Looking At Life: Poems, Songs and Stories

An Embarrassing Moment

My mother was a shorthand typist and the office in which she worked had several men who were very into football (known as soccer in Australia). Her boss was even a member of the Crystal Palace Football Club in South London and informed her that they would soon be holding a dance and would she like to come and bring her daughter.

I was 14 at the time, very interested in dressing up and hopefully attracting boys. I was at a girls’ school so they were relatively unknown creatures but supposed to be worth attracting.

The fashion at the time was for pinafore dresses, tight around the bust and waist but with full skirts and in order to have those full skirts standing out as much as possible, we trendy girls sewed net petticoats. Every week a shilling of my pocket money went to buy yet another yard of net, in a different colour and I duly gathered it and sewed it onto my petticoat.

My best dress was purple and white check, very fetching, and with the petticoat beneath I was ready for any dance, football or not.

The night of the dance came and I accompanied my mother to the hall. I nervously sat beside her as the music began and furtively viewed the boys. Wonder of wonders, one came toward me and asked me for a dance. It was a jive - we went to the centre of the floor and he twirled me around. I was delighted!

Then ping and woosh! I tripped. Horrified I looked down and saw my deflated skirt hanging limply and, around my ankle, a full circle of multi-coloured foaming net.

I will never know why but I had fastened it with a button, not elastic and the button had failed.

My cheeks blazing with embarrassment I stepped out of the rainbow circle, stooped down to gather it up and rushed to the toilet, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me.

It was a long time before I dared to emerge and sit in shamed silence beside my mother who, I believe, was trying very hard not to laugh. My dress was now hanging straight, deflated on my legs.

Amazingly, the young man very kindly and politely approached us again and renewed his offer of being my partner but I was just too embarrassed and shook my head. He walked away.

Well, that taught me a lot about dressmaking, if nothing else!

Of Course

‘Enough,’ Dulcie said to herself. ‘Time for a cup of tea.’ She moved to the stove to put the kettle on then sat down at the table in the breakfast room. She had done the washing and made the evening meal, stew of left-overs big enough to feed all the family if they came home for dinner.

Her husband, Roy, was in, working in his office getting ready for Monday’s business appointments. Janet and Philip were out with their friends and Linda was somewhere on her motorbike. She was the traveller in the family and Dulcie wondered, for the hundredth time, where she got the travel bug from.

Pouring the hot water on the tea leaves in the pot she continued that train of thought. ‘She certainly doesn’t get it from me: I’ve never been out of England. I had a few holidays around this country in the car with Roy and the family when they were small and that’s all.’

Roy had only been overseas with the RAF during the war, training in Canada then stationed in Egypt for a while.

She remembered, with a shudder, how she had nearly lost him when his plane was shot down but luckily he had survived and come home. Marrying immediately he settled easily and didn’t want any more adventures. Linda was the adventuress, often going on the Continent with her motorcycle friends.

Sipping her tea, Dulcie thought about how boring her life must appear to her daughter. Working as a shorthand typist during the week and just doing housework at the weekend in their suburban home. It was a nice house, old fashioned semi-detached three stories high with a large garden, having a vegetable patch and an orchard.

She had friends at work, played a bit of badminton and she and Roy enjoyed wine tasting with the local wine society. A trip to the movies in London occasionally or to the museum and art galleries there and maybe a drive in the Surrey countryside. What more could a 45-year-old want? She had a slim, diminutive form (5 foot), was in good health and her dark brown, curly hair was only just becoming streaked with grey.

Aha! Sounds of life in the hall and then Linda, in her motorcycle gear, burst through the breakfast room door followed by two young men, likewise attired. Dulcie didn’t recognise them.

‘Hi Mum,’ Linda said, smiling widely. ‘I’m home. These two guys are Jean and Pierre - they’re French and I found them at the roadside. They had just fixed a puncture and were on their way to Dover, but now it’s too late for them to catch their ferry and they need somewhere to stay for the night.’

Dulcie looked at the two young men, lean and handsome with dark hair and a very French style. The taller of the two stepped forward and put out his hand.

‘Bonjour, Madame.’

His flashing brown eyes looked into hers.

Dulcie put out her hand.

‘Hello and welcome,’ she said, stepping forward for a hand shake.

