THE HOME GARDENING CLUB.

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The Home Gardening Club.

After the war, when life could only get better. Everyone was
encouraged to garden at home and grow their own food.
Council houses were built with large gardens and at least
'one' fruit tree to get people started.
A sort of 'Home gardening club' really.

I mentioned in one of my first posts that my dad was a gardener/
handyman. Well, gardening really WAS his forte`. His fingers
were so green they almost lit up in the dark. Our back garden at
home was filled to overflowing with every traditional vegetable
known to man, with pride of place being given to the runner beans,
sprouts and cabbage. The potato's which took up about a third
of the garden were a 'given' anyway, and we had two apple trees
that produced bumper crops of the tastiest apples imaginable.

Having said that, in the early days, we had an orchard almost next
door, (before development became the 'buzz-word') and we kids
would go scrumping there to get the 'cookers', plums, cherries,
damsons, gooseberries, etc, etc, etc. So basically we were
virtually self-sufficient.

You don't really see it now, what with the 'Nanny-State' protecting
us all from ourselves as they like to. But in the 50's & 60's it wasn't
at all unusual for people to leave boxes of surplus vegetables & fruit
on the path outside their house for any passers-by to take if they
needed it. Now that really WAS a 'Home Gardening Club', where
the whole village shared in each others good fortune. Those who
weren't quite as greenfingered could still benefit from those who
were. The home and garden were one and we all benefitted.

Another benefit of the home gardening club was that the streets had
a 'sweetness' about them. Yes, the back gardens were full of every
kind of veg, but the front gardens were very proudly tended indeed.
Folk were so pleased to be alive. To be able to afford to actually
'live' a little now in their nice new council homes, that the front gardens
were proudly displayed with the strongest scent of 'English Country
Garden'. Lupins and Lavender being the most prolific as I remember.

That's not to say that the private houses weren't just as fragrant, they
were, which made life then seem so much better maybe.

These days, now that everyone has two cars or more. Those sweet-
smelling front gardens have been replaced with hard core, block-
paved, flood promotion areas for the cars to park. In most suburban
areas and villages alike, the car has become God and must be
protected and molly-coddled at all costs. The gardeners club is just
a distant memory, much like the bumble bee whose numbers are
drastically declining lately. Without Bees and the like, we have no
flowers, fruit or veg. What will we eat?? Are we witnessing the end??

It's OK Peep's, we've still got our cars which we can keep at the front
of our house, as near as we possibly can. We can just look out of the
window now and worship it anytime we feel low or in doubt about our
own mortality.

(Cars 1....Bees 0) (Block-pavers 1.....Gardening club 0)
(Multi-nationals 1.....We, the public......0) Who's winning?

Answers below in the 'comments' section if you please.

Catch you later,

Pete.

To those of you who arrived here after doing a 'gardening' related search, and you're particularly interested in the mechanics of gardening, I've included this Youtube video I found recently.
The chap actually looks very much like my old Dad funnily enough. (Though my Dad would have been 102 now so it's not him) But please do click and enjoy.

(Don't forget to come back here though when you've finished. LOL)




Please visit the main blog by clicking the header above.
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THE WARGRAVE AND SHIPLAKE REGATTA.

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The Wargrave and Shiplake Regatta.

I won’t pretend I’ve been to any of the Wargrave & Shiplake Regatta’s since leaving the village in 1964.
All I can say is that pre-’64 it was a brilliant day of celebration, enjoyed by virtually every member of the village and for miles around.
(Never actually knew it was called the Wargrave ‘And Shiplake’ regatta until thirty years or so down the line. Always thought it was just ‘The Wargrave regatta’.)

For a start, it was the day that the funfair came to visit.
Setting itself up as if by magic the night before in the field opposite the St George and Dragon Hotel. Also the field used for the hosting of all the regatta paraphernalia.

