I wonder why the year doesn't start in September, as so many different things begin at that time - like school or college terms. I remember as a kid, the endless summer break coming to an end and a new classroom beckoning for a new term.
At Junior School a regular September fixture was the Harvest Festival where we were asked to donate to the church harvest. I would scour the cupboards at home, looking for any stray tins of corned beef or fruit chunks lurking at the back. Along with the rest of the school our class would walk down to the Abbey in 'crocodile' where the 'harvest' would be displayed. I looked in vain for my tin of pineapple chunks amongst the mountain of cans and fresh produce. The vicar (later Canon) was a cheery chappy and usually read a suitable food themed sermon, emphasising the abscence of it in some countries. One year, as a sort of filler slot, one musically minded lad gave us a rendition of the 'Chariots of Fire' theme - no connection with the Harvest Festival, but diverting stuff none the less.
Of course, September was also the conker season. Like marbles they seemed to be a sort of unofficial currency at school and like the real thing I never seemed to have a lot - maybe I looked in the wrong places. There were a few horse chestnut trees in the Abbey churchyard though, and myself and a mate decided upon a conker hunting expedition there one evening. One tree had some lovely specimens hanging high in the branches. After some fruitless attempts to dislodge them by lobbing up sticks, my mate decided to scale the tree. The spiky prizes were almost in his grasp when there was a sudden shout of 'OI!!' Some ratty old fellow (there seemed to be a lot of them around in the 80s) had appeared from nowhere, and in no uncertain terms told us to bugger off out of the churchyard.
So for me, September has always seemed like a time of change, transition and a little uncertainty. In the meantime, my daughter's nursery is having a food collection for Harvest Festival, and I'm sure if I look hard enough I'll find a tin of fruit chunks hiding in the cupboard somewhere!
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Sunday, 18 September 2011
And all that Jazz...
Lurking in the depths of our loft is a case - a very shopworn case, looking not unlike Gladstone's battered brief previously used for the budget statement. However, this case is home to a trumpet which once belonged to my dad.
When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.
The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.
The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.
When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.
When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.
The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.
The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.
When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.
Monday, 5 September 2011
A Gothic Evening
This is the title of a short story I'm working on at the moment - now I've finished my OU studies, (big cheer!) I can start catching up on some writing. The 'gothic' in the title refers to goth culture and music, with the story's setting (and some events) loosely based on a gig I went to as a spotty teenager back in 1988 - the characters are all fictional.
The 'Queen Caroline' pub was inspired by a watering hole in Leicester called the 'The Princess Charlotte'. This later became 'The Charlotte' a celebrated venue on the indie 'toilet circuit', playing host to such future legends as Pulp, Radiohead and Blur. I never got the chance to revisit The Charlotte and never will either, as it sadly closed its doors for the last time in 2010 to be 'developed' into student flats.
Anyway, hope you enjoy this short extract from the story. It's a first draft and needs a lot of editing - but see what you think.
I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you bloody know it .
‘Not at all, good luck to you.’
‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’
Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Jamie’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’
A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.
‘Never mind Jamie, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’
I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Ant and Matt, only now I wasn’t so sure - we’d turned sixteen and something had changed.
The 'Queen Caroline' pub was inspired by a watering hole in Leicester called the 'The Princess Charlotte'. This later became 'The Charlotte' a celebrated venue on the indie 'toilet circuit', playing host to such future legends as Pulp, Radiohead and Blur. I never got the chance to revisit The Charlotte and never will either, as it sadly closed its doors for the last time in 2010 to be 'developed' into student flats.
Anyway, hope you enjoy this short extract from the story. It's a first draft and needs a lot of editing - but see what you think.
Leyford on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town, with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, but a skewed poster on the door informed us that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.00pm. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.
‘Hope you don’t mind, Jamie mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you bloody know it .
‘Not at all, good luck to you.’
‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’
Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Jamie’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’
A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.
‘Never mind Jamie, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’
I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Ant and Matt, only now I wasn’t so sure - we’d turned sixteen and something had changed.
Thursday, 1 September 2011
Song of a Baker
Continuing with a Saxon theme (vaguely), when it comes to burning food I could give Alfred the Great a few tips. One work lunchtime, I once decided that as a change from cheese buttys I'd toast a few crumpets. The elderly office toaster struggled with this and decided to cremate the crumpets instead. This is in turn set off the alarm and was the signal for the Fire Brigade to arrive with helmets and hatchets all set to tackle the raging inferno (que cheap jokes about hot crumpet etc). I can only be thankful we don't have an office sprinkler system.
Recently I thought I'd have a dabble at baking, and what better choice to start with than a few rock cakes. Baking in our house isn't as straight forward as one would seen. First of all, my wife Sue, is a coeliac, which means that any food stuffs which have a trace of wheat in them, from cereals to sauces, are a no-go. Fortunately, there is a range of excellent gluten-free recipes available, including one for rock cakes. My three year old daughter Jodie, also offered to 'help'. Jodie, although brimming with enthusiasm, still needs to learn a little finesse, and an extra large mixing bowl is required to prevent the walls and surfaces being decorated with flying cake mix. After a while, she decided that watching 'Grandpa in my Pocket' was more interesting than helping Dad make cakes, so she skipped off and left me to finish . Twenty minutes later (and no King Alfred style burnt offerings) the smell of baking filled the kitchen and a tray of rock cakes lay cooling on the side.
And there they are - a little rustic looking perhaps - but not bad with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Somehow I don't think I'll be entering the Great British Bake off just yet though!
Recently I thought I'd have a dabble at baking, and what better choice to start with than a few rock cakes. Baking in our house isn't as straight forward as one would seen. First of all, my wife Sue, is a coeliac, which means that any food stuffs which have a trace of wheat in them, from cereals to sauces, are a no-go. Fortunately, there is a range of excellent gluten-free recipes available, including one for rock cakes. My three year old daughter Jodie, also offered to 'help'. Jodie, although brimming with enthusiasm, still needs to learn a little finesse, and an extra large mixing bowl is required to prevent the walls and surfaces being decorated with flying cake mix. After a while, she decided that watching 'Grandpa in my Pocket' was more interesting than helping Dad make cakes, so she skipped off and left me to finish . Twenty minutes later (and no King Alfred style burnt offerings) the smell of baking filled the kitchen and a tray of rock cakes lay cooling on the side.
And there they are - a little rustic looking perhaps - but not bad with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Somehow I don't think I'll be entering the Great British Bake off just yet though!
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