentor,
But I kept winning, up front and center.
I was quite fair at freestyle, my best breaststroke;
Keep just behind first lad, then go for broke.
Sometimes dad would take me evenings to fish.
Very rarely would we catch any to put on a dish.
Then one day dad, proud as he could be,
He had acquired a boat, we could fish at sea.
He showed me a clinker-built heavy barge tender.
"Dad, you'll never row it!" as it bumped on its fender.
"Don't worry, boy. It has an engine, a Stanley,
That does the work an' takes us to sea!"
To make it heavier, as if he could somehow?
He built a lock up cab right in the bow.
Got it berthed, old Felixstowe, river Derwent.
Never asked how; method was probably bent!
It was quite some time before I had my first trip,
His stevedore mates were often out on his ship.
One day he asked me if I would like to go,
Four of us, just as well if we had to row.
One had a car, took us all to the river;
Packed sarnies, a bottle of rum for their liver!
We got to the boat, boarded, ready to go,
Single cylinder 'Stanley' progress was slow.
Bricks and roof tiles, all in red.
Council owned, like all in our road.
Not much of a place, our abode.
On the door, a letterbox and rocker;
Key on a string tied on that knocker.
No fancy doorbell for you to ring,
Go around the back, walk right in.
Each side a small window, glass frosted well.
Bigger ones above, landing and my bedroom cell.
To the side was our back door,
The other opening to the ground floor.
To the right, a window four by four,
Letting light over the sink to pour.
Small window left there, it would seem,
To let out from bathroom all the steam.
'Round the corner, shoulder high wooden door
So coal man in his nutty slack could pour.
Next to the room where we did most living,
A six by four window, most light to us giving.
Two windows second floor to the beds
Where parents and sister made their z's.
Go in the door, one at the side, called back;
Kitchen sink, stove, a wood draining rack.
The stove, gas, old fashioned and grey.
When brand new, looked as if it had its day.
Above the sink was a cold water tap.
One other, above bath, where it was at.
This part of the house red brick, not nice.
In the winter time was as cold as ice.
Cold body, cold feet, I am telling you.
Mum lit the oven, she just had to do.
Above the sink on the tiled window sill,
A tin can holder, I can see it still.
Soap bits in it, mum would give it a few swishes,
Our liquid soap to wash up the dishes.
Bathroom, a copper, fired by coal or mainly wood.
No sink, an iron bath, clawed feet on which it stood.
Each week mum would do her major wash.
No machines, soap powder, all that tosh.
She would fire up copper till it got hot;
In bits of soap, sheets, towels, most all we'd got.
Sometimes after this I was left in charge,
But I was trained for the job, albeit large.
Poked and stirred with the copper stick
Until the water turned white and thick.
Into the the bath which was very near,
Rinsed till water ran quite clear.
Sort stuff out, ensure they didn't tangle,
Then put the lot through the mangle.
Hang on the line, what a lovely sight,
Flapping there, sheets a brilliant white.
Our fireplace, black, with its swinging arms.
Had to 'Zebbo' it, to add to its charms.
This our living room; a cheap sideboard
Where what valuables we had were stored.
In the corner a wind-up gramophone;
Told to leave that well alone.
We lived there for twenty-five years,
Knew no different, just like our peers.
Thus ended forty-seven, no more to tell.
After that winter, probably just as well.
Snow now, way into nineteen forty-eight.
School, or just wandering with a mate.
Often we would take off on our bike,
To other end of town, quite a hike.
Under or near a bridge on river, gipping,
Fishing for 'sticklebacks' go gripping.
The river then, more or less a stream,
In those days was remarkably clean.
With rod, net or what-me-not,
In jam jar the things we got.
A story I remember from that time of day,
As shoe and sockless we would carefree play.
This river, to the Orwell, then down to the sea
Was how Ipswich got its name to be?
In Saxon times the river had no name,
Told here's how Ipswich had got to fame.
The local headman was very well known,
In those far-off days, even before the phone.
The village he headed was called his name,
A wick before the the name of village ever came.
Then it was always known as 'Gyppes Wick'.
Over the ages, this evolved to Ipswich.
This is how the name Ipswich came told to me,
True or not, well just wait and see.
I also remember, dad took me to watch the town,
Third division south, no further to go down.
I remember only one player, bald, was called Mac.
Looked old, tubby, played at fullback.
Didn't go often, town wasn't that good,
Not much of a crowd, alone where we stood.