We’d all make sure we got over there early so that we could get the best position for watching. The lads from Val Wyatts boat builders were usually in charge of all the competing craft. We’d marvel at their dexterity in handling so many in such a tight space, but they seemed to cope just fine.

My brother-in-law Grainger Edney, used to think he was top honcho, but his younger brother Wilf had the ‘starry eyes’ and always got the full attention of all the mesmerised girls there. Though he’d often nearly fall into the river as he tried to be ‘cool’, pretending he hadn’t noticed all the attention. (He used to get a bit bashful).

Being a bit of a ‘water-babe’ myself, loving everything about ‘Old Father Thames, the Wargrave and Shiplake regatta was Utopia for me. I’d be sat there day-dreaming of the time that ‘I’ would be competing. Obviously ‘Whupping’ all the competition. But the nearest I ever got to entering the regatta was trying to get to the end of the ‘Greasy Pole’. (Never managed it I’m afraid.)

Once all the racing was finished it was time for the fair. How my mum always managed to fish another tanner out of her purse on demand always baffled me. But she did, and all of us kids would have the best time of the year.

On regatta day, Val Wyatts used to use a ‘huge’ barge as a ferry. The everyday one would probably only carry 20 or so at a time. But the barge would carry what seemed like a hundred at a time. So many that the sides would be almost submerged, with water lapping over the edges.

a chap called Bill Sumner used to be ‘Chief-Punter’, and was he ever good at aiming that barge accurately? Sometimes one of the other hands would take over. What a fiasco? You felt you were on the way to the Royal Henley Regatta instead sometimes.

Anyway, the last ferry of the day would be around Tennish. The car parks of the George & Dragon Hotel would be crammed to bursting with everyone trying to get served in the make-do pub that was; The Val Wyatt boathouse. They had a huge workshop almost next to the hotel which used to double-up as a ‘Brakspears Bar’ on regatta night. We kids of course would have our Corona Lemonade in PINT mugs, and our Smith’s Crisps and little blue wraps of salt to sprinkle in.

It used to be a competition between the kids to see who could find the ‘most’ salt-wraps in their bag. Smith’s were nothing if not over-generous with the salt-wraps.
Once everyone had their drinks. Dad with his Mild, Mum with her Babycham, (Special occasion of course), then the field to the right of the fair and regatta would be lit up with an amazing firework display.

All the OOH’s and AAH’s would be quite deafening, until the big ‘THANKYOU’ display went up at the end and everyone gave three cheers for the whole occasion.

Great days. Great memories. The walk home was a bit bumpy though. Wargrave Village never had many street lamps in the 1950’s, early 60’s, (Probably only four or five in the whole place) so we usually ended up getting separated from each other, being ushered along by the crowd, which fortunately enough, used to trundle up Victoria Rd, past Hamilton Rd where we lived anyway.

Does the Wargrave and Shiplake regatta still maintain the same magic today? I really wouldn’t know. The fair was stopped many years ago I know that. Whether it’s been re-instated I wouldn’t know either. But if it hasn’t, then the regatta organisers have missed a huge trick there.

Does the Wargrave & Shiplake Regatta rival the Henley Royal Regatta?
Maybe not EH?

Catch you later,

Pete.

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AT THE TENDER AGE OF FIVE.

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At The Tender Age Of Five.


In the early 50’s when I was very young, I remember having this little friend called Tim and we’d spend a good amount of the time playing in his large overgrown garden.

On my 5th birthday I had the most memorable party ever. Infact, it was the ‘only’ one, as we weren’t really a ‘party’ family. Our little house was jam-packed with friends and neighbours who’d all brought me a present of some description each. I’d never seen so many toys and books.

Strangely though, little Tim wasn’t there. The following morning I was to find out why.
20 years or so ago I wrote this poem to explain my feelings about that day, and most days since.

Timothy’s calling.

At the tender age of four
we were barely alive.
But adventure we were finding,
in your garden, long and winding.

