Periodically during the performance the man next to your mother climbs over several partially empty seats in front of us, scuttles along a row and leaves the hall only to return again a few minutes later. When he is not seat hurdling he quietly hums and softly whistles along with Jack. He either has a severe continence problem and/or he is one or maybe two notes short of an octave. At first he is an amusing diversion.

As the second half of the show starts there is a strange rustling noise from our bizarre neighbour. “What’s he doing now?” asks your mother out of the side of her mouth. I lean forward and peer through the gloom, lean back and whisper out the side of my mouth “He’s got his piece out”. The seats creak and squeak as the audience within earshot of my stage whisper shift uneasily, the way sheep react when they notice a dog peering with intent through a five bar gate.

“CHANGE SEATS WITH ME, NOW!” demands your mother now rigid with fear. We change seats and I sit next to the oddball as he noisily munches a ham sandwich … or if you are a recent immigrant from Scotland a ham piece.

The town of Bonnyrigg where I spend my childhood had two railway stations. Dr Beeching closed one and my big brother spectacularly terminated the other. Fortunately, it was on an obsolete branch line which was rarely used.

The catastrophe occurred in the late 1950s during an intensely hot summer. Each summer holiday we would occupy a different location, build a gang-hut or shelter, annoy people, play games and sometimes just sit around a fire. On this particular year we were in residence in the wooded  embankment at the back of the doomed station buildings.

On the fateful day my brother Willie, a friend called Hallie and me were sitting around our fire in the manner of the cowboys that we saw in matinee films and emulated. Suddenly, a jam jar full of a suspicious and smelly yellowish liquid was produced by my brother with the claim that this would make the fire burn much, much better. Our father had drummed into us the importance of making sure a camp fire was out before leaving and we had a ritual that involved standing around the fire and peeing on it; a boy’s thing. But all the piss in the town would fail to dampen down this fire.

I’m positive that it was my brother that brought the jam jar to the party; He had previous form for this sort of thing. Only weeks before he had stumbled, screaming, out of the utility room at the back of the house with his arms alight like a Christmas pudding. At the time I was grateful
for the distraction as I was being verbally lambasted by my father; I had cleaned his bike and, as a special service polished the saddle with dark tan boot polish. He had thanked me at the time but changed his tune when he discovered that the polish had unfortunately transferred onto his light beige trousers creating a prominent external skid mark. Horrified at the sight of his eldest son ablaze the skid mark was forgotten and, in a throwback to his army days he exclaimed “F**king hell!” instantly expanding his seven year old son’s vocabulary as he sprinted up the garden path to dowse the flames engulfing his eldest son.

But back to the camp fire. We were all enthralled, kneeling and standing expectantly around the fire as Willie carefully unscrewed the lid of the jam jar and poured a small quantity of the yellow liquid onto the smouldering pile of twigs. There was a sudden whoomph as a huge fire ball rolled passed our astonished faces and roared into the tree canopy above. Our eyes swivelled upwards; we were mesmerised, but not for long. For the second time in a short
space of time I heard the new and interesting phrase. “F**king hell!” my brother screamed as he realised that he was holding a Molitov Cocktail in his hand. In an understandable panic he threw the jam jar, its contents fiercely ablaze into the surrounding tinder dry undergrowth. We were now  n the centre of a maelstrom of fire. With surprising calmness and presence of mind Willie ushered us away from the disaster zone and led us up the pathway and made us walk with studied casualness up the road to our house not far away.

We arrived home and sat at the table while our mother stood preparing our dinner at the kitchen window. “Och, it looks like someone’s having a wee fire. I hope the washing won’t be covered in ash”. This was a wee understatement. It looked as though a plane had crashed into the railway cutting; the sun along with the church tower had been blotted out. We sat quietly in the now gloomy kitchen eating our meal, my mother oblivious to the missing
eyebrows, singed fringes, faint stench of petrol and the distant clamour of fire engines bells.

Later the catastrophe was on the front page of the weekly local paper. Our father tut-tutted while poring over the pictures of the devastation and a photograph of a startled Mr Black the local coal merchant and funeral director who had heroically prevented the fire from spreading to his yard, a vast area of piles of coal and tanks of various liquid fuels, and the accidental cremation of his late clientele awaiting burial.

It is a clear cold November 5^th sometime in the late 1950’s. I stood with my father and mother watching with, frosty clouds of bated breath, my elder brother Willie von Braun proudly preparing his rocket for take off.

Influenced by the famous schematic centre page drawings in the Eagle comic and recent news of Russian dogs and monkeys being sent into orbit, Willie had decided that he would design and build his very own rocket, a large one. Amongst other components propellant was required; a lot of it and he had persuaded our gang to donate the gunpowder from our fireworks as fuel for his projectile.