My swimming, no training, certainly no mentor,
But I kept winning, up front and center.
I was quite fair at freestyle, my best breaststroke;
Keep just behind first lad, then go for broke.
Sometimes dad would take me evenings to fish.
Very rarely would we catch any to put on a dish.
Then one day dad, proud as he could be,
He had acquired a boat, we could fish at sea.
He showed me a clinker-built heavy barge tender.
"Dad, you'll never row it!" as it bumped on its fender.
"Don't worry, boy. It has an engine, a Stanley,
That does the work an' takes us to sea!"
To make it heavier, as if he could somehow?
He built a lock up cab right in the bow.
Got it berthed, old Felixstowe, river Derwent.
Never asked how; method was probably bent!
It was quite some time before I had my first trip,
His stevedore mates were often out on his ship.
One day he asked me if I would like to go,
Four of us, just as well if we had to row.
One had a car, took us all to the river;
Packed sarnies, a bottle of rum for their liver!
We got to the boat, boarded, ready to go,
Single cylinder 'Stanley' progress was slow.
1947
All this time, mum, to help bring in some more cash,
Off to her work, morn afternoon, night would bash.
She cleaned offices, shops, ladies houses part-time;
Anything to bring in a few more dime.
Off on her bike, day and night she'd ride.
I know she would have loved to stay by our side.
But dad's money was so very poor,
She had to work to make some more.
In March forty-seven, biggest floods ever seen,
School leaver's age was raised to fifteen.
Elizabeth gave our country a welcome boost;
Phillip, new hubby married, home to roost.
During this year, for me quite a change.
Got long trousers, they did feel strange.
Then I also became a scouting boy,
Helped them win the swimming cup, to their joy.
Scouts were not quite my cup of tea,
So I joined sea cadets, never off to sea.
I don't think I was long with them either,
Just not right, scouts or sea cadets neither.
Spent too much time marching up and down,
Either in the hut, or in some little town.
I don't suppose it happens in schools now,
Seemed a regular affliction then, somehow.
The real poor kids got covered in 'nits'.
It gave the rest of us the blinkin' ****?
Getting them in class seemed to be a curse,
We got a regular visit from the 'nit' nurse.
Didn't matter if you had them or not,
If she found in the class, she treated the lot.
Horrible stuff was put on your head,
Killed the little blighters dead.
Oldsters reading this I bet would catch,
All giving their heads a damn good scratch.
Sister and I never seemed to get ill,
A nasty cough maybe, if you will.
German fever and, of course, the mumps,
All things seemed to bring out various bumps.
Nothing broken I can recall,
Even resulting from a heavy fall.
Of course we had a scrape or bruise;
Running, climbing, just as we'd choose.
One thing I did that hurt like a wason fire,
When running in woods, ran into barbed wire.
Five centimeter scar from that wooded tour,
Last act for me of the Second World War.
Off to her work, morn afternoon, night would bash.
She cleaned offices, shops, ladies houses part-time;
Anything to bring in a few more dime.
Off on her bike, day and night she'd ride.
I know she would have loved to stay by our side.
But dad's money was so very poor,
She had to work to make some more.
In March forty-seven, biggest floods ever seen,
School leaver's age was raised to fifteen.
Elizabeth gave our country a welcome boost;
Phillip, new hubby married, home to roost.
During this year, for me quite a change.
Got long trousers, they did feel strange.
Then I also became a scouting boy,
Helped them win the swimming cup, to their joy.
Scouts were not quite my cup of tea,
So I joined sea cadets, never off to sea.
I don't think I was long with them either,
Just not right, scouts or sea cadets neither.
Spent too much time marching up and down,
Either in the hut, or in some little town.
I don't suppose it happens in schools now,
Seemed a regular affliction then, somehow.
The real poor kids got covered in 'nits'.
It gave the rest of us the blinkin' ****?
Getting them in class seemed to be a curse,
We got a regular visit from the 'nit' nurse.
Didn't matter if you had them or not,
If she found in the class, she treated the lot.
Horrible stuff was put on your head,
Killed the little blighters dead.
Oldsters reading this I bet would catch,
All giving their heads a damn good scratch.
Sister and I never seemed to get ill,
A nasty cough maybe, if you will.
German fever and, of course, the mumps,
All things seemed to bring out various bumps.
Nothing broken I can recall,
Even resulting from a heavy fall.