It seemed to go forever.
No fences of despair.
We forged a bond of friendship.
Took our fun out of the air.

Old saucepans, now we’re warriors,
hunting out our foe.
The old tin bath is now our boat.
Across the sea we’ll go.
The woodshed is our castle,
defended with our lives.

Look out for ‘Old Nick’,
my dad says he’s quick.
He hides in the long grass,
and he won’t let us pass.

He’ll chase us, and kill us,
for being a kid.
All innocent children,
‘Old Nick’ will get rid.

It’s quiet this morning
in assembly at school.
The teachers look sad.....
Have they heard something bad ?

“Listen now children, you have to be brave.
Timothy’s left us, ask Jesus to save,
all of you who are in this room.
The scarlet fever is hitting a boom”.

Timothy’s dead. Timothy’s dead.
These words keep rushing through my head.
Now cut in half, how will I play
our special games, the natural way ?

An angel made of pure white marble
looked out for Timothy, all alone.
Just fifty yards from our noisy class,
I could hear him calling from the grass.

‘Old Nick’ had crept into Timothy’s bed.
While Tim lay asleep, crept into his head.
‘Old Nick’ thought he’d struck young Timothy down.
In life, he did.
But Tim’s still around.

He talks now about the power of gold.
The diamond eyes that can unfold,
to show ‘Old Nick’ residing there.
Tim shows me life, and lays it bare.

Into my mind, he comes each day.
He tells me how the ‘chord’ is played.
He keeps ‘Old Nick’ away from me.
He shows me secrets he can see.

Tim’s grave has now been vandalised.
The angel broken down.
Those children didn’t know young Tim.
They would have shown respect for him.

But Tim still says he loves them,
and will try to help them through.
But they have to open up their minds,
or there’s nothing he can do.

‘Old Nick’ will climb inside instead,
and they’ll wake up,

to find they’re dead.


Catch you later,

Pete.


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THE £15- CANVAS CANOE.

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The £15- canvas canoe.

My love of the river outweighed my swimming ability, because although I loved the river and everything about it, I was never a strong swimmer.

I’m sure this was based on the fact that I had an awesome ‘respect’ for it. I’d seen the swirling underwater currents where the River Loddon met the River Thames at Wargrave. I’d known of people previously regarded as strong swimmers, drowning in innocent looking water. So although I loved being on top of the water, I was always rather fearful of being out of my depth in it.

My first so-called boat was the proverbial car tyre innertube. Every kids best friend in the river. The next move up was the ‘li-lo’. I felt pretty safe on that thing until one day a swan jumped on my back and started pecking my bum. (Aged about eight or nine then). When I eventually got to the riverbank, PC Float, our local bobbie was there, ready to tear me off a strip for being so stupid. Hmmmmm?

Anyway, that scared me off using the li-lo for river crossings. So, best mate at the time, Stan Povey and I went searching the cherry pits in the area for dumped five gallon drums and a load of wood. We were going to build the best ‘Huckleberry Finn’ raft you ever saw. (And we did). It took us a while, but we got there eventually. Got it out on the river and away we went. GREAT!!

We kept our raft moored down at the ‘Free Ferry’. (The back end of Woodclyffe House.) However, we didn’t bargain on the jealousy of others, and found our beloved raft had been vandalised with holes being punctured into the drums. Not that we noticed until we launched it, and it started to sink in the middle of the river. Stan was a useless swimmer, and I wasn’t much better, but somehow we got ourselves back to the riverbank.
(Another great plan scuppered).

UNTIL……as we were going to Saturday Morning Pictures at Henley, and I read a card in a newsagents window; ‘Canoe for sale £15-‘.
Never mind the pictures, I was round to the house like a shot to see if it was still going. It was, but there was a problem……I didn’t have enough money. I only had the two-bob in my pocket to cover the mornings entertainment at the pictures.

