POCKET MONEY MIGHT MAKE THIEVES

 There was no doubt at all about the general monotony of life in 1950 in our corner of North Kent.  It was something we were completely accustomed to, relieved only for some of us by extravagant dreams for the future.  And most of the more rational of us didn't even bother with the dreams, instead preferring to dwell upon what our meagre pocket money might buy on Pay Day which for some reason was usually Thursday.  Once my father returned from North Africa and was safely employed at Bevans Cement Works I was supposed to receive pocket money because I needed to understand the value of money, that's what he said.  However I learned not to rely on it because more often than not it was curtailed because of some misdemeanour.   I'm not sure if Molly from number 31 received pocket money at all but on the other hand she had the kind of mother who bought comics and pear drops from Simms' shop so the deprivation didn't hit her quite as hard as it hit me.

  It was girls like Barbara Scutts and Rita Jenkins whose mothers made embroidered Dutch bonnets and angora boleros for them to wear on Sundays, those whose pocket money status was obvious simply by looking at them - they were the ones receiving a penny for each year of their lives on a regular basis!  And besides that they loudly discussed with each other the items and delicacies they might buy next.  That can be quite irritating when you're nine years old and desperate for sticks of liquorice wood or locust beans from the shop on The Hill at Northfleet.  The fact that the occasional wriggling inhabitant could be found in the beans was beside the point and in any case Billy Elliot who appeared to be more knowledgeable than the rest of us, the wrigglers simply amounted to a bit of extra protein.  I did not of course know what protein was but it all sounded more than believable.  My innate longing for money became even stronger when lurid pink balls of bubble gum became available from the same shop which was located very conveniently on our way to school.  It did not escape my notice that Barbara and Rita of the angora boleros were the first in our class to blow plastic looking bubbles!

  I knew there was no point whatsoever discussing any of these money problems with my mother and at that stage I tried not to speak too much to my father.  Later I learned that my mother's favourite sweet treat as a child had been gobstoppers that changed colour as you sucked them.  She claimed that she once nearly choked to death on one and it might have been true as she seemed to regard any sweet item consumed between meals as dangerous.  Meanwhile I became ever more consumed with fury that I was not to be accorded the same prestige as nearly choking to death would give me.  I decided that the only avenue left was theft and that was when I began to steal the odd coin or two from the pockets of my father's work jacket.

  I did not begin this journey into crime lightly.  I told myself it was important to be fair to him but of course I didn't actually believe that but there was no way in the world I wanted to be caught and that particular thought caused me sleepless nights.   I developed a system where I only carried out the pilfering every second week, extracting only pennies or halfpennies making sure to juggle the days.  I can now see of course that I was possessed of all the hallmarks of a career criminal even though I would like to shift the blame onto my mother and her family, most of whom took petty theft in their stride without too much comment.   My own ill gotten gains were spent faithfully in the shop on The Hill on liquorice wood and locust beans in the kind of quantities that became extremely satisfying.   I was at times even moved to share the booty with those classmates I most detested simply to demonstrate how generous I was.  I could not help noticing, however, how tentatively Barbara Scutts accepted bubble gum, examining it carefully before putting it into her mouth as if she suspected me of lacing it with Ricin.

  My poor trusting father failed to notice the thefts even when I stripped him of two pennies and one sixpenny piece on one occasion in order to finance the purchase of a blue Alice Band as a birthday gift for Margaret Snelling who now sat next to me in Mr Clarke's classroom.  The complication of what resulted from that rather rash purchase, however, was what gave rise to the sudden halt in further thefts and all because of the bicycle she had just inherited from an older cousin.

  Margaret had been so appreciative of the Alice Band that she rapidly decided we were now close friends, inviting me to her nephew Philip's second birthday party in the kitchen of her house in Stonebridge Road where we ate jelly and ice cream and little cakes with pink icing.  Because I was not accustomed to parties that celebrated birthdays I was delighted of course.   I was less delighted when she took to riding over to our house on Saturday mornings to say hello and completely horrified when she did so one day actually wearing the Alice Band, especially when my mother admired it.