This was a big ask. We revelled in our seasonal activities which involved harassing the town’s population by lobbing penny bangers, our weapon of choice, at innocent bystanders, creating shock and awe; mostly shock. We roamed around like small Hamas suicide bombers with our pockets crammed with explosives, probably enough, in the event of an accident, to blow a leg off at the thigh.

Willie constructed the rocket with our proud father looking on in admiration. It was large tubular object with a pointy nose cone, fins and supported on four spindly legs. Based on my avid reading of comics featuring daring stories of the Second World War I saw a bomb; our father impressed by Willie’s scientific endeavours, a Starship.

Over the weeks leading up to Guy Fawkes Night the body of Willie’s rocket was gradually filled up with gunpowder from our dismantled bangers and other fireworks. I suspect that other chemical substances had been added. The previous Christmas, to my brother’s manic glee a chemistry set had been his main present; a reckless gift in my opinion. Soon after strange smells and noises seeped from the utility room and odd events occurred. A hole of about two inches in diameter appeared in our garden bench, a church pew salvaged the demolished surplus village church. The hole with scorched edges had been blown clean through the two inch thick seat panel. My mother and father looked at the hole, scratched their heads and talked in hushed voices of Acts of God and meteor particles from outer space. But I knew; not how but who.

The launch day arrived and on a clear moonlight night Willie’s rocket stood proudly but precariously on a board in the middle of the lawn pointing menacingly at the stars; the centrepiece of the that year’s display.

After a paltry firework show Willie advanced confidently across lawn and lit the slow burning fuse, a product of his chemistry experiments, and retreated. Precisely two minutes later the rocket burst into life; more fizz than roar. It jigged about like a demented Riverdance performer then, failing to defy gravity, slowly toppled over to lie facing our small family group hissing threateningly. My father was now brought to his senses and, drawing on his wartime experience as a Master Gunner in the Royal Artillery he now, at last, saw a bomb not a rocket. and swiftly shepherded us down the garden away from the potential blast zone.  Thankfully there was no explosion; the rocket, in it’s death throes finally roared into life and sped around the lawn in ever increasing circles before finally expiring in the rose bed.

My father commiserated with the young von Braun unaware of the intricate Celtic pattern scorched in the lawn which would only be revealed at sunrise.

A post by Gramps about the joys of being a Grandfather …

A typical day with my grandchildren usually starts with swimming or a visit to that wonderful venue Wacky Warehouse. Swimming has the disadvantage of prematurely tiring me out whereas a visit to the Wacky Warehouse does not need any exertion on my part; adults sit reading newspapers and magazines while the children exhaust themselves (although I have noticed that too many Slush Puppies tend to counteract the fatigue) We then return home and walk our dog Millie in the nearby field. The dog and the children startle the rabbits and the heron standing still as a statue in the pond at the end of the field. The annoyed heron heaves itself out of the pond and we watch as it labours up into the blue sky and slowly vanishes over the trees. I show the children the network of paths made by the rabbits and they follow them in Indian file to their burrows where the granddaughter barks loudly into the mouth of the burrows probably petrifying the poor rabbits and bemusing Millie who rarely barks.

A quick lunch is followed by the ever popular dam building in the stream. Each successive dam is more complex in construction and the resulting pool deeper. For this latest dam we collect dead leaves to create a seal between the rocks. The grandchildren work with enthusiasm with the occasional sibling spat and the dam today is impressive. My grandson then demands to play football as promised (recklessly) at the start of the day. I desperately negotiate a ten minute kip while they watch TV before dragging my protesting body to stand between the two trees that are the goal posts. A day of simple pleasures; priceless.

As I sit recovering from this childminding pentathlon I am content; there is a reassuring knowledge that somewhere in my grandchildren there is a small part of me being transported into the future even if it is only a memory of a day like this.

It’s been a while.  Here is a guest post from Gramps on one of his favourite two subjects, farts and poo …

My grandson looks uncannily like me when I was his age. Occasionally this brings back memories of the distant past and the recent story involving poo triggered a particularly traumatic school recollection.

Still coming to terms with primary school life I am sat anonymously somewhere in the middle of the classroom at a wooden desk, one in a regimented sea of desks. The sun is streaming in the large window, the room is warm and my mind is probably elsewhere; mulling over the latest exploits of Davy Crockett or Quatermass, a scary science fiction TV film which surprisingly my dad had allowed me to watch at the impressionable age of six.

The class, in a state of mild excitement, is about to go to the music lesson which is held in a room at the other end of the school where I will wield a triangle, the extreme limit of my musical talents.

My day begins to unravel with an unexpected and uncontrolled fart; loud enough for the teacher, a tall, thin, middle aged lady, to give me a disapproving look and the girl who is sat next to me to snigger.