Anyway, the man was a very gentlemanly, kind fellow, and could see I really wanted the canoe, so he asked if I though I could pay him a pound a week for it. Well, I wasn’t sure, but I told him I could, and knew that if I used my noddle I could get the £1- a week needed. I came back later in the week after I’d raised my first £1- doing odd jobs for people in the village, and after convincing the gentleman that I was going to put it in the guards train to get it home, he let me take it.

This was about 7pm in the summer, and I put the canoe on the saddle and handlebars of my little bike and set off down St Andrews Rd towards the station. But here was the dilemma; I didn’t have any more money. I’d planned to walk the canoe, on my bike the whole 3 miles along the very hilly, windy road that links Henley on Thames with Wargrave. Those that know this road will know how steep those hills are.

As I was climbing Johnson’s hill, it was starting to get dark, I was getting very tired, and the canoe slipped off my bike. It was a canvas canoe and I really thought I’d messed it up. But after I eventually got it home at about 10.30pm that night, I inspected it to find I’d only broken ONE of it’s ribs. (Easily mended).

My pride and joy was placed just below my bedroom window so that I could get up at night, (just to make sure it was OK, and still there).

It was a two-seater, so I used it as a ferry to help finance itself. It was fairly easy to take from my house to the river each day, so there was no chance of ‘IT’ being vandalised. Many happy days were had from my old faithful canoe. I paid every instalment on time every Saturday as I went to the Saturday morning pictures, and needless to say, I was extremely proud of my first MAJOR possession, as it brought a whole lot of joy to so many of us kids who couldn’t otherwise enjoy the pleasures of the river. As boats of any kind were generally considered the ‘playthings’ of the Rich who lived down by the Wargrave riverbank itself.

The Wargrave Adventure Playground. ‘Utopia’.

Catch you later,

Pete.

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THE WARGRAVE PENNY FERRY.

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The Wargrave Penny-Ferry.
From as young as four or five years old, my Mum would take us over the river on the ‘Penny Ferry’ to go splashing about in the river on the hot summer days.

We’d all pack our trunks and costumes with just the one towel between the lot of us, along with some old lemonade bottles filled with water. (Our picnic). Then we’d head off down to the front of The St George and Dragon hotel where we’d catch the ‘Penny Ferry’ to the other side of the river Thames where the water was clear and shallow. Where we could be with a whole load of other Mum’s and their kids having a whale of a time in relative safety.

I can still remember the river being a very light green. You could see the sand ripples caused by the passing boats creating a sort of artificial tide. Half buried in that soft, rippling sand were hundreds of 'freshwater mussels’. They were very common then, but you hardly ever see them now.
(Occasionally I’ve seen the odd one while walking along the Prom’ at Henley-On-Thames recently.)

One other memory of those days (especially the first one) that is still VERY vivid in my mind was the shock I got when I found out that the swimming trunks my Mum had ‘knitted’ me especially so that I could go in for a splash, would slip unceremoniously to my feet when they got wet. Undeterred I would still splash about for hours with one hand holding on to my trunks as if my life depended on it.

Mum’s Eh? The things they’ll do to make their kids happy.

The ‘Penny Ferry’ operated by the boat builders who had their yard adjacent to the St George and Dragon, Val Wyatts, is no longer there. Swancraft took it on after Val Wyatts sold up to them, but the owners of the Hotel in cahoots with the farm owner over the other side of the Thames, were determined to ‘spoil’ the spirit that WAS wargrave.

The land that the Ferry used to moor at was owned by the hotel, and when the big conglomerate (which I shan’t name) took over the George & Dragon, it decided to maintain it’s philosophy of ‘Greed is best’, and excluded all of the ‘locals’ who had used the land, along with the mooring green at the front. They took away the swing, flower beds etc, leaving it a baron wasteland, only good for mooring boats, (But only if you were a paying customer of course).

Even the car park had some twerp permanently ‘on guard’ there incase any of the ‘lower-life’ locals showed up and only wanted a pint. “Parking is for ‘eating’ customers only Sir”.

