In Praise of Audible

Image free from Pixabay

How to read when you don’t have time to sit down with a book

I can’t believe how quickly I converted to loving audible! I adore reading and quite often I’m reading more than 1 book at a time nowadays

* one for research purposes for my writing

* one for my book club

* one for lunchtime at work & bedtime

• now one for when I’m walking the dog / doing chores around the house!

The ability to “read” while my hands are doing other things like gardening or chopping vegetables, or when I am walking one of our dogs is a marvellous thing and has quite boosted my motivation to do boring things like clearing the attic and painting.

Podcasts are free with my monthly audible subscription and these can be informative, funny, thought provoking. They keep me company and they expand my mind – I enjoy having new facts to throw into the conversation and (hopefully) to impress my kids with!

I’m taken back to the days when my I’d lie in bed in the room I shared with my younger brother. We’d be in our PJs waiting for our father to get home from work. We’d hear him come upstairs, still in his suit and tie but with his jacket off so we could see his coloured braces. He’d sit down on one of our beds and pick up the book he’d read from the night before, and continue with the story.

We’d be spellbound as the story unfolded – dragons, princes, giants and tailors who could fly or fight or outwit monsters with many heads or poisoned tongues. My brother liked stories of Gumdrop, a car with a personality and I giggled at a wolf who could never catch a break with Polly or her younger sister.

Now accomplished actors read the stories aloud, their expression so skilful it’s like listening to a play. Sometimes I am listening to a play, with different voices for each part and sound effects, while some writers have chosen to narrate their novels themselves.

For the price of 2 fancy coffees a month, I am transported by my choice of 1 book and unlimited exclusive podcasts. I can listen to the stories as many times as I want, once they are downloaded and I can file them on my phone by categories I define, I can gift them to a friend or delete them if I don’t want them anymore.

By using the sleep function (a timer on my phone) I can even recreate the feeling of being read to as I fall asleep. Happy days!

Current Recommendations:

The Devil & the Dark Water : Stuart Turton [Crime/Mystery/Historical]

The Midnight Library : Matt Haig [Philosophical / Adventure]

What Alice Forgot : Liane Moriarty [Chick Lit / Mystery]

Sharp Objects : Gillian Flynn [Crime / psychological thriller]

The Girl who Fell from the Sky : Simon Mawer [WWII Spy / Adventure]

Crush It Like Cleopatra ~ Podcast [Humour / History / Life]

My Father the Spy ~ Podcast [Stuart Copeland’s Recollections / History / Humour/ Spy]

Hell Cats ~ Dramatisation of the True Story of Women Pirates Anne Bonny & Mary Read [LGBTQ+ / History / Adventure]

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A True Romantic

Pamela

Memories of My Mother

It is a fact of life that we will encounter death. Before our own time is up, we have to deal with losing people around us and it is a bitter pill to swallow. The loss of someone who you have loved, who’s been an positive influence and a cornerstone in your life is particularly hard, but your happy memories will buoy you up. Cling onto those memories, look back on good times and funny things they did or wise advice they gave to help move forward, gradually you’ll pull yourself out of the quagmire that is grief. You won’t forget and the gap that signifies their absence doesn’t close, but it becomes easier to bear.

At this moment in time, the house where my mother and father lived for the last phase of their lives, is up for sale. My siblings and I have taken away what is precious to us, pictures and papers and furniture to hold their memories safe. It has been hard to dismantle their happy home and consign it to boxes, especially as the Covid lockdowns have meant that we could not always be together during the process, but when we could the oral history was rich. We talked about incidents from our shared past and enjoyed looking back at our younger selves and the care and love our parents bestowed on us.

In the deep-clean of possessions that’s been forced on us, things have come to light which were forgotten or perhaps not even known by us. Some unpleasant, but many were good. I have now taken custody of my father’s scrapbooks and my mother’s diaries and photo album – their rich history will be safely stored.

I came across this message and an account in my mother’s words, shared with Jennifer Crusie‘s “Cherries” – a group of romantic writers – about how my parents met. I want to others to read it, because it holds so much positivity – we can all benefit from that.

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Hey, all you youngsters of 50 and 60, I’m here to tell you that in your seventies, love and romance don’t stop – at least they haven’t stopped yet for me. (This was shared with the goup only a couple of weeks before she died).