However, the young man took her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Enchante, Madam,’ he said softly.

Linda was fidgeting impatiently.

‘Mum, they can stay, can’t they?’

Dulcie felt herself blushing and at once drawn into the world of international friendship that her daughter so easily inhabited. For that moment she shed her urban housewife aura and became an English Lady.

Turning gracefully to her expectant daughter she replied regally,

‘Of course.’

Hiroshima II

During my early childhood, whenever Dad took us out for a family drive, I was fascinated with how he changed gear, accelerated and braked and I was always leaning over Mum’s shoulder, firing questions at Dad, as she sat in the front passenger seat. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to drive and own my own car. I was keen to be out exploring our country.

When I was sixteen, still at school and studying for CCEs Dad found a wrecked Bond Minicar for £25. I had been diligently saving my pocket money, had a book full of 2/6d Post Office saving stamps and eagerly cashed them in to purchase this wonder.

It looked as if it had gone under the back of a lorry and, as I later found out how bad the brakes were, it probably had. The windscreen was smashed and flattened, there were holes in the wings where the mirrors had been ripped out and other various dents but, on the whole the body was good and the 197 Villiers two stroke engine was healthy. There was one wheel at the front on which the engine was mounted and two wheels at the back. Just one bench seat and a space behind for luggage and the battery.

This possession provided a whole new learning curve for me in crash repairs and maintenance. Firstly we located another windscreen. Then out came the fiberglass for patching and the technique of using wet and dry paper to rub down the paintwork. In between swotting for exams, I was in the garage patching and painting my prized possession with Dad as my able instructor. The car was given coats of rust preventer, undercoat and two shiny top coats, all brush-applied but with such fanatical preparation that it look spray-painted. The main body was black, the wings red with yellow beading. The piece de resistance was a white skull and crossbones on the bonnet and two white ban the bomb signs on the rear. It was the time of the ban the bomb marches and although I did not actually attend them myself I was a supporter and the car was named Hiroshima II.

As it did not have reverse it only required a motorcycle license to drive for which I could apply at age 16 so, with L plates attached I started driving lessons with my brave father.

To start the engine I had to pull a lever inside the car which was attached to the engine, mounted on the front wheel and acted like a kick starter. It needed a strong left arm to pull and could give a healthy kick back. It also was a reluctant starter. The gear change was column mounted and it had three gears. The brakes were in the usual position on the floor next to the clutch but they were drum brakes connected by rods which tended to bend and were therefore not very effective.

My father was a very patient teacher and gave many lessons to me and my best school friend, Lynn Fillmore, who was also anxious to learn. Finally he deemed me proficient enough to take the test so off we went to the testing station. The examiner took a horrified look at the car and reluctantly climbed into the passenger bench seat beside me. I pulled and pulled on the starter lever but the car refused to start. The examiner gladly climbed out and said I would have to reschedule a test as he couldn’t waste any more time. So, three weeks later I tried again and fortunately Hiroshima started and I passed. Hooray! At last I was free to roam the roads.

I learnt how to de-coke the engine, mix the two stroke fuel and how to drive in all conditions. She had a retractable hood but no side panels or heater so a hat, thick coat and gloves were regular winter outfits.

This brave little car took Lynn and me all round Cornwall during school holidays and drove us up to Biggin Hill where we joined the Saltbox MCC and I became involved with motorcycling, after all I already had the license to ride one. I had to take another test for a car licence which I did when I later bought a Morris Minor convertible.

Hiroshima, however, was my entry into the world of travel and will always be remembered with fondness along with my brave, patient father.

Birthdays I Will Always Remember (7th and 21st)

(or, If you’re going to get older you may as well have fun doing it)

My very first birthday recollection was, I think, of my 7th. We lived near Ruislip, Middlesex and my cousins and local childhood friends were invited. I was wearing my best dress, a little yellow chiffon number with puffed sleeves, a fitted bodice and full skirt. However this feminine appearance was belied by an unlady-like display of my knickers as I demonstrated to the guests how good I was at handstands and cartwheels. My cousin Michael, who always had to go one better than me, started his cartwheel display and in doing so, his well-shod heel connected with my forehead. Blood spurted forth - all over my yellow dress, turning it a sickly orange.