Wargrave holds many beautiful memories for me. The St George and Dragon was one. Sadly, it now plays a large part in the ‘demise’ of the ‘spirit’ of Wargrave. I haven’t been there for a couple of years now. Why bother?
Though I did drive past the other day and saw that access to the river-front had been permanently blocked off.

Hopefully, someone will tell me one day that some other enterprise has taken over the hotel, and the spirit has been restored. (I won’t hold my breath though). But I will forever have the memories of some great times had at what was the prettiest and friendliest little riverside pub/hotel to be found anywhere.

Catch you later,

Pete.

PS. Check out some old Wargrave 'past' photo's here;

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The Wargrave River Bank.

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The Wargrave River bank.

It has to be said that the Wargrave riverbank has
had a positive effect on the whole of my life, but
particularly my years up until the age of thirteen.

My very first memory is of the time when I was
just eighteen months old. My three older sisters,
Linda, Bev and Mary had decided to take me for
a walk down ‘the bottom end’ of Wargrave village.
To the winding river Thames that is still it’s jewel
in the crown. It was a hot, sunny day, and we were
walking across the fields as a short-cut.

We were some way across this field when suddenly
Linda grabbed my hand and virtually dragged me
across the rest of the field, screaming that the bull
was chasing us and we had to run for our lives.

Obviously we escaped the charging bull and carried
on our way to ‘the bottom end’ where we eventually
ended up at ‘the dirty water’. A little spot along the
side of the main Henley Rd just past
‘The St George & Dragon’ hotel.

We spent what seemed like forever there, sinking
jam jars on string to try and catch minnows.
I remember I was absolutely fascinated by these
little silver fish, which we took back home with us,
(though not across that field).

I grew up loving ‘the dirty water’ spot, and as I got
older I progressed to a fishing net, which our local
barber and neighbour Alf Beckford gave me.
(He also sold fishing tackle from his barbers shop
in Wargrave High St) This made catching those
minnows a whole lot easier.

At age seven or eight my older brother George
showed me how to catch the ‘really big fish’ that
I could see gliding through the deeper water.
This was done with a bit of old hawthorn tree,
(Nice and springy) with a length of string, a
safety pin and squashed bread for bait.
(Yes, we did catch fish that way, back in the day).

I don’t know about BIG fish, but we did catch some
gudgeon, dace and roach there using this basic
fishing rod. Out-fishing some of the Dad’s that used
to pride themselves and their expensive ‘split-cane’
rods and all the latest equipment imaginable.

Remember, the river end of the village at Wargrave
was (and still is) the posh end, but ‘the dirty water’
used to attract me like a magnet that I couldn’t
resist, and I would find myself often just sitting there
in wonderment of the place, hoping I’d catch the
kingfishers and dragonflies speeding past.

Believe it or not, I was at least nine years old before
I was told that it wasn’t ‘the dirty water’ at all, it was
‘Camps Pool’. Somehow, that name never sat very
well with me, and still doesn’t to this day. It will always
be ‘the dirty water’ as far as I’m concerned, and
although the main stretch of the River Thames at
Wargrave has been desecrated by the greed of
local landowners and the owners of ‘The St George
and Dragon’ hotel, ‘the dirty water’ remains almost
as it was over fifty years ago.

If ever you’re lucky enough to visit the ‘chocolate
box pretty’ village of Wargrave, Berkshire.
Stop by Camps Pool for a while and enjoy the
beauty that remains to this day. Look over your
shoulder there and you may well be lucky enough
to see the deer herd grazing on the front lawn of
Wargrave Manor.
The home of the Sultan of Oman.

Check this short video of Camps pool, (The Dirty water).

Turn your speakers up and listen to the birds competing and 'WINNING' the war of sound with the passing cars.



Wargrave Manor?
Now there’s a place that’s featured significantly
in my days at the village, and stories involving
the magnificent manor will feature later as this
blog progresses.