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Ok, this was back in the 50s, I was invited to a 21st birthday party, ball gowns and black tie. I wasn’t keen to go. In those days I was very shy and thought I wouldn’t know anyone. My mother urged me to go. I put on my favourite ball gown and the zip up the back broke.

“There you are, I can’t go,” I said to my mother.

She went to my cupboard and got out another dress, threw it over my head and zipped it up quite viciously.

“Yes, you can. You are to GO! If you hate it after half an hour, ring me and I’ll come and fetch you.” So I went. And stayed.

When I got there, this handsome guy was surrounded by a bevvy of giggling girls who obviously fancied him like mad. I did too, but I wasn’t going to let him see it. I asked someone who he was and was told he was the most fun guy in the room. I was determined not to be impressed.

When he asked me to dance, I said, “I hear you’re great fun, so scintillate.” Wind taken out of his sails. He grinned ruefully, and we kept on dancing.

Later in the evening he asked if he could take me home. Damn, I thought, I had already agreed to let someone else take me home so I turned him down. I was really disappointed because I would have liked to have gone with him. But as it turned out it was a good move. He had an old fashioned sense of honour and respected the fact that I wouldn’t go back on my word.

We started going out together and he was everything I ever wanted in a man. We married when I was 22 and he was 23 and have been together through thick and thin ever since.

— * — * —

My mother was evacuated from London to Exmoor to avoid the bombing in WWII. She was lucky enough to go with my grandmother and they lived on a dairy farm. Once my father retired my parents chose to settle in a very rural part of Norfolk and, with us four children grown up and making families of our own, she had more time to pursue her writing. This poem she wrote in 1993 celebrates the joy she found in this simpler life. We read it at her funeral in 2005.

I am a Country Child Again

Here in a rustic house I live

The summit of my dearest hopes.

Years did I dwell ‘mongst brick and stone

My children’s welfare my concern

But now they’ve gone – I am released,

I’m free to live howe’er I wish.

The country’s mine as ‘twas in youth;

The green grass gilded by the sun,

The fresh air free from toxic fumes.

My nostrils now nose sweeter scents –

New mown grass and fresh baked bread

Birdsong’s my blessing all day long.

The rain is gentle on my face,

When cold winds blow I do not care.

And though I’m wrinkled now and old

I’ve vigour as I had when young –

I am a country child again.

The evening air is soft and sweet

And still now after daytime blow.

I walk in fields thickset with grass

Waist high, seeds ripened by the sun.

We’ll make it hay ‘ere cuckoos leave.

Then sheep will come and gently graze

Reminding me of times gone by –

I am a country child again.

As each day ends I thank the Lord

That I, unworthy, have such joy.

The house I live in, thatched and pink

Is what I dreamed of while I lived

The rat-race life from morn to night.

From those to whom the Lord gives much

Much is required, the Bible says.

What will be required of me?

And can I pay the needed price?

I doubt it but I still enjoy

I am a country child again.

Pamela in her Riding Clothes

Always a Lady

A beautiful, but poignant tribute written by my Father about his beloved spaniel – a working dog and key member of our family.

We first met when she was two years old. Her father was a famous field trial champion with similar achievements going back all down the sire’s line as far as the pedigree reached. On her dam’s side  there were one or two field trial awards sprinkled about, but mostly, there was clear evidence of a gamekeeper’s faithfuls like Jenny (no Kennel suffix) or Flikka. Anyway, her dam was a really cracking small springer who had the trick of keeping one eye on her boss however far out she seemed to be going. Her boss was one of the nicest gamekeepers I’ve ever met.

This small, 2 month old chubby chops was lent to me to try each other out. With my elder daughter I slowly walked and talked her up along the edge of one of the release woods near the keeper’s cottage: she followed with some hesitation but no attempt to break back or into the wood. When we got back (carrying some of the way, because small legs get tired) we popped her down by a likely looking wood pile and encouraged her to seek!  She gave that rat and rabbit smelling wood pile such a combing, with her fat little bottom and docked tail showing fully her pleasure in the work.

My daughter and I took her back to the outdoor run with her litter brothers and sisters who were just about to have their evening meal, as they were being weaned from their dam. Food, the most important event in any healthy dog’s life. Slurping and jostling each other with their backs to us, ‘our’ little bitch ignored the food. She sat facing us, looking unwinkingly at us with that peculiar intentness that is a gift beyond price. It was that which decided me to have her.