Of course we had a scrape or bruise;
Running, climbing, just as we'd choose.
One thing I did that hurt like a wason fire,
When running in woods, ran into barbed wire.
Five centimeter scar from that wooded tour,
Last act for me of the Second World War.
Winter
Winter was coming, cooler, earlier dark.
No wandering to play in the local park.
We played more games under our street lamp.
Too cold? Earlier to our homes we'd tramp.
No TV then, at which we could look.
The radio; or read a history book.
Often, quite early we would go to bed,
Pulling the covers over our head.
This wasn't because we were none too bold,
But because the bedroom was freezing cold.
We'd go out during the day, we wrapped warm as we could.
Only to get mushrooms; look for chestnuts in local wood.
Let me explain what we poor had to wear;
Short trousers, grey flannel, we didn't care.
I wore no underwear till about this time.
All trousers were line, as were all mine.
I had two pairs of 'strides' as dad would say.
One pair playing and any 'working' day.
The other pair for best, was all I had.
No 'hand me downs' no brother; too big a dad.
Shorts were the same; cotton for best.
Maybe two, or flannels, made up the rest.
Stockings, or long socks, say what you will,
All my clothes a drawer would not fill.
I had a school tie and a silly school cap.
Never wore them and that was that.
Lastly a coat, made from a thin blanket, a jacket,
A 'lumber jacket' cheap, didn't cost a packet.
Footwear, I was in the same boat too.
What I had just would have to do!
Secondhand boots, acquired by my mum,
I was pleased with them, I'll tell you chum.
I was pleased with them, they fitted of course.
More metal on soles than the milkman's horse.
Studs on soles, with a 'blakey' on each heel
Sparked! Made a noise; how good did I feel?
When the snow began, off sledging to the park go,
But the sled runs were no good, too much snow.
After a few minutes, we had had enough,
Realized the weather was far too tough.
Before we got home, things got beyond the norm,
We had big winds, then a snowstorm!
I made my way to school next day;
Still snowing, half the kids had stayed away.
This the winter of forty-six and seven,
The snow must just about emptied heaven.
Got up next day to about two foot of snow;
Mum "Wrap up well, then out you can go!"
Sister in liberty bodice, dress, jumper, stocking;
Once outside we found the cold was shocking!
No winter gear, no hat, gloves, socks to my knees.
Within a few minutes, felt that I would freeze!
"Mum" I said "I'm cold, my hands, my knees and my ears!"
"I'll see what I can do. Come in again my little dears."
She put her stocking on me, dad's socks for gloves,
Scarf over my head, sister done too. "If you must, out loves."
All this extra stuff, went out, it was just no good!
We began freezing just where we stood.
Still it snowed; overhead the sky was so black,
Dad had cycled to work, only just made it back.
We stayed indoors, radio, reading, playing a game
But confined by the fire, warm but not the same!
Early to bed, it might seem to be alright,
But having to lay there, freezing all night.
Early next morning, I must have slept,
Crawled out of bed so cold, I nearly wept.
Scraped ice from the window so I could see,
But what I saw quite astonished me!
Normally I'd see the light across the street,
But my window was covered, snow fifteen feet!
The front of our house was covered by a drift,
Dad battled all day, all that snow to shift.
Still the snow, all day wafted down,
Flakes were bigger than a silver crown.
Dad remarked "Surely there can't be much more!"
As he clung and stamped inside back door.
That second night turned on the radio
Trying to find when the snow would go.
They said the snow, from Russia it came.
Dad said "Why don't the **** take it back again?"
I cannot remember, but winter seemed so long.
Talk about White Christmas, as in the song.
Lots of things then came to a halt,
Everyone blaming the snow as the fault.
But every time it snows in our land,
Things just seem to get out of hand.
But eventually got back on the track.
Pity really, school took us all back!
No wandering to play in the local park.
We played more games under our street lamp.
Too cold? Earlier to our homes we'd tramp.
No TV then, at which we could look.
The radio; or read a history book.
Often, quite early we would go to bed,
Pulling the covers over our head.
This wasn't because we were none too bold,
But because the bedroom was freezing cold.
We'd go out during the day, we wrapped warm as we could.
Only to get mushrooms; look for chestnuts in local wood.
Let me explain what we poor had to wear;
Short trousers, grey flannel, we didn't care.
I wore no underwear till about this time.
All trousers were line, as were all mine.
I had two pairs of 'strides' as dad would say.
One pair playing and any 'working' day.
