Month: June 2023

Clocking in

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Growing up, I would listen to aged relatives (it was that, or have your pocket money come to an abrupt halt) and wonder if any of them were related to Stanley Unwin?

I had a paternal grandfather who, if you asked him a question, would always answer with: “I’ll tell you for why”.  He was from north London, so perhaps, having been brought up south of the River, having far too many prepositions in a sentence was considered the norm?  Or perhaps he was a precursor to Google Translate? To paraphrase the Catchphrase catchline – “it’s good, but it’s not right”.

Where cab drivers dare not go after 8.00, my maternal grandmother, when asked the time, would answer: “five and twenty past” or “five and twenty to”.   Is this a generational thing and people in SW17 were taught to speak as if they were still living in Georgian London?

I bet, these days, no one is told “wait ‘til your father gets home”; as, with the advent of working from home, most fathers are already home, albeit working in a room which originally housed coal.

With raging inflation, I wonder much people should be paid for their thoughts?  Certainly not a penny.

And you didn’t have to do seven-years at medical school to give someone a taste of their own medicine.

Curiosity has been reported to the RSPCA.

Enjoy – or the rabbit gets it

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In the Balham ABC, during the ‘60s and ‘70s, the ladies serving the tea – which they poured from a great height above their heads – would slide the mugs across the metal counter; no words would be exchanged. You certainly didn’t say, “this tea has more of a head on it than my mum’s Guinness”.  If you did, you’d find yourself, and your accompanying iced bun, in A&E. 

What the tea ladies never said was “Enjoy!”  Nor did they say it, which seems commonplace in coffee shops nowadays, with incredible menace.

There is clearly no alternative to not enjoying it.   If you don’t, the barista will find you and creep up beside you, as you’re devouring your blueberry muffin.

They will ask, if you had to state your level of enjoyment on a scale of one to ten, it must be eleven. Or else! 

Iced buns were the only pastry option in the ABC on Balham High Road.  There were no croissants as many of the people serving there still had very raw memories of the Hundred Years’ War; the thought of having to speak French was abhorrent.  These were the days before sell-by dates. If you couldn’t eat it, you could use it as a weapon and reenact the Battle of Agincourt on Balham High Street.

Saving the bacon

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At sixty-six, I tend not to get invited to as many sleep-overs as I did many years ago.

Within my Balham block of flats, there lived another family with kids my age.  If our respective parents went out, I would sleep in their flat.  I loved it; and loved it for one reason: crispy bacon.

My friend’s dad was a salesman for a toy manufacturer, so there was always be the best new toys in their flat.  However, you can keep Flounders; Happy Families and anything involving attaching something to a magnet and a bit of string, it was the morning fry-up I looked forward to.   I probably already had high cholesterol at six!

I didn’t need waking up the next morning, as the smell of frying bacon would waft into our bedroom.  Auntie Sylvia (she wasn’t my real auntie) could have won countless worldwide competitions for cooking bacon.

However, before the morning food fest begun, we’d still have fun the previous evening – staying awake (to the babysitter’s probable annoyance) until 9.30 – which we thought must be tomorrow already!  We’d plan night-time expeditions to the kitchen – although, I did think to myself, we’d better not eat all the bacon or anything which would have made me still full the following morning.

At sixty-six, I’m still getting up at midnight, only not to raid the fridge – or to find Penelope Plod, the policeman’s daughter. 😊

Legion’s disease

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I was ten when my parents left me in a hall I’d never visited before; with kids I’d never met; playing games of which I’d never heard.

Was this some sort of punishment?  Had I been awful in a previous life?  Was this Karma for not tidying my room once too often?

I stood (and wished it was a burning deck, such was my desire to be somewhere else) by the entrance of this hall near Tooting Broadway. 

“Ok, Michael, have fun, we’ll see you in a few hours”.  

Was this what it was like when you joined the Foreign Legion?  Being in the British Legion club was clearly the first step.   My parents had signed a document ensuring I’d be in Marseilles before sunset.

The other kids clearly all knew one another from their schools; Cubs/Brownie packs or the Balham & Tooting sub aqua club for under tens.   I knew no one.  Even my imaginary friend was away for the weekend.  This was one of the few times I regretted being an only child.  If I had known, I’d have bought a sibling off the Freeman’s catalogue.

The pain went on for several hours.  I took part in none of the games.  I spoke to no one.  I hid in the toilet so many times, one of the adults asked if there was a urologist in the hall?

After four hours my parents returned.  I was given a piece of cake.  I did say thank you, but also told the organiser – thrusting my Victoria Sponge towards his face – “this is how revolutions begin”.