I left her with the gamekeeper for one more month as I had a rather jealous, stern Weimaraner bitch that I did not want to tyrannise her too much. My elder son came to collect the puppy with me and sat with her and the Weimaraner in the boot to see fair play. Within 24 hours of arrival she proved she had a memory. I had bought a rabbit skin back too and hung it in a tree for a later use as a dummy. In the night the wind picked up and blew the skin down. When I turned the pup out for early morning penny-worths and a run, she made straight for the shrubbery, where, unknown to me, the skin lay under a tree. She ate it whole and ran back mighty pleased with herself.

From then on her training was a pleasure. She had her mother’s trick of always keeping one eye on me whatever she was about. I found I did not have to bother about hares or rabbits. She would course them for about 20 yards, then return as she early found they were much quicker than her. Maybe she would not have ever reached a field trial, but she was a mighty putter up of game, quickly learning to get down-wind of bits of cover to save pushing through everything, she could also gauge content by nose. 

She had the usual particular stance and ‘yip’ when onto a rabbit. She loved water and swam quite flat with no fuss or tenseness. She played in the rubber boat with the children in the pool learning to trim to the set of a boat: anticipating its movements and shifting her feet. One of her favorite games, as a puppy, was hiding in the rubber inflatable boat on the grass with her two eyes peeping out of the top. She’d then run to nip my younger son’s bottom as he crept up, starck naked, to try and get in the boat too. Gales of laughter as this game went on for hours.

When she retrieved duck to me, she threw them sideways out of her mouth and turned back to the water. In this way I had to set her onto one or two runners that slipped straight into the reeds and had to be retrieved again. Once she realised this, she brought the duck to hand. She was always chancey on cock pheasants. On her first full working day she had a cock torn from her mouth by an aggressive labrador, one of a team of three worked by a gun’s wife; the bird spurred her in the mouth. I spent the rest of the season gentling her back to retrieving. 

On the last day of the season, our very last push through cover, I realised from the behaviour of both the Weimaraner and the young springer that a bird had drawn ahead of them down a ditch and hedge. I asked permission to follow up and set the dogs on again. Their eagerness increased each yard and from beside a pond at the hedge junction they pushed a cock pheasant. I shot it as it crossed the plough towards a wood and the springer was sent to retrieve. She had just collected it and was returning when the same black labrador rushed across the field and snatched the bird from her.

She adored wildfowling, starting at 18 months when she picked her first pinkfoot: a beautifully proportioned half-sized mutant. Even that was big for her at the time. If I was cross with her and swore at her (which I did I regret to say – having a low flash point and hot temper) she would not look at me for a while. She’d sit, back to me and very still, with her cheeks sucked in. All the family loved her dearly and if I or my wife had to scold the children, particularly the younger two, they would go and sit with the springer, resting their heads on her til they felt better. The Weimaraner accepted her and, latterly when I found my springer dog on Liverpool Street Station (nobody ever claimed him) he doted on the springer bitch, as did my wife’s grand little rough coated dachshund.

Sadly, all good things come to an end, and with tragic suddenness for the little springer bitch. She ran, as she thought, after me towards a road behind a sandy beach in Northumberland. My wife and younger son had just crossed, but I had stopped to watch a bird. I whistled and called but the noise of an old banger with three tearaways in it drowned my calls; with a sickening foreboding I thought “she’s going to be hit by the car”. I ran as fast as I could towards the road and heard the bang of the impact. My wife and younger son saw her turn to try to get back to me when she realised I was still coming from the beach. My younger daughter saw it all from our caravan. Lady died quietly while my wife and I stroked and talked to her. I knew she would never leave that Northumberland beach.

The children chose her name, Lady, which always seemed so opposite to her playful nature. As my younger daughter said to her mother: “When Daddy can bear to think about it, Lady was 10 years old and she had just had her most full and successful season. He would have hated seeing her getting gradually older ‘til the Awful Day.”

They say each man deserves one good dog in his life, and I believe in Lady I may have had mine. All I know is how much I still miss her.