The other pair for best, was all I had.
No 'hand me downs' no brother; too big a dad.
Shorts were the same; cotton for best.
Maybe two, or flannels, made up the rest.
Stockings, or long socks, say what you will,
All my clothes a drawer would not fill.
I had a school tie and a silly school cap.
Never wore them and that was that.
Lastly a coat, made from a thin blanket, a jacket,
A 'lumber jacket' cheap, didn't cost a packet.
Footwear, I was in the same boat too.
What I had just would have to do!
Secondhand boots, acquired by my mum,
I was pleased with them, I'll tell you chum.
I was pleased with them, they fitted of course.
More metal on soles than the milkman's horse.
Studs on soles, with a 'blakey' on each heel
Sparked! Made a noise; how good did I feel?
When the snow began, off sledging to the park go,
But the sled runs were no good, too much snow.
After a few minutes, we had had enough,
Realized the weather was far too tough.
Before we got home, things got beyond the norm,
We had big winds, then a snowstorm!
I made my way to school next day;
Still snowing, half the kids had stayed away.
This the winter of forty-six and seven,
The snow must just about emptied heaven.
Got up next day to about two foot of snow;
Mum "Wrap up well, then out you can go!"
Sister in liberty bodice, dress, jumper, stocking;
Once outside we found the cold was shocking!
No winter gear, no hat, gloves, socks to my knees.
Within a few minutes, felt that I would freeze!
"Mum" I said "I'm cold, my hands, my knees and my ears!"
"I'll see what I can do. Come in again my little dears."
She put her stocking on me, dad's socks for gloves,
Scarf over my head, sister done too. "If you must, out loves."
All this extra stuff, went out, it was just no good!
We began freezing just where we stood.
Still it snowed; overhead the sky was so black,
Dad had cycled to work, only just made it back.
We stayed indoors, radio, reading, playing a game
But confined by the fire, warm but not the same!
Early to bed, it might seem to be alright,
But having to lay there, freezing all night.
Early next morning, I must have slept,
Crawled out of bed so cold, I nearly wept.
Scraped ice from the window so I could see,
But what I saw quite astonished me!
Normally I'd see the light across the street,
But my window was covered, snow fifteen feet!
The front of our house was covered by a drift,
Dad battled all day, all that snow to shift.
Still the snow, all day wafted down,
Flakes were bigger than a silver crown.
Dad remarked "Surely there can't be much more!"
As he clung and stamped inside back door.
That second night turned on the radio
Trying to find when the snow would go.
They said the snow, from Russia it came.
Dad said "Why don't the **** take it back again?"
I cannot remember, but winter seemed so long.
Talk about White Christmas, as in the song.
Lots of things then came to a halt,
Everyone blaming the snow as the fault.
But every time it snows in our land,
Things just seem to get out of hand.
But eventually got back on the track.
Pity really, school took us all back!
Senior School
That long, sultry summer now at an end,
Off to the seniors school, to main road, 'round the bend
Many hundred girls and boys, a frightening place.
In those days not one coloured face!
What learning would this new place bring?
Thinking about their sort of discipline
After a few weeks, found much the same.
Little education, more of the cane.
The cane administered to the naughty sort.
Answer: don't do it, or don't get caught!
Boys and girls treated just as one.
Caught and disciplined for what they'd done.
Don't go home for sympathy and tell your mum.
You must have deserved it, gave you another one.
This sort of discipline never bothered us.
Either toe the line, if not, make no fuss,
One teacher who wouldn't upset the lesson's flow.
Before he started, caned six of us, "Off you go!"
"But sir" we said "we've done nothing wrong!"
"Ar, but I know you will before long!"
I believe each lesson was only twenty minutes or so;
By the time we'd start it was time to go.
Dancing taught, marching forming mixed rings;
We hated girls! They thought us smelly things!
We tried hard in this stupid useless class.
Wrong? Size twelve slippers tanned your arse.
Teachers seemed useless; don't know where they got them.
Sent them to our missed school; started at the bottom.
There another rough game was played.
To play, volunteers we were never made.
Ten to a team, first boy bent, held window sill,
The rest of the team, same behind, and still.
The others leapfrogged over as far as they could.
More and more, as long as the first team stood.
If all ten got on, with no collapse,
The first team were the winning chaps.
First team collapsing under the weight,
They'd had it, try again at a later date.
"British Bulldog" was it the name of this rough?