The moment passes and I slip back into my default daydreaming mode.  But this doesn’t last. I slowly become aware, along with the teacher and my fellow pupils, that the room is filled with the smell of poo. My recent fart puts me in the frame as the source of the smell. The teacher, suspicious that I have suffered a catastrophic ‘follow through’ tells me to sit at the front of the class.

Even at the age of six I felt victimised; I couldn’t believe that the sheer volume and persistence of the smell could possibly have seeped from my small body.

Much later in my life my mother would often announce, to my extreme embarrassment, in her lilting but loud Scottish voice that when I was a child Doctor Sommerville had remarked that I had very large bowels; the chatter and clatter in restaurants would be suspended at this revelation.

But, back to my childhood. I am sat, probably red faced at the front of the class with the teacher taking frequent smell readings over me with her nose. Things are about to get worse.

The class is marshaled into a column of pairs, boy and girl holding hands and start the long march down the main corridor of the school in a cloud of poo smell. I am holding hands with teacher with my classmates smirking at my discomfiture as teacher stops me at frequent intervals to bend over, pull up the leg of my shorts and sniff.

This final humiliation was intense but short lived.

Suddenly, a girl in the column bursts into uncontrollable tears. The humiliation is transferred as teacher lifts her skirt to reveal a memorably large poo slung in her knickers.

I received the following email from my Dad today …

Dear Laura

If you remember, when you announced on your blog that you were taking up knitting as a hobby I ordered a pair of Speedo style knitted swimming trunks for Christmas. Forget the trunks! I was in two minds anyway; I had a bad experience in the past with knitted swimming attire produced by my mother and I think wearing them at the baths with the grandchildren could create an embarrassing moment – at the very least!

This newspaper article made me think I would like a knitted coffin instead. I have emailed Prince Charles asking if his Royal Highness would be kind enough to forward the knitting pattern to you.

Needless to say there is no urgency for the coffin. I’ll let you know the colour choice (maybe a tartan pattern) and the personalised name in due course.

Be careful not to drop any stitches!

Many thanks

Pops

So out of chronological order I give you the night and morning following the 6 year old’s birthday party.

We left Gramps in charge on Saturday night.  He is officially THE best babysitter ever; Encouraging us to stay over and come back late morning the following day!

We went to My Sister’s housewarming.  It was a really good do.  Her new house is lovely and it already looks like they’ve lived there for years … in a good way!

I was told to bring one of our camping lamps because the light had broken in the downstairs loo.  I could only locate a wind up one, that only actually seems to work as you are winding it.  Unfortunately, after only one drink and only 15 minutes into the party, I told someone, in a new relationship, not to waste his wrist action in the downstairs toilet.  The Husband was horrified.

It was OK though, because later, when The Husband couldn’t focus he made several verbal faux pas, tried to break some fire wood for the fire bucket with some kung fu moves and then passed out on the spare bed.  Later in the night I had to stop him from wandering to the toilet naked.  He opted to wear My Sister’s faux, floor length, fur coat which was hanging on the back of the spare rooms door.  Think Cruella De Vil. When I imparted this information the following day My Sister couldn’t work out whether she was mortified or amused.

I imagine that coat will be in the dry cleaners quicker than you can say ‘All fur coat, no underpants’.

When we arrived home the following day, it sounded like the kids had thoroughly enjoyed themselves.  The 4 year old woke Gramps very early.  They went to the local nature reserve and then played in the street until we got home.

I don’t think I will ever forget arriving home to find Gramps playing tennis, in the street, with the 4 year old … his face painted, by the 6 year old.

Those of you who read My Sister’s blog will want to know if ‘Ole twinkly Eyes’ showed up.  Well he didn’t, and I was actually quite glad.  The merrier I got the more people became aware of the review I did of ‘my sister’s man friend’.  it could have been a tad embarrassing.

For the past year I have been training to be a Driving Instructor. Like many people who are not public servants or Ministers of Parliament, my dreams of retirement are exactly that. Just dreams. So I am now, aged 60, a Trainee Driving Instructor waiting to pass the dreaded part 3 exam which, worryingly, has only a 30% pass rate.

Working as a trainee instructor I have a diary filled with pupils of all nationalities or who have some connection with countries other than the United Kingdom. Some examples; Elfreta, British born but with Nigerian parents and, for a reason I forget, a German forename. Chloe, a Parisian, whose father is American and mother Scottish. Petra, Czech not Czechoslovakian, I am corrected with the hard look of a Scot mistaken for an Englishman. Carlos has a Mexican mother and English father and Suresh an Indian who relates colourful stories of driving in Delhi. Other pupils have connections with South Africa, Uganda, Wales and my latest pupil, judging by the name is probably Turkish – German. 