The #4Thoughts_Fiction meme is hosted on a #NSFW site, so be warned if you follow the link, but I’m no prude The prompt is currently ‘Longing’.

The Cowboy of Laredo

As I rode down thru’ the streets of Laredo,
As I rode into Laredo one day,
I see’d a poor cowboy wrapped up in a blanket
Laid out on a blanket and the colour of clay

“I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,”

These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.
“Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story;

I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.”

“Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin

Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song,
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o-er me,

For I’m a poor cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”

“It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,

It was once in the saddle I used to go gay.

T’was first to drinking and then to card playing,

Got shot in the breast and I’m dying today.”

“Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,

Get six pretty girls to carry my pall

Put bunches of roses all over my coffin

Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.”

“Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,

And play the dead march as you carry me along.

Take me to the green valley and lay the sod o-er me,

For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”


I can’t say why my father had saved the words to this song, but a typed copy was amongst his paperwork which I recently cleared. It struck a chord with me, because it seemed to relate to my father who was a very principled man. It conveys that, as a counterpoint to his playful, teasing side – he enjoyed a drink with friends or a joke of a saucy nature – his code of honour was very strong.

I know he felt the imprint of any mis-steps he’d taken for the rest of his life – I think plenty of us do. He took some wrong turns with his career, he could be hot headed and outspoken when he should have kept his own counsel. Right to the end of his life he beat himself up over moments where he lost his temper, hadn’t given enough support to loved ones, or failed to guide them in the best direction.

I know my father had regrets but in my opinion it’s too harsh to judge yourself for shortfalls in how you nurture or advise others, because the result’s very quickly out of your hands. In the end a person can only take charge of their own life, the decisions they make and the paths they take.

No matter how true the concept: “what other people think of me is none of my business,” I think we are all haunted by our past mistakes.

This post is submitted to the writing meme #4Thoughts_Fiction hosted by the site IfSexMatters – if adult content doesn’t offend, why not visit to see what others have linked up : the prompt is Haunted.

My Lockdown Survival Essentials

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I suspect my strongest advantage in lockdown has been that my family enjoy being insular. It has meant that we have rarely felt limited or hemmed in by the requirement to stay home and avoid personal contact. I have not tackled food shopping – my husband deals with that.

Life felt rather pressured at the beginning of lockdown, trying to do my job remotely was intense and impractical. Once I was furloughed, I had plenty of time and opportunity to try writing. I set up this blog intending to populate it with the fruits of my labours. It’s seemed a good time to record family stories, lockdown caused me to look fondly back on times that were simpler. I don’t think that I’m the only one, television shows, music and sports have had to embrace ‘old favourites’. There’s a category for reminiscences on my site.

Reading – my number 1 tip!  I’ve always found fiction a great ‘escape valve’. Any time in my life when I have been stressed or needing distraction, reading fiction provides a healing activity. When my world is small, a book can take me somewhere else. Now I cannot mix with other people, I meet instead characters within a novel. If being in my own head is unsettling, sad or stifling then reading a book which is in the first person puts me in someone else’s headspace and takes their problems to a solution, which is a calming concept.

Exercise, this I let slide, but it’s necessary for surviving lockdown! Firstly I gave up my regular class. Despite on-line sessions, I lost the inclination to do them. My flesh now looks more spongy, less toned. I also lost my 2 daily walks with our dog, because he fell ill. My negative experience here was twofold: a combination of feeling ‘wrong’ walking without him and guilt, because he howled his frustration if I left the house without him. Knowing he was distressed resulted in me furtively taking 2 brief walks a week, a significant reduction in my regime.

While my family are quite introverted, I enjoy talking. I’ve used Whatsapp to catch up with friends, which provides a refreshing influx of news; using instant message or having a face to face chat. I have a book group of sorts with two friends, one is very busy so she listens rather than reads. We take it in turn to pick the books, concluding with a Whatsapp meeting to discuss the books once we’ve all finished. This has given my reading a productive outlet and pushed me to immerse myself in books I would not have chosen. It’s fun discussing different viewpoints, why we have/haven’t enjoyed a novel, comparing/ contrasting it with another our group has read. 

When lockdown restrictions eased, I joined my neighbour for walks. We’ve also had coffee together in the back garden, in the past we would have popped to a local coffee shop. I have also been able to gradually resume walking my dog, who is on the road to recovery. 