A couple of goes, all had had quite enough.
Flicking of ciggy cards to a wall,
Nearest one took the cards - yes, one and all!
Off to the seniors school, to main road, 'round the bend
Many hundred girls and boys, a frightening place.
In those days not one coloured face!
What learning would this new place bring?
Thinking about their sort of discipline
After a few weeks, found much the same.
Little education, more of the cane.
The cane administered to the naughty sort.
Answer: don't do it, or don't get caught!
Boys and girls treated just as one.
Caught and disciplined for what they'd done.
Don't go home for sympathy and tell your mum.
You must have deserved it, gave you another one.
This sort of discipline never bothered us.
Either toe the line, if not, make no fuss,
One teacher who wouldn't upset the lesson's flow.
Before he started, caned six of us, "Off you go!"
"But sir" we said "we've done nothing wrong!"
"Ar, but I know you will before long!"
I believe each lesson was only twenty minutes or so;
By the time we'd start it was time to go.
Dancing taught, marching forming mixed rings;
We hated girls! They thought us smelly things!
We tried hard in this stupid useless class.
Wrong? Size twelve slippers tanned your arse.
Teachers seemed useless; don't know where they got them.
Sent them to our missed school; started at the bottom.
There another rough game was played.
To play, volunteers we were never made.
Ten to a team, first boy bent, held window sill,
The rest of the team, same behind, and still.
The others leapfrogged over as far as they could.
More and more, as long as the first team stood.
If all ten got on, with no collapse,
The first team were the winning chaps.
First team collapsing under the weight,
They'd had it, try again at a later date.
"British Bulldog" was it the name of this rough?
A couple of goes, all had had quite enough.
Flicking of ciggy cards to a wall,
Nearest one took the cards - yes, one and all!
Childhood - 11+
This year, my last in the junior school just down the street,
Where I knew practically every one in there I'd meet.
Teachers began to talk of an exam called the eleven plus,
And for them, who seemed not to care, they made a fuss!
I asked my mum "What is all this to-do?"
She told me it is so important for you.
Like the teachers, it may decide your future career,
But your past results show you have nothing to fear.
I continued in, lead up to exams, to come in the top three.
Sailed through exams, they never bothered me.
Pass and you will go to the Ipswich Grammar;
There to "Uni", that was just the hammer.
I began to think, fail this one
Future life will be over and done.
Although our form were mostly working class,
Some were very bright; I knew a lot would pass.
Came the day, at desks in the assembly hall,
A strange atmosphere to one and all.
We all did the various test papers.
No calculators, ticked in box capers.
I must admit I was nervous as hell;
I knew I'd pass, but not all that well.
When I got home and told my dad,
"Past work will count, don't worry lad!"
It turned out twenty-two of our class passed.
Earlier results didn't count, just this last.
So many passes and just a few to go, we all knew,
Despite results, all was decided by an interview!
Now, I ask you, when you were just eleven?
Did you know what you wanted at twenty-seven?
Good at drawing, art I decided to select;
My future to be an architect.
Next question, "What was it, my father's job?"
I told him, nervously, a coughing sob.
"My father is a docker, please sir!"
"What kind of doctor?" slight smile infer.
He did this as he ticked the entry box,
I didn't have the guile then, like a fox,
"No sir! Not a doctor - a docker!" I said.
He crossed the papers with ink of red!
So my future was decided right then
When he crossed that paper with that pen.
So I was destined to just the senior school,
Education would not be a future tool.
Looking back, most couldn't afford the uniform;
That then was obviously quite the norm.
At the most, only two or three finally went;
All their dads was a white collar gent!
Where I knew practically every one in there I'd meet.
Teachers began to talk of an exam called the eleven plus,
And for them, who seemed not to care, they made a fuss!
I asked my mum "What is all this to-do?"
She told me it is so important for you.
Like the teachers, it may decide your future career,
But your past results show you have nothing to fear.
I continued in, lead up to exams, to come in the top three.
Sailed through exams, they never bothered me.
Pass and you will go to the Ipswich Grammar;
There to "Uni", that was just the hammer.
I began to think, fail this one
Future life will be over and done.
Although our form were mostly working class,
Some were very bright; I knew a lot would pass.
Came the day, at desks in the assembly hall,
A strange atmosphere to one and all.
We all did the various test papers.
No calculators, ticked in box capers.
I must admit I was nervous as hell;
I knew I'd pass, but not all that well.