Catch you later,

Pete.

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The Henley Royal Regatta Fair.

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The Henley Royal Regatta Fair.

When you’re a youngster, the fair is a magical, mystical wonderland.
(At least it was for us in the 50’s and 60’s.)

The problem was though, that money was very scarce in most working-class
families back then. But the lure of the fair was SO powerful it just
couldn’t be resisted.

At the Royal Henley Regatta, in the 50’s and 60’s the fair used to be
almost directly behind the ‘Finish Line’ of the boat races, in the field
that they now use as the ‘hospitality’ area.

Between races the fair would get ‘swamped’ with the ‘Hooray’s’ who would
push, shove and bully their way onto the rides so that we mere mortals could
hardly get a look in.

Now….as a kid of 8 or 9 I was pretty resourceful. I would walk the three
mile to Henley so that I could be at the fair for early afternoon. The most
popular ride for the Hooray’s was the bumper cars (of course), they ran
amok every time each session stopped, hogging the cars for themselves
each time.

I could see the ‘respectable’ folk looking totally dismayed and frustrated
that they couldn’t get a look in.
Seeing this, I realised that being quite small, tough and hardy, I’d get to
at least One of the cars before the marauders. This I’d do, (most times).
Then I’d catch the eye of someone who’d missed out and beckon them over.
I’d get out letting them take the car, telling them I’d saved it especially
for them.
The look of gratitude on their faces said all I needed to know then.
While the ride ran it’s course, I’d stand on the edge making sure I’d make
eye contact now and again, with a little smile as they got ‘shunted’.

Now I’m not saying that I had a 100% conversion rate, but most of those I
saved a car for would come to me afterwards and thank me, saying they’d had
a great time etc. But more to the point. The people who visited the
Royal Henley Regatta then, were generally pretty well off. I would usually
get a couple of pennies, threepenny-joey, or a tanner handed to me for my consideration.

Occasionally I’d catch the eye of a single rider, and then more often than
not, they’d invite me along for the ride. (No cost of course). So my wily
little plan got me the best of both worlds, and due to the 'greed' and 'slovenliness' of the ‘Hooray’s’, I was able to repeat my little ruse
on other rides at the fair as well.

Did I used to enjoy Henley Royal Regatta week? You bet I did. For several
years on the trot, until they moved the fair OUT of the regatta grounds.

The Hooray’s and the well-off didn’t fancy the long trek to the fair, so it
was left to those with just enough for themselves.

Yep...US....The working class.

Ahhhh…..Those were the days…………

Pete.

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The Royal Henley Regatta..Henley-On-thames.

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Royal Henley Regatta..Henley-On-Thames.

I was laid in the bath today, thinking about the next
few months and what might be happening.
Then from out of nowhere, memories started flooding
back to my childhood visits to 'the most glorious'
event I could ever remember.

Yes, the 'Royal Henley Regatta' was viewed as 'the'
most important event in our small village of Wargrave's
calendar. Henley-on-Thames being just three miles
along a very hilly, windy road, it was right on our door-
step. Our village was 'almost' Royal for a couple of
weeks a year, thanks to the Royal Henley Regatta.

Now Wargrave was generally a sleepy little village
for most of the time, with nothing much happening at all.
Maybe the odd fete, the march on remembrance day,
and the odd sighting of a few of the very famous
residents we had smattered around the place. The
most familiar I suppose was Robert Morley, the rotund
actor of many a comedy and farce.

BUT!….Usually in May, the village would be descended
upon by several removal lorries filled with bedding,
beds, chairs, luggage, catering equipment of every
size and dimension, and a whole load of GIANTS!

Well, as kids, that’s what they looked like to us.
They were of course rowers, preparing for the annual
Royal Regatta. Not just any old rowers mind. These were
the boys from ‘The Thames Rowing Club’
(based in Putney as I remember).