  For what seemed for ever it was as if time itself stood still as I waited in rising panic for the executioner's axe to fall.  But strangely the moment passed without further comment and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Wiping my clammy hands on my clothing I became at once aware of the rapid beating of my heart and immediately resolved to abandon my career as a straightforward thief.   I would from that day forward no longer steal from my family.  Instead I began to purloin bus fares and Brownies subs money together with the Sunday Mass penny for the plate.  

  Looking back I can only be amazed at this complete lack of conscience particularly when just a few years later I chose to be totally condemning of my brother's fall from grace, particularly his thefts from our mother.  I also realise that the only reason it was my father who became victim to my own thefts was because I was all too aware that being without conscience herself and with years of petty theft behind her, my mother would have realised the truth of the situation immediately!

It all seems very odd now, entering a life of crime simply to finance an overwhelming desire for liquorice wood and locust beans.  I was sharply reminded of it a few days ago when a neighbour's grandchild proudly showed me a gobstopper in his mouth that changed colour as he sucked it.   I think I even warned him to be careful because I knew someone who'd nearly choked to death on one! 

  

ASSAILED BY AGE

One of the more minor problems that accompanies old age is that there isn't really an acceptable term for it.  Senior Citizen doesn't really cut it no matter how carelessly it is thrown into the conversation.   But that's beside the point really because the major irritation of old age is that it descends upon the victim unnecessarily swiftly and silently, almost in slippered feet.   One minute you are carelessly in your late fifties and definitely middle aged and the next you are contemplating the inconvenience of cataracts and paying great attention to the rising cost of winter heating.  

When you become a Senior Citizen younger Citizens particularly those related to you by blood all of a sudden assume Rights over you.  They begin to invade your personal space whether you like it or not albeit in small ways at first.   They might make hurried visits to you during which they assume it's perfectly acceptable to switch off the radio programme you were half listening to, open all the windows and inspect the fridge just to acquaint themselves with what's inside.  If you fail to complain immediately within a week or two they will not only handing out advice as to how you can improve your life but expecting it to be promptly acted upon. 

Conversation changes especially discussion and debate on world affairs, matters upon which due to your great age you have always assumed you know a thing or two.  This may now be replaced by mini diatribes during which you are advised what in fact you may now believe if you want to be listened to at all for more than a minute and a half.     

But essentially none of the above, vexing though it all may be, needs to provoke murderous reaction.   What is much more likely to inflame the kind of rage that may well later be described as an episode of homicidal mania is when a bone in wrist or foot is for some reason or other damaged and a well-meaning neighbour queries in the kind of tone that should be reserved for a survivor of The Somme, if perhaps you slipped in the shower.  That might be bad enough but to add insult to injury your reply regarding the bus that came to a sudden halt may be ignored!

Or when the weather report advises unexpected showers and you sensibly take the folding walking stick out with you and yet another acquaintance strides in your direction to announce loudly and as if they are speaking with a two-year-old that it really is a Splendid Stick you are carrying! 

It all adds up to a sudden streak of social insensitivity perhaps but then again maybe when you join the ranks of those who are old you are no longer entitled to civility or charm.   

 

FAR TOO INDULGED .....

I definitely showered far too many books and toys upon my children.  At times they must have felt completely submerged.  For years I totally abandoned any idea of sexy high heels and up to the minute fashion clothing and channeled all spare cash into what I then saw as the needs of the children.  In fact I can't remember them ever nagging for something because I was excellent at anticipating their current cravings.

There was a time when I was never happier than touring toy shops and children's book departments, seeking out the very latest Playmobil essential or yet another retelling of Greek Myths.  Looking back now I rather wish I had given more attention to the writing I felt I didn't have time for.