When I got home and told my dad,
"Past work will count, don't worry lad!"
It turned out twenty-two of our class passed.
Earlier results didn't count, just this last.
So many passes and just a few to go, we all knew,
Despite results, all was decided by an interview!
Now, I ask you, when you were just eleven?
Did you know what you wanted at twenty-seven?
Good at drawing, art I decided to select;
My future to be an architect.
Next question, "What was it, my father's job?"
I told him, nervously, a coughing sob.
"My father is a docker, please sir!"
"What kind of doctor?" slight smile infer.
He did this as he ticked the entry box,
I didn't have the guile then, like a fox,
"No sir! Not a doctor - a docker!" I said.
He crossed the papers with ink of red!
So my future was decided right then
When he crossed that paper with that pen.
So I was destined to just the senior school,
Education would not be a future tool.
Looking back, most couldn't afford the uniform;
That then was obviously quite the norm.
At the most, only two or three finally went;
All their dads was a white collar gent!
Swimming and a Job
All my babyhood now long since gone,
Life for me seemed to just plod along.
There were great big floods of our land,
Thankfully not too close at hand.
Still the swimming lessons by the school,
But I, like a fish, was in the pool.
Some lads and lasses trained for swimming team,
Although underage, I'll show them what I mean.
I beat the lad picked for inter-school race,
Teacher decided I should take that boy's place.
I cannot remember when the inter-school gala was,
I suppose I was too excited at the time because...
I managed to come in first place!
Seeing the grin on my boyish face,
Dad advised "Don't you set the pace.
Remember it's first home wins the race!"
That summer of forty-seven, what a belter!
Hot and humid, about 90 degrees; made all swelter.
We all went down to the pool 'Pipersvale',
Started off beginning of summer all very pale.
By August we were tanned almost black,
Mums used to scrub our neck and back.
It was like that the whole summertime,
Mum scrubbing our tan, thinking it was grime.
About this time I took a little job
As a way to earn a couple of bob.
I helped in the local fish 'n chip shop,
Eyeing spuds, giving dud'ns the chop.
I tipped them from their delivery sack;
Keep on going, I had no time to slack.
They went into a big whirling spinner,
The roughened sides a spud peel skinner.
Taking a sharp knife, I took out all the eyes.
This operation with great care, if you were wise.
Next I put them into a machine quite near;
Making sure my fingers were very clear.
This machine chopped the spuds into chips,
Into a big dustbin, in water they slips.
In those days fish 'n chips were cooked in lard,
Came in a square box; heavy, solid and hard.
Meal cooked, drained and placed in grease-proof sack.
Then newspaper wrapped, to be eaten going back.
That fish, those chips, seemed much tastier when
Having eaten all, you could read the newspaper then!
Life for me seemed to just plod along.
There were great big floods of our land,
Thankfully not too close at hand.
Still the swimming lessons by the school,
But I, like a fish, was in the pool.
Some lads and lasses trained for swimming team,
Although underage, I'll show them what I mean.
I beat the lad picked for inter-school race,
Teacher decided I should take that boy's place.
I cannot remember when the inter-school gala was,
I suppose I was too excited at the time because...
I managed to come in first place!
Seeing the grin on my boyish face,
Dad advised "Don't you set the pace.
Remember it's first home wins the race!"
That summer of forty-seven, what a belter!
Hot and humid, about 90 degrees; made all swelter.
We all went down to the pool 'Pipersvale',
Started off beginning of summer all very pale.
By August we were tanned almost black,
Mums used to scrub our neck and back.
It was like that the whole summertime,
Mum scrubbing our tan, thinking it was grime.
About this time I took a little job
As a way to earn a couple of bob.
I helped in the local fish 'n chip shop,
Eyeing spuds, giving dud'ns the chop.
I tipped them from their delivery sack;
Keep on going, I had no time to slack.
They went into a big whirling spinner,
The roughened sides a spud peel skinner.
Taking a sharp knife, I took out all the eyes.
This operation with great care, if you were wise.
Next I put them into a machine quite near;
Making sure my fingers were very clear.
This machine chopped the spuds into chips,
Into a big dustbin, in water they slips.
In those days fish 'n chips were cooked in lard,
Came in a square box; heavy, solid and hard.
Meal cooked, drained and placed in grease-proof sack.
Then newspaper wrapped, to be eaten going back.
That fish, those chips, seemed much tastier when
Having eaten all, you could read the newspaper then!
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