While I don’t miss eating out, or clothes shopping, I do miss having the occasion to dress nicely. I’ve tried to maintain a normal routine, but it’s too easy to wear leggings or tracksuits. I was despondent to have to defer our holiday and it’s frustrating being unable to plan ahead. Although I want to meet up with people, still feel wary, I value my family members’ health above the UK economy. I know it’s pessimistic but I’m braced for a second wave of the pandemic.

This post is linked to a meme I recently discovered where the topic is personal growth. It’s host, May More is a fascinating blogger but if you wish to follow the link, be warned that her site is very frank and often #NSFW

My Own Space

Cyberdog at Camden, London

It’s important to have your own space, something you can ‘own’ and have under your control or influence. Many of us have felt the loss of this during lockdown. Suddenly your family / housemates are present all the time so your personal space feels compromised. If you don’t have a bedroom, study or shed to which you can retreat, for privacy you may have to resort to curtaining off ‘your’ area in a shared space. If that’s not possible take long walks alone.

This inability to have our own space applies to many of us growing up, when sharing a bedroom with a sibling is not uncommon. I did not have a room of my own until I was 14 and my family moved to a smaller house. That may sound like I have it the wrong way, but the house I grew up in (2-14) had large bedrooms, hence I had to share.

In my earliest memories I shared a lilac coloured bedroom with my older sister. Our beds were on opposite sides of a window which, as nursery windows often did in older houses, had bars at the opening portion. My sister made lots of funny noises in her sleep – something I assumed everybody did. The curtains had purple polka dots with sprigs of violets on a white background which concealed a large blackout blind. If I wanted to read in the summer I’d duck my head and the book under the blind. It was so light outside I could read until I felt tired, so long as my parents didn’t catch me.

As my sister got older she was given a room to herself and my younger brother moved out of his cot-bed and came to share with me. He and I are two and a half years apart, and we are pretty close, but I confess to bossing him about when we were young. He was usually a good sport about playing my games, I didn’t have the same patience with his rows of cars in their permanent traffic jam. Riding out on hobby horses or sword fighting in plastic armour was always fun and my preference for being a tomboy meant he was usually excused from rescuing a damsel in distress.

One useful thing about sharing a room was that we also shared our bedtime stories. My mother would feed us and handle bath time, so when our father got home she could get the older family’s meal ready while he supervised teeth cleaning and tucked us in with a story. Sometimes we had a story each, my brother liked Gumdrop the vintage car or the Fantastic Mr Fox. I enjoyed Polly and the Wolf while my passion for traditional folk tales meant that dragons, never-empty-purses and men wearing seven-league boots were commonplace in our bedroom!

As we got older squabbles broke out between my brother and me about touching each other’s stuff, particularly if either of us had friends round to play. My mother cleverly solved it by putting our beds at opposite ends of the room – I was near the window while he was closer to the door. By putting our cupboards and drawers back to back, she sandwiched garden trellis in between to create a partition which nearly reached the ceiling. We had redecorated by now, our walls were primrose yellow with posters pulled from National Geographic. Now I had privacy, although in moments of temper, I needed a door to slam!

A couple of years on, we moved house so could have a small bedroom each. I was excited to have my own space, no matter how tiny. I chose a sickly blancmanche pink with which to decorate and my parents bought me a bookcase, a desk and a chair so that I could study at home. My various decorating fads meant that when I was a teenager there were coloured records stuck to the walls and the year I turned 18 I displayed fans and chopsticks for an eastern theme.

My brother’s room was painted bright spearmint green, but the wall colour barely showed between the posters of truculent looking musicians in bands he liked. He bought a record player and tape deck and soon his presence in the house was characterised by a shut door which barely contained his loud music. I often knocked on his door to sit in his room with him, listening to the bands he liked & talking. Although our interests and music taste had diversified, we still had an easy relationship.

This reminiscence is written for the prompt ‘space’, the sixth in Mrs Fever’s summer writing meme Musings in Memoir where looking back is encouraged. Why not follow the link to see what others have submitted.

No Big Drinker

I come from a big family. I have two older siblings, plus a younger brother. Growing up my maternal grandmother also shared our home. Mealtimes were big gatherings where we sat round the table. It was sometimes too rowdy for my granny, everyone talking and teasing each other. She often took meals on a tray in her own room. We always sat in the same seats, our glasses filled with water or squash. We passed the vegetables to each other, after my father carved the meat, some for each plate. My mother dished out the potatoes, rice or pasta and then we would all eat. 