The obsession, because that's what it was, seems to have emerged from the circumstances of the second world war.  Toys and books simply disappeared from shelves and even when they began to return they were prohibitively expensive.   The mysterious illness my father fell victim to in North Africa prevented him from being among the first wave of demobilised troops and placed him nicely among the last.  At least that's what I was told and I certainly wasn't too concerned as I didn't for one moment think he would be staying long if and when he returned and I certainly did not contemplate the fact that he might be living with us.

My mother, however, frequently mentioned that when he came back to us we would be in a much healthier financial position and might even be able to buy items like dolls' tea sets and books with colourful illustrations should they ever become available.  In the interim she did very well on my behalf by creating a range of dressing up clothes out of discarded garments generally involving mock ups of what she called Crinoline Ladies.  She was inordinately keen on embroidering these women from history onto tea towels and pillow cases so I was rather more familiar with them than most four or five year olds might be.  The required Poke Bonnets that accompanied these outfits were fashioned from wads of newspaper covered with no longer serviceable flannelette bloomers.   I was never too critical fortunately but appreciative a year or two later when bundles of brightly hued crepe paper became available from Woolworths in Gravesend High Street.

Other home fashioned games, particularly when the weather was warm enough involved a somewhat rough and ready tent made from a bed sheet and erected from the scullery door across to the tall fence that divided us from Mr & Mrs Bassant next door.  On a summer afternoon a lot of fun could be had by factoring in the zinc bath that hung on the scullery wall and filling it with cold water.  Equipped with sturdy tea mugs and a small saucepan or two several hours of entertainment could be had.   These were shared with Molly from number 31 and sometimes a cousin or two from Crayford or Waterdales.  Overall I preferred Molly's company and did not get on terribly well with any of the Constant cousins and none of the Hendy ones.

Winter was devoted to drawing pictures on the endless supply of paper kindly donated by my Uncle Walter who was a foreman at Bowaters.  Some of the paper was described as Greaseproof and could therefore be used for tracing.  With sheets of this and a newly sharpened pencil I could more accurately engage in reproducing the various advertising pictures and slogans in The Gravesend & Dartford Reporter.  

On one occasion the pencil was so sharp and I leaned forward on the kitchen step to admire myself and it in the mirror by the scullery sink so enthusiastically that a nasty accident transpired.   Somehow or other the pencil itself became embedded in the roof of my mouth and I was hurriedly conveyed to Dr Outred's waiting room, feeling important.    However the latter feeling dissipated when he proceeded to give me a lecture on irresponsible behaviour that forced my poor mother to worry about me.  Looking back I believe his attitude was somehow related to what had happened months previously when I redistributed all the drugs awaiting collection on his waiting room table to ensure that everyone got at least one of the small red ones.

There were times when I added my name to the dozens of drawings I did on a weekly basis of a detached house with smoke emerging from the chimney, a home carefully constructed between a row of trees and flowers.   Already I had become keen to upgrade my living arrangements and our terraced cottage with no bathroom and an outside lavatory was not my first choice.

This decision about preferred housing only firmed up as time went on, particularly once I was old enough to join the library.  Back then I think you had to be at least seven years old.  The only books we had at home were The Home Doctor and People of the World in Pictures.  I think both had been offered by the News of the World, postage included in the more than reasonable cost.  I was startled years later to come across a copy of that self same People of the World on the shelves of a friend's London house and a quick examination revealed the very same families from far and wide that my mother had created stories about all those years ago.  The most fascinating for me had always been the Australian quartet, totally naked in the outback.  She never gave a believable reason for them losing all their clothes.

It was to be decades later that the lack of books and toys prompted me to ensure that my own children would never be in a position to think the same way about their own early childhood.  It's quite odd that many years before they were likely to be born I was already organising in my imagination exactly what books they might be given to read.  And whilst reading about the spacious and well equipped playrooms and toy cupboards of the middle classes I would at times even be compelled to design my own in the notebooks that had at some stage superseded Uncle Walter's wartime art paper.