Parents panicked and I was whisked off to the nearest doctor in the family jalopy. As the wound didn’t hurt too much and as it made me the centre of attention, I began to enjoy the experience and was somewhat miffed when the cut wasn’t deemed deep enough for stitches. That would have made me a real hero! However, I made do with a big bandage and was looking forward to my triumphant return. But my dramatic re-entry was dampened by the scowls of my cousin who had been severely reprimanded for showing off and hurting me. Even worse, the local kids had all gone home, having eaten my favourite jellies and the fairy cakes with all the hundreds and thousands on them. So much for stardom!

The first really significant celebration was for my 21st. In those days 18th birthdays went unmarked. At the time, I was heavily involved with the motorcycling fraternity and my parents decided that to save any cultural clashes it would be more prudent to have two parties. One for family and relatives, a respectable cheese and wine affair, was held on the Friday night at our home in Sanderstead, Surrey, and on Saturday night I hired a hall in Selsdon for my more rumbunctious friends. These consisted of members of the Saltbox MCC (Biggin Hill, Kent) and the Knightriders MCC from Caterham. I had two bands, both of which contained friends of mine, and we jived, twisted, rocked and rolled to Beatles tunes until midnight. We were not particularly a drinking crowd in those days but a good time was had by all. Presents I remember from that time were a bottle of Balenciaga ‘Quadrille’ perfume from my parents and a slide projector.

A Permanent Reminder Of A Temporary Feeling

A Permanent Reminder of a Temporary Feeling, a song by Jimmy Buffet which describes some of the many ways that we go into something impulsively without thinking about the long term implications.

He cites a wedding in Las Vegas at the end of a fluid filled night at the pub meeting a good-looking stranger. Having a wild night and getting pregnant and many more kinds of unthinking behavior. In the case of tattoos many young people have one done when drunk and when their peers persuade them it is the thing to do. Not realizing that many prospective employers frown on them.

Tattoos remind me of my Rhodesian friend who had a small butterfly tattooed on her shoulder in the vain attempt to try and lesson the reaction that her husband would make to their daughter when he found out that she had just had a tattoo on a delicate part of her body.

I would not like to make such a commitment knowing that fashions and feelings change and it is an expensive and painful process to get them removed.

The Busker

Paddy Dougan took his cap from his head of unruly red curls and placed it on the pavement at his feet. His down-at-heel boots looked on in hope of their resurrection if the shopping crowds threw their pounds in the waiting cap.

Paddy undid his worn fiddle case and, taking the beloved instrument out, rosined up the bow and, with his nimble fingers, drew it rapidly across the strings.

As the jigs and reels filled the air his dancing, blue eyes lit up with joy and his empty belly was forgotten.

A Campfire

The sun is setting, soon to be lost between the trees. The fading light necessitates quickly foraging for fuel. Dry leaves and twigs for a start then larger limbs and lastly, a trunk or two from a fallen tree, hurriedly chopped with an axe.

Who has the matches? ... Ah, here.

Eager faces huddle around as the first spark strikes. Will it take among the leaves?

A wisp of smoke follows the first tiny flame and then there is the crackle of burning twigs and, finally, the fire spreads and a warm glow ensues.

At last we can place the billy.

Manx Cat Song

A wandering British tom should have put his glasses on

When he went to the Isle of Man in June

For a bike going pretty fast caught him somewhere round the arse

And sent his caterwauling out of tune

Twas not what you might think, though it fairly made him blink

Was just his tail went sailing down the road

So just to make things neat, so he’d land upon his feet

He ended up with back legs like a toad

The idea caught on pretty quick, people thought it rather slick

To own a cat that didn’t have a tail

They put on quite a pose, started winning all the shows

And even started getting some fan mail

But every now and then the strain breaks through again

Some poor kitten finds he’s got more than his share

So he holds his tail up high pointing upwards to the sky

For he knows that it’s much safer way up there!

I went to the Isle of Man for the Manx Grand Prix in the 1970s and, whilst there saw the Manx Cat Museum where they explain that a strain of cats developed that didn’t have full tails. I’m not sure why. However, a cat uses its tail for balance and when they didn’t have one their back legs become stronger to compensate. This song is my explanation of the cause of the tail-less breed.