OK you say, a memorable annual event for the entertainment-
starved population of Wargrave, but.....“what else”?

I’ll tell you what else…..’Money!’….Yep, sorry for lowering
the tone here, but the arrival of the ‘Thames Rowers’ meant
the family funds suddenly got a boost!

My Mum knew the ‘main-man’. The co-ordinator of the whole
military operation, on whose broad shoulders it fell to make
sure that these GIANTS had their every whim catered for.

They needed digs, they needed feeding, they needed cleaning
up after, and they needed errands run.
They were also pretty well financed, so guess who used to be
the second-in-command to ‘the main man’?

You guessed right. My Mum……..and her little private army of
deed-doers. Me and my brothers and sisters of course. We were
the cleaner-uppers, the tidy-uppers, and the message-runners
extreme. To top it all, we were very well paid for our few
weeks of hard graft. We got paid by ‘the main-man’. We also
got paid by the GIANTS, who all seemed to have too much money
for their own good anyway.

Does it still happen these days?
Remember….This was in the 1950’s….
When children were FREE human beings.
Allowed to get dirty, cut and bruised.
Who were allowed to use their own imagination and resources
to get by the best way they could, with VERY little in the way
of resources. (Except their wits).

These days, the parents would be hauled before the courts.
The children would be GIVEN their human rights, even though
they don’t want or need them.
The ‘main-man’ would likely be imprisoned for using child labour.


Is it TOO LATE to turn the tide?
This post continues with….
‘What happened at the Regatta Fair’ later.

Cheers,

Pete.

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My First Christmas. 1951.

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Considering I was only thirteen months old, this
memory is very vivid in my mind still.

My Mum was getting me dressed in the morning
inside this bitterly cold tin hut that was our home.
I was stood by the side of what seemed like a
‘huge’ black cast iron bed with brass bits here
and there, in just my vest, when there was a knock
on our door.

My Dad opened it, and I could see this chap in a
red suit, red hat with white trimmings and a white
beard handing a bright red tin car to him.

The bearded man waved to me and wished me a
Happy Christmas.
(Not that I knew what he meant I don’t suppose).

It’s what happened next that really sets this memory
in solid stone for me. My Mum and Dad proudly
presented me with this car and told me I could get
in it. Of course I was very excited and jumped in as
fast as I could.

THEN…….THE SHOCK!……It’d just come in from
the freezing cold winter air of 1951, and all I had on
was a vest.

I can still feel that COLD on my bum right now.
But how great that at fifty six years old, I can still
remember my very first ‘conscious’ Christmas as if
it was yesterday?

Found out later that it was our next door neighbour at
‘The Huts’ who played Father Christmas that year.
Dear old Ron Darby, now sadly passed over.

Catch you later,

Pete.

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Just A 'Twinkle' In Their Eyes.

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We all had to start somewhere, even if it was just a
'twinkle' in both our parents eyes, but it is worth
going back and checking the circumstances and cond-
itions before and AT the time of our birth.
(Maybe it says a lot about us, maybe nothing, who
knows?).

In my case, my Mother was recovering from losing
her second partner in an industrial gas blast in the
late 1940's. The war was over, and everyone was
struggling to 'survive' let alone 'live'. She found
herself living back with her parents in a small
bungalow at Finchampstead, Berkshire with 7 kids in
tow. A bit of a squeeze, but plenty of countryside
for the young ones to get lost in adventure during
the day.

Before moving back to the small bungalow, my Grand-
parents had taken in a lodger to help ends meet. He
was a local gardener, odd job man, fresh from the war
and needing a place to live. Little did he realise just
how THAT was going to change his life forever.

With my Mother freshly grieving her loss, and strugg-
ling to support herself and her kids, the lodger took
her under his wing and became very protective of them
all. So much so, that one day they 'both' developed
that 'twinkle' in their eyes and 'I' was conceived.