Sunday lunch was a more formal affair. We would say grace, my granny joined us and the grown ups drank wine. From fairly young, my parents allowed us to have a small glass of cider – I can visualise the 1970s Woodpecker logo. I loved the meals when we had cider, but I wasn’t good at drinking it slowly. As soon as that golden, fizzy liquid was in my glass, I started sipping.

My granny was served the meat first, then my father worked his way round the family by age. If only I was big I’d have a plateful by now, I thought as I gulped my drink. Instead, as the second youngest, I had to wait almost ‘til the end. 

When my older brother asked me to pass the gravy, his voice came from far away. I lifted the warmed gravy boat unsteadily, bumping it against other dishes clumsily before handing it to him. My hands weren’t very obedient, didn’t feel like my own. Looking round the table I was viewing my family through a filter, like swimming underwater with my eyes open.

“Are you alright Polly?” 

My mother’s voice broke into my thoughts. Holding a cool hand against my forehead, she exchanged concerned glances with my father. They noticed my glass was empty, yet we hadn’t begun to eat.

“Why don’t you go and lie on the sofa?” 

Getting unsteadily to my feet, I tottered through the kitchen. I lay down, on my back, amongst plump cushions. The room see-sawed around me, reminding me of when I spun around until I felt dizzy. This gave me a warm glow too, of course I was tipsy.

When the giddy sensation wore off, I went back to the table. My family had begun eating and I was hungry too. Once I had food inside me, the last vestiges of that blurry feeling wore off.

My parents did not stop serving a glass of cider with Sunday lunch, but perhaps were more vigilant that it wasn’t consumed before the meal began. They believed in learning one’s own limits; it’s not uncommon in France for children to have watered down wine with meals. 

Even now I am no big drinker, it doesn’t take much alcohol to make the edges of my world blur. However that’s usually the point at which I switch to a soft drink. I learned my lesson that day, I really don’t like that out-of-control feeling. I still enjoy cider; particularly brands infused with other fruit flavours.

This story is submitted and linked to a summer writing project hosted on Mrs Fever’s site, where reminiscences are encouraged in a memoir style – Prompt #5 Big. Visit to see what other’s have written.

Running In Heels

I have no skill or aptitude for sport, although I like to keep myself moving with exercise classes and walking our dogs, so I only usually break into a run when I am late. This, unfortunately, is not a rare occurrence for me. I don’t mean to be rude and keep people waiting, but I have a tendency to underestimate how long it takes me to get ready. I am too optimistic about the hold-ups which might occur on my car journey so when I park the car and lock it, I don’t walk away, I run!

Have you ever noticed that not many people run on the high street? Joggers use the pavements as part of their route, but their sporty clothes usually signal that they are taking exercise, raising their pulse deliberately. It’s less expected to see smartly dressed people running, especially if they’re wearing high heels, but that’s me, running because I am late. 

When I chose a primary school for my children, I didn’t take much note of the fact that parents could not drive up to it and park. It seemed quite nice that parents needed to walk with their children up to the school gates, having either left their vehicles near the church or in an adjacent residential area. All were forced to use the footpath and walk their children alongside the river, only ambulances, deliveries and teachers could access the school by car. 

The school’s location was, however, a nightmare if you’re late! When your toddler refuses to be strapped into their car seat, and certainly won’t cooperate with being seated in the buggy, precious minutes are wasted negotiating and then brute forcing them, while your elder child hops anxiously from foot to foot not wanting to be late for school.

That’s when my running came into practice. We dashed along the narrow paths, avoiding the dog dirt left by inconsiderate dog owners and terrorising ducks who waddled and splashed into the river to avoid me and the pushchair running down the towpath. My eldest ran alongside, book bag rubbing against bare knees, and we’d arrive hot and flustered just in time to fling off their outdoor shoes to replace them with black plimsolls so they could join their class before the door was closed.

