Category: nostalgia

Dear Diary…

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It’s that time of year when you think about New Year’s resolutions.

It’s not unlike Lent, except the resolutions rarely last for 40-days (or nights).

Is this the year I give up chocolate (and make Bournville village a ghost town) and try and get that bikini body ready for the summer of 2024? 

Should I start adding semolina to my diet (having lived without it since an unfortunate episode during a lunch in my Balham primary school in the early ‘60s; this is unlikely – plus, I promised my then probation officer the incident would never happen again).

I’ve wondered about writing a diary?  The last time I wrote one was in the summer of ’76 and wrote the word “hot” for so many weeks I became bored.  I assume it was never continually hot for Samuel Pepys?

Last year, in the UK, the most popular New Year’s resolution was to exercise more. Should I get my Bullworker down from the loft?  Should I ask Charles Atlas for his promised set of muscles – and a duster for the Bullworker?

Or, I could combine several of the above and write in my new 2024 diary: “Have applied to Opportunity Knocks.”  I mean that most insincerely.

Mini bannister

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Until my auntie Vera took me on a trolley bus from Wimbledon to Belmont (which seemed so far away from Balham, I could have been on Neptune), my second favourite mode of transport was bannisters.  (My first was the train, as I enjoyed climbing into the rope luggage rack.  I think I had been a monkey in a previous life).

In my Balham flats the cleaning ladies had done such a fine job with their tins of Pledge on the bannisters that, going down them, was like the bobsleigh at the winter Olympics.

Perhaps it’s a boy thing, but going down the flight of stairs from my fourth-floor flat, I’d slide down the set of bannisters rather than testing my multiplication skills by taking eight or nine steps at a time or take the lift.  

Oddly, I never did this on the stairs at Balham Tube station.  I think the metal studs fixed regularly on my potential downward “course” were off-putting.  “Vasectomy” was one of the first Latin words I learned.

A consequence of this constant sliding meant one side of my trousers became quite worn.  When questioned by my mother about this one-sided wear and tear, I said that one of my thighs was larger than the other and therefore rubbed.  Explaining why I’d drawn Olympic rings on her best tea tray was less convincing.  You win some, you luge some 😊

Antlers & Decking

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It’s that time of year when you open your Christmas cards with apprehension.

Will they contain exploding glitter? Will it open to Away in a manger being played on a Stylophone (too soon)? Or will it contain a round-robin letter?  Personally, I’d prefer to have shards of glitter imbedded into my face rather than receive a letter from a frightful family I’d met on holiday in 1968.

Cards are more imaginative these days.  The actual card is certainly less flimsy. 

In the early ‘60s, deposited through my Balham flat letterbox, would be an envelope.  Inside was a card featuring a robin, covered in snow, chewing a sprig of holly; the card also felt like it could disintegrate at any moment.

I’ve friends in Germany and have received cards which, when opened, played oompah music to the tune of Jingle Bells. 

I felt like I was in a Bavarian beer house, especially as there was scratch ‘n’ sniff Glühwein on the envelope.

I’m lucky that I wear glasses as some cards open out with such force, it could have my eye out – and no one wants to be in A&E at Christmas asking for a pretend antler to be removed from both pupils.

And now I have to write to all my “friends” to tell them about how Melissa and Persephone are now doing Grade 4 castanets and the pet Labradoodle is nearly fluent in Esperanto. 

99 scary balloons

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My paternal grandmother owned several Staffordshire figurines.

When I was quite young, the journey from Balham to Maida Vale would terrify me as I found the ornaments scary.

One was an old crone (probably about my age now) who had several balloons.  I envisaged that, aside from selling balloons, she would wait besides the Guillotine, cackling, smoking a small clay pipe and swearing in French.

There were also plates on the walls too.  This confused me – did my north London relatives stand up and eat – and eat sideways?

The plates mostly depicted hunting scenes – I assume my nan went out, after I’d left, to look for stags running wild up and down Baker Street?

None of my south London relatives had ornaments or plates defying gravity.  We had no hunting on Wandsworth Common so, if we had have had plates, they’d have shown a Black Maria; Princess Anne opening the new Balham Sainsbury’s or local lad, Mike Sarne, inviting EastEnders stars outside.

If I didn’t have a pathological fear of birds, I’d have loved three ducks hovering over my fireplace – readying themselves to dump something on balloon lady below.  Now, that would have made her swear!

Thriller minute

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I was eight when I wrote my first novel.  It was called The Windy Night; it was a thriller and had nothing to do with cabbage.

I only wrote four-pages; and most of that were drawings (the sign of a good book is one which contains pictures).

One evening my dad brought home a few sheets of slightly used Letraset letter transfers.  My book suddenly had a very professional front cover, courtesy of these discarded sheets.

The book was never published.  My theory was the lack of semi-colons in the prose (or perhaps, too many?).  Sadly, there were no vowels left on the sheet, so the title became Th Wndy Nght – possibly many publishers rejected it as they thought it was written in Welsh or Shakespearean English?

There was a shop in Balham High Street which sold stationery.  They not only sold these transfer sheets with letters (including ones with all vowels still intact), but you could also buy a piece of card depicting landscapes where you could create your own scene.   I had sheets which had a beach showing the D-Day landings (with soldiers and tanks to manoeuvre) and a field, where you could place flora and fauna.

I mixed the two and had a giant caterpillar landing on Omaha beach and several Wehrmacht officers blowing dandelions. 