One aspect of ensuring that the youngest members of the family have endless entertainment that was undoubtedly learned from my mother is that of never admitting defeat regarding a play project until all avenues have been explored.   Thus when the kids became fixated on King Tutankhamen and all that went along with him it took less than no time to reach the conclusion that all things Egyptian should come to us in Kohimarama as far as possible.   King Tut and one of his sisters were effortlessly brought to life with dress-up designs my mother would have been proud of.  Spray paint, crepe paper and coloured ribbons rose magnificently to the occasion.   A totally invented Egyptian meal circa 1320 BC was stimulating to compile and meanwhile the exploits of Howard Carter were avidly studied.

Later the various adventures of King Arthur's Round Table Knights were met with equal enthusiasm and by the time an interest in how plague and fire swept through seventeenth century London was expressed we had become old hands at recreating history.  All in all it was a lot of fun and I am only now beginning to realise how much those Crinoline Ladies from the past played their part.   Perhaps more importantly I also now see that the showering of Lego sets and Playmobil together with endless books on every subject were not nearly as important as they appeared to be at the time.   

Things We Dread Doing

I have still not learned to fill the car with petrol and although I can't say it's an undertaking I've always longed to conquer, I actually have tried.   The problem is that those hose contraptions are far too heavy for someone suffering from moderate arthritic deterioration of wrist joints.  So generally I go to the service station very early on Sunday mornings and beg for help.  The Z station nearby are usually more than co-operative though I can't say the same of others.

 Recently, with my daughter visiting from London and thus buoyed and heartened with false confidence I tried once more to get on top of the dilemma because unless I'm prepared to take buses or Ubers everywhere, it's a problem that has to be overcome.  She would stand by ready to intervene should it become necessary she said and it became necessary remarkably quickly because not only did I drop the unmanageable hose, my bank card suddenly decided not to work.   So she used hers because there was no escaping the fact that we needed fuel as we were on our way to visit Ellie in Miranda.   We drove towards the motorway in silence;  well, she was driving of course because not only am I incapable of filling a Honda Jazz with fuel, I also no longer drive motorways.   To be honest I've never been keen on them but there was a time when I would drive English motorways, if I'd had plenty of sleep the night before and didn't have the children quarrelling in the back seat.   Somehow the lanes on UK motorways seem just a little wider and people are much better at signaling what they are about to do.  There's something about New Zealand motorways that seems rather more hazardous.

Considering all the above  I found the prospect of the Probus morning talk the other day decidedly tedious because not only am I not overly enthusiastic about cars in general, when car companies go in for major operational changes I find it more traumatic than most people seem to. It took me more than a year to become accustomed to the Automatic after driving a Manual all my life.   

It seemed that Desley the Deputy Mayor was not available to talk to us about whatever it was she had in mind and instead someone called Peter would give a talk about EVs - he had been a devotee for nearly a decade and knew all there was to know.   Peter certainly gave us a great deal of information which clearly a number of us found informative because I noticed two people taking notes.   He was getting close to the end of his discourse and I was hoping there would not be too many questions when realisation dawned, quite suddenly and perhaps a little like some people find religion.  I won't be as dramatic as to claim I felt I was touched by the wings of angels but it was a little like that.  -  If I became the owner of an Electric Vehicle I would never again have to face the daunting prospect of filling a car with petrol!   My heart actually began to beat a little more rapidly I swear it.  

No more dawn visits to the Z station - no more humiliation as truck drivers on morning pie breaks stride forward to give assistance - no more sleepless nights as the fuel gauge creeps relentlessly ever closer to zero.   Just a simple plugging into whatever the charger device might be called - and didn't Peter say they were all over the place?   We might even think about getting one for Farnham Street.  

It's an idea definitely worthy of consideration.