I gradually coped better with the school run. Repetition drummed into me how much time to allow for the journey (add a little extra for the rainy days). As my children became able to clean their own teeth and lace up their shoes, our routine became well oiled. My next hurdle was class assembly. It was an annual thing, taking place mid morning, with the parents from the class hosting assembly expected to attend. In addition, some fathers or grandparents would be there, so the event created quite an influx of cars.

My child would want to search the sea of faces and see me sitting there, ready to watch proudly and perhaps take photographs. What my little one didn’t want was for their mother to enter late at the back, causing door banging drama, when everyone else was already seated and the headmistress was making her welcoming speech. This hadn’t been too challenging when I was a stay at home mum, but once I had a job, getting away mid morning proved problematic.

I vividly remember several occasions when I dashed from work and was forced to park the car much further away than planned, because all the sensible parents had driven to school earlier than me. I would have to dash straight away to meet the deadline for the start of assembly. I never expected, with my aversion to running or breaking into a sweat, that I’d be flushed, panting and getting a stitch, as I struggled to claw back precious minutes by running in my kitten heels. 

Who carries a handbag when they go out for a run? And what sort of masochist wears a balconette bra when the activity dictates that a minimal-bounce-sporty number is more appropriate? The answer is clearly me – I do.

Running in heels, it’s a rather niche skill which I’m sure it’s neither good for my arches or my posture, but it has come in useful several times. Until my timekeeping improves, I had better not let it lapse.

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This story is submitted and linked to a summer writing project hosted on Mrs Fever’s site, where reminiscences are encouraged in a memoir style – Prompt #4 Run. Visit to see what other’s have written.

Uneasy Rider

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
[3.5 min read]

When I was a girl, I had several friends who were into horses, so their games would revolve around booking lessons and discussions of horses’ names, what they looked like alongside talk of tools for grooming and mucking out. It was all a bit lost on me, but I played along. Riding sounded fun. My older siblings had been on pony-trekking holidays with my parents while we little ones enjoyed a bucket and spade vacation.

My mother had been evacuated to Exmoor during WWII, where she lived on a farm and rode a pony to school. It sounded idyllic. She sometimes got out of maths class by telling the teacher that her horse had become untethered so she needed to go outside to catch it! When she was 21 my mother took a trip to America and stayed on a ‘Dude’ ranch, where she rode with real cowboys, hence riding held a romantic appeal.

The year I turned 14 my parents booked a pony trekking holiday in Northumberland for me and my younger brother. We had lessons at a local riding school in advance, and I was kitted out with new riding jodhpurs, boots and hard hat. I was raring to go. It had seemed a little dull and walking round an indoor riding school, but there’s a lot to learn. Sitting on a horse’s back feels relatively unstable, compounded by the realisation you’re seated on a living creature which can be spooked or excited by anything.

On the first full day of our holiday we went directly to the stables after breakfast to enlist for pony trekking. I was curious to observe my mother, who usually wore dresses and smart shoes, in this new habitat. Having discussed our levels of experience, it was arranged we’d all go out that afternoon on quiet horses.

My father couldn’t ride as a child due to having horse and hay allergies, but as a grown up he’d taken to it and had a ‘natural seat’. It’s important to get your horse ready properly. Adjust the saddle so that it fits the horse firmly and can’t swivel round, the rider is in big trouble if this happens. Horses can be tricky, expanding their ribs during this tightening process, so the riding instructor showed us the correct technique then checked our saddles and tack before we set off.

Northumberland is a beautiful county, the last before Scotland. It’s wild and hilly with dry stone walls and quiet country roads that become corridors of greenery in the summer. Sitting high on the back of a handsome horse, my spirits soared as I took in the scenery from my new viewpoint. I could look over hedges and walls and was moving slowly enough to take in the panoramic beauty. After a while I got the hang of holding my back straight but letting my hips sway with the undulating movement of the horse’s stride. My mother did, indeed, look comfortable on horseback and my brother and I were a bit giggly with the novelty of the experience.

These horses were calm and steady, picked more for their biddable natures than their jumping abilities. They probably walked these ‘trekking’ routes routinely most days in the holiday season, giving families gentle tours of the area. My horse, however, wanted to eat plenty of long grass and buttercups along our route. Our leader instructed me to discourage her, to squeeze or dig my heels into the rib area to keep her moving along. Despite feeling more confident in my ‘seat’ I found this a hard thing to do. 