The Confidence of Youth

In the 1960s in the UK I belonged to the Saltbox Motorcycle Club (Biggin Hill, Kent) and many members would go to motorcycle rallies held both in the UK and on the Continent. The favourite winter rally was The Elephant Rally held at the Nurburgring in Germany in January when the weather was likely to be very cold with ice and snow on the roads. This meant that only true enthusiasts would attend and especially enjoy the camaraderie when finally meeting up with friends from different countries and drinking schnapps!

It was wiser to go on three wheels (motorcycle and sidecar) as the roads were likely to be slippery and therefore I had elected to go as passenger in the sidecar of one of my friends rather than take my own motorbike.

So, a group of us set off for Dover to catch the midnight ferry to Ostend. We would dock about 4am and then ride through Belgium and into Germany to reach the rally site later that day.

As we queued at customs before embarking I suddenly realised that I didn’t have my passport! Usually kept in my jacket pocket I remembered, too late, that I had changed jackets. So the others boarded without me and I was left alone on the docks at midnight.

I checked at the railway station and was told that the next train to London wasn’t until 6am. What to do? Well, fortunately there was a lone taxi driver parked outside a small shed where drivers waited for fares out of the cold and could make a brew. Seeing me looking lost he invited me in and offered me a cup of tea. I ended up spending all night playing cards with him and drinking tea. Desperate to go to the toilet I was too embarrassed to go out and squat behind the shed. My bladder was bursting when I finally found a toilet on the train. (It wouldn’t have lasted that long now!)

I took the train to London, then one to Croydon and finally a bus home to Sanderstead. I immediately phoned the Automobile Association to get a weather report for Belgium and Germany and they said fine and the roads were clear so I wheeled my BMW out of the garage, hopped on to it and just made the midday ferry from Dover, making sure I had my passport with me.

It was a long, cold ride but I finally arrived at the rally site and enjoyed the looks of amazement on my friends’ faces. There was plenty of schnapps handed round that night and it didn’t take me long to fall asleep despite the sub-zero temperature.

The things we can do when we are young!

Birthdays I Will Always Remember (24th and 25th)

The next birthday I recall was my 24th, celebrated in a flat in Bondi (Australia) with my flat mates and fellow travellers Angie and Jacky Griffin, a few members of the Willoughby (Nth Sydney) MCC and a crowd of some pretty wild Kiwis (New Zealanders) one of whom had shaved his head completely for a bet. In those days it wasn’t such a common thing to do and we all thought he was quite outrageous. They thought we were a bit weird too, three women with motorbikes, one of which was parked behind the sofa. I don’t recall any special presents that birthday but the following year - my 25th - I decided to buy myself one - a brand new BMW R60/5 - the only new motorbike I’d ever owned.

By this time Angie, Jacky and I were in Perth (Western Australia) and mixing with the motorbike boys there. I was courting the secretary of the WA Racing Club, Terry Bick, and racing his Desmo Ducati, and we also had friends in the Touring Club of WA. Funnily enough you couldn’t officially belong to both of these clubs at the same time; Road Racers and Tourers appeared to be a separate breed, but we managed to get them all together to socialise occasionally and my birthday was a good opportunity.

I was running in my bike and was anxious for a trip. We persuaded the racing mob to come with us in their ute (pick-up). This we loaded with beer and ice and headed off to Margaret River, a beautiful seaside area a few hours south of Perth. The party consisted of about a dozen of us. I was currently singing with an Irish boy (Paddy) and he and his friends were pillioned on the back of various bikes, with his guitar stowed safely in the ute for later use. Angie and Jacky were riding their own bikes and Angie’s boyfriend, Geoff, was riding 2-up with a Scottish friend Andy. They had perfected the technique of swapping rider and pillion positions whilst still in motion so this was an interesting spectacle to behold, at a safe distance.

At Margaret River we set up camp on the beach and then all jumped into the back of the ute to negotiate the sandy track into town to find the local pub. There we more or less took over a private party in the lounge and entertained the stunned people by singing Irish Folk songs in the intervals between their quartet playing for ballroom dancing. We joined in that too, me tripping over Terry’s feet as he tried a romantic waltz in his big motorcycle boots. When the party came to an end we made our drunken way back to the campsite and spent the next day having a hair of the dog by the sea.

During 1974