Chalky Purple

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Is chalk used in schools anymore?

When I went to my south London schools, it was always very evident.

I used it on my first day – as a drawing implement where I depicted my mum looking like a giant potato with no arms – and on one of my last days, when I had a piece imbedded into my skull, thanks to a particularly irate music teacher. 

Having had a mis-spent youth, my O-level results were reflected by the amount of chalk inside my waistcoat and behind my ears. 

During my O-level year there was so much chalk on my hands, anyone would have thought I’d taken up weightlifting. 

Chalk was much in use in my school playground.  You knew who was best at maths as the hopscotch grids went in the correct numerical order.

One of our class’s dads was a toy salesman; with a stolen set of Crayola multi-coloured chalk, we had yellow penalty areas, turquoise lines outlining the Double Dutch rope-swinging area and purple stumps.

We were the ‘60s equivalent of Kerry Packer!

Let them eat doughnuts

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Every morning, on my walk to my Tooting secondary school, I’d pass a baker’s.  The smell coming from the shop was so awful it deterred me becoming a baker.  I assume it must have been the yeast?  Probably why I never enjoyed our family holidays on the hop farm.

In the early ‘60s, a shop, which you could have found on the Champs-Elysées,was brought to Balham High Road in the shape of La Patisserie.   The pastries and bread were lovely and you’d almost expect Jean-Paul Sartre to be sitting outside; although, this could have been dangerous should a 155 bus suddenly veer off the road. 

I spent a lot of time in there as my mum was friends with the owners.  Lots of French Fancies, very few Gallic philosophers.

Being a baker is one of those occupations where you have to get up early.  I couldn’t have coped with that as a youngster.  However, these days, in increasing age, I wake up stupidly early.  So early, I’m thinking about getting “Debbie does doughnuts” out of the library and starting my own bakery.

I’d certainly continue with the French theme: I’d call the shop Les beignets, c’est nous; wear a beret; a Thierry Henry shirt and mock people when they try and speak French.  

Blowpipe dreams

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I’m surprised I never ended up in Madame Tussaud‘s Chamber of Horrors given the toys I had as a kid.

By the age of six, I’d become very adept at using a tomahawk.  Luckily, it was made of rubber and therefore the chances of me chopping people’s scalps off was remote.  

As if encouraging the art of decapitating wasn’t enough, my father once brought home a blowpipe.  A German client of his had sent it to him.  I scoured all my Christopher Isherwood, Goethe and Sven Hassel novels, but never found any mention of blowpipes. 

When I was given the gift, I had the sudden fear we’d be leaving the safety of our Balham flat and moving to New Guinea; my new-found prowess with a blowpipe ensuring we’d become self-sufficient the moment we got off the boat or plane from Croydon Airport. 

The blowpipe darts were, of course, rubber-tipped.  The worst I could do was take one of my parent‘s eyes out as they entered my bedroom brandishing my evening hot chocolate. 

As you get older, there’s a medical test where you have to demonstrate your ability to blow.  Little do these doctors know, I’d been trained by Pygmies from an early age with my blowpipe and, during the test, I imagine I’m trying to kill a mammoth.

It was a few years ago now. 

Playtime conkers all

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As you get older, so you complain more about the vagaries of the weather. 

During my south-west London school time, during the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I can never ever remember there being “wet play”. 

We had two 15-minute breaks. (I still think of a quarter of an hour as one-playtime).

As boys, we would invariably play football.  However, there were two dangers in our playground.

The only boy who didn’t play football, ran round the playground pretending to be a Ford Zodiac.  There was the danger that he’d take out our team right-back when mis-timing his turn round the school water fountain.  And a Ford Zodiac, for those who can remember, was a very big car.

The other ever-present danger was the girl who thought she was a golden retriever.  Not only could her lead get caught up with your legs as you sped down the wing towards the opponent’s goal, but there was the constant danger of catching rabies if she bit you (she had a note from her mum saying she didn’t need a muzzle).

If it had ever rained, we’d have been in our class struggling against pretend carbon monoxide fumes and the smell of wet dog.  Still, it was preferable to Music and Movement.

Setting a small bar

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The few times I was allowed to go with my parents to socialise at other SW17 houses, I was always amazed where the drinks where kept.

In our flat, if you were a visitor, you’d assume my family were sponsored by Bell’s or Gordon’s.

The drink wasn’t stored in some fancy cabinet; in our flat, it was in the mandatory brown sideboard, next to dad’s old Chelsea programmes.

In other peoples’ places the Black & Decker had been working overtime as one wall had been transformed into a small bar – albeit without the dartboard and cardboard sleeve of packets of pork scratchings.

One family had a globe.  The globe would open up and a selection of alcoholic beverages were instantly displayed – I assumed Marco Polo had a similar container?  I tried spinning it once and nearly broke my wrist.  Although, only until recently, I thought gin came from Abyssinia (it was an old globe) and Soda Stream was a lake in Africa.

Some families had clearly won decanters at various fetes; many had collected glasses from Esso.  In 1970, they may have swapped them for a card featuring Martin Peters.

Once, trying to help out, I thought I’d move the pineapple off the Borrowers-sized bar; having picked it up by the top, ice-cubes suddenly scattered to all parts of the shagpile. 

For the remainder of the evening I was condemned to sit, and not move, by the Dansette record player.  It’s not unusual.