My mother got a little irritable with me. She explained that it’s hard work to clean the ‘bit’ if a horse eats while wearing it, because all the grass and stuff gets pasted around it. She expected me to stop the horse grazing, I could not. This horse was stubborn, the walk was a bit dull to her and snacking en route was a perk to which she felt entitled!

We carried on, with my horse dawdling and munching, to the point that our trek leader rode beside me so she could pull the horses head away from the greenery to keep her moving. The reins are traditionally the way to steer a horse, a little pull on the left side and the horse should turn left, a tug on the right and the horse turns in that direction. Your horse may suddenly pull its head down, or toss it, so if you’re holding too tightly, you can be pulled out of your seat and fall off the horse, something I didn’t want to happen.

We came to a river, it wasn’t deep and our trek leader wanted the horses to wade through to the other side. The horses stood in a queue so that they could descend the bank with due care. My horse saw a golden opportunity to take another nibble at the long grass while we waited. I couldn’t spur her on, so I tried pulling her head away from temptation. I shortened the reins and pulled to the left. 

On our left was a foot bridge, so my horse thought I wanted to use it. Her shod hooves made an echoing clip clop sound as she plodded up the steep incline of the bridge. Surprise rendered me powerless to stop her. It felt very high up on the bridge, both exhilarating and scary to be above the heads of my family whose horses were still crossing the river. I could not stop laughing as they stared and called out to me.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Are you afraid to get your feet wet?”
Once I’d crossed the bridge and arrived safely on the other bank, I wiped tears of mirth from my eyes and tried to explain why my horse and I’d taken a different route.

Years later my own children showed an interest in riding. I arranged for them to have lessons before booking our own holiday to Northumberland. We stayed in cottages on a farm which offered pony trekking amongst its activities. We enjoyed two vacations there, making happy memories which I treasure alongside my earlier ones.

This post is linked to an initiative being hosted on Mrs Fever’s blog which encourages writing in a memoir style, the prompt this time was Ride. Follow the link to see what others have submitted but be aware hers is a site accepts adult content.

Green

House Captain’s badge 1.7 Minute read

In primary school we had three houses: Red, Blue and Green. It was a way to mix us up differently so that we interacted with pupis other than those in our class. I looked up to the older girls in Green house. On sports day, even though I was totally useless at running fast, jumping high or catching things I did my best at the alternative events – egg and spoon race, throwing a bean bag. For the obstacle course I came into my own, I could eat a dry biscuit, balance along an up-side down bench and move fast placing my feet in a series of hoops – faster than the others. I competed, wearing my green badge on my aertex shirt and a ribbon fixed in a diagonal stripe from shoulder to hip. I cheered long and hard for my team mates, and sometimes Green house won.

On St Patrick’s day it was tradition for Green house members to compile and present something for assembly to educate fellow pupils about our patron saint and how he’d earned his saintly status. He was kidnapped at 16 but later returned to Ireland, bringing Christianity to his native country. The bit that always sticks, is that he is credited with driving all the snakes out of Ireland and into the sea.

I knew we had snakes in England, my mother always warned us that if we were ever bitten by an adder (they have a diamond pattern on their head) we should stand very still and send someone else to get help. She said running would just make the venom get round the body faster.

Some of our garden was quite overgrown, so we were encouraged wear wellington boots rather than go barefoot. My brother had day-glo orange boots of which he was proud. One day when playing in the garden, a bright green grass snake slithered between his legs. Gliding over the orange toe of his boot, it was so swift and silent that neither of us had time to yelp. Instead we watched in fascination as it slid after a mottled green frog, its unfortunate prey.

During my last year of primary school I was made House Captain. My proudest moment was being chosen, for speech day/ prize giving, to make a speech of gratitude to the person invited to present the various awards and music certificates. It was a big deal. I sensed it bore great responsibility so when I wrote my speech and then lost it, I was in pieces. With one day to go I re-wrote it, mostly remembering what I’d wanted to say to the lady engineer.

This was the 1970s, my school was all girls, clearly my headmistress chose a role model to make us think out of the box regarding potential careers. What I said in my address escapes me, but I do remember trying to visualise the elegant lady on stage beside me wearing a yellow hard hat.

This is submitted for Reminiscences : Musings in Memoir #2 where the prompt is Green. Click the link to see what others have submitted.