Well actually, not just me, I had a twin brother
growing beside me, keeping me company.

After a few months of struggle in very cramped condit-
ions, Wokingham district council awarded my mother,
her kids and now of course, 'My dad' a Nissan Hut to
live in at Hare Hatch, near Wargrave, Berkshire.

At the time, they were over the moon. A brand new,
shiny tin hut to live in alongside several other families
in similar circumstances. A smashing little community
that would last for three or four years.


However, while cooking some bacon & eggs in the
frying pan, my mum accidentally knocked the pan OFF
of the stove and onto her foot, scolding herself very
badly, and inducing labour as a result.

She was rushed to St marks Hospital in Maidenhead
where my twin and I were born very quickly.

The big downside was that my twin died because of
the lack of oxygen brought on by the shock of the
accident. The outcome being, that somewhere out
there in the 'ether' is another part of me. A kindred
spirit that will be forever a part of me until the day
we arrive at the same destination together.

A coincidence maybe, but nearly twenty three years
ago now, my wife gave birth to twins three months
prematurely, both weighing just two pounds each.
Both were kept in the 'Special Baby Care Unit' at
the Royal Berks Hospital in Reading for a couple of
months. Very touch and go at that time, with one
of them keep stopping breathing regularly, and staff
having to jump into action to resuscitate him often.

Modern technology EH? But both lads are fit and
strong these days. You'd never guess they had such
a dodgy start. But that's a different story for a diff-
erent time.

Please call back.

Cheers, Pete.
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PS.
It's the Twelfth of September 2007 today, and I'd just
like to acknowledge the fact that it's my wife 'Sharons'
Second anniversary of her passing over to 'The other side'.

The whole family is thinking of her.

PS. Please Click The Header Above To Visit the Main Blog.

'Total Eclypse Of The Heart' by Bonnie Tyler was a song she would play over-and-over again to herself as she fought her depression. Still an amazing record; Click and Enjoy :-)




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Why 'Platignumpete'??

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This is the first post on this blog, so I
thought I'd clear up the question that most
people already ask; "Why Platignumpete??"

I use the name on many forums and my 'eBay'
account with people continually telling me
that I've 'spelt' the name wrong. They are
of course thinking about 'platinum' the
mineral, whereas I'm talking about Platignum
the fountain pen manufacturers.

When I was young, about eight or nine years
old, my mother used to be a housekeeper come
cleaner for the 'posh' houses in our village.
I had always been a prolific writer and
reader, which, when I'd tag along with my Mum
to these jobs, would become apparent to her
employers.

Anyway, that Xmas, my mother gave me a present
to go with the nuts, fruit and other little
goodies we'd get in our 'stockings' at Xmas.
We'd never get much, as we were a family of
ten children in the mid to late 50's.

One of the ladies my mother worked for
recognised my passion for reading and writing,
so she told her to give me this fine fountain
pen as a Xmas present. It was seriously the most
beautiful pen I'd ever seen, with a real 'Gold'
nib.

Of course, at that time I just loved it and used
it as often as I could afford ink for it. Or I'd
'snaffle' some from junior school when the teacher
wasn't looking. (Yes, we had the old wooden
'dippers' in those days, 'the Robert Piggot Junior school',
and we had to keep our desk ink-wells filled, so
naturally, a little now-and-again would get into
'my' ink bottle).

When I was Thirteen, I was mad about the thought
of starting a band to be like the Beatles or Stones.
Another older lad I knew had an old guitar that I
had my eye on, so we struck a deal; My 'Platignum'
for his 'old guitar'.

Seemed like a good idea at the time, but the memory
of that 'special' gold-nibbed 'Platignum' fountain
pen will likely stay with me 'till my dying day now.

So THAT's why I'm called 'Platignumpete'.

This blog is all about recalling stories from my past
which you 'may' or 'may not' find interesting.

Please call back often,

Pete.

PS. Please Click The Header Above To Visit the Main Blog.

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