 This experience, late in my life, has unearthed a memory of teaching your sister and, years later you to drive.

When your sister reached the appropriate age I readily agreed to teach her to drive. Now, as a trained driving instructor I can, within the first two hours lesson, have even the most useless pupil driving around with some confidence. Looking back it seemed to take a long time and endless patience to get both of you beyond the kangaroo hopping stage.

My only clear memory of teaching your sister was of being pestered into taking her out one evening. Despite having had a very stressful day I reluctantly gave in, forgetting entirely that I had taken a couple of Kalm pills, pills that claimed to reduce stress along with any other vital signs of life. Your Sister was fairly competent at this point but still needed occasional prompting. Of course, inevitably, a crisis developed. Hurtling towards a line of parked cars with a car coming towards her she asked in an increasingly shrill voice for advice. Eventually, her shrieking penetrated my Kalm pill induced coma and I famously told her to ‘do what you like’ nowadays encapsulated in the phrase ‘whatever’. Surprisingly, despite a noisy clattering of door mirrors your sister and the car survived.

Nearly ten years later it was your turn to experience my amateur driving instruction techniques, techniques that had not progressed over the decade. You took your first tentative moves at the same place as your sister; the site, at the time occupied by the abandoned offices and factory premises of the John Collier tailoring company and now replaced by a leisure complex. After the mandatory period of hops and engine stalls you started to progress quite well and within a few weeks you were confidently motoring around the industrial site roads, which included a small roundabout. One evening, at the end of our session, impressed with your confidence I told you to drive us home. You did remarkably well until we arrived at the infamous four lane Otley roundabout.

Of course, in retrospect, the responsible and sensible thing to do was to stop you before the roundabout and take over the driving. But you seemed so calm; I completely missed the white knuckles, the beads of sweat on the brow and staring eyes. You did well and negotiated the chaos of the late rush hour traffic and amid a cacophony of car horns and squealing tyres to emerge safely on the other side. It was a while before recovered from the trauma and asked me to take you out driving again.

I often relate this story to my pupils as a ‘don’t run before you can walk’ parable. It always raises a laugh; something you certainly didn’t do at the time.

Laura

Did I read on your Sister’s blog (post entitled Slip of the Tongue) that the 5 year old had exclaimed “Oh, shit!” at your Sister’s house?

This reminds me of a caravaning holiday in, of all places Bangor, with Rosemary and Martin. Martin and I were stood in the doorway of somewhere which must have had toilet facilities. You as a six year old pushed past us saying in a loud voice. “I need a piss!”

I’m not quite sure where you picked that up from.

Love Pops

A few weeks ago, during our regular visit to the swimming baths, my granddaughter and I discussed the plans for the day that my wife and I were to look after her and the 4 year old during the school holidays.

We decided on a gruelling schedule, a school holiday decathlon; dog walking, swimming, bowling, and football. She was excited. I assumed with an element of self delusion that she would forget the exact details and the schedule could be diluted on the day. Someone once told me to never assume anything and sure enough she remembered the exact sequence of events including the toasted cheese sandwich at the local Subway.

Fortunately, the day was warm and gloriously sunny when I picked them up from their harassed father to set out on the dog walking element.

As always the imaginary dinosaurs (3) and imaginary Labradors (5) accompanied us and our (real) dog Millie seemed unconcerned about having to share the boot area with the additional livestock.

The walk went well apart from momentarily losing contact with my grandson followed immediately by a moment of brief anxiety when I thought he had vanished over the edge of the rock outcrop.

After the walk we went home to collect my wife and have an unscheduled breakfast. Swimming was largely enjoyable; more so because it was free and not too busy. Part of the entertainment was me, playing the role of a deranged ogre, chasing both grandchildren around the pool who then attack me, knock me over in a storm of water and shrieks; this watched by my wife, three dinosaurs, five dogs and a pool attendant with pursed lips, mentally flicking through the ‘rules of the pool’ manual.

Then the five year old whom I have taught to swim (after a fashion) decided to teach the 4 year old. The coaching technique was more SS than Dale Carnegie with failure rewarded by a clout from her, tears from him and a sharp intake of breath from the dinosaurs sat in a row on the spectator’s benches.

With the teaching methods and hurt feelings smoothed out we had a session of jumping into the pool. Normally there is only the granddaughter and involves lifting her out of the water onto the side of the pool and catching her as she jumps to shouts of ‘Again Grandpa, again!’ It is physically draining. On this day there are two children; doubly draining. We are performing this in front of a sign specifically forbidding jumping and most fun things. The pool attendant is about to lose it but the session has ended and its time to leave.

After the swimming we head towards the local bowling alley via the Subway sandwich shop. The granddaughter loves the toasted cheese open sandwiches, so on her recommendation my wife and I have the same. They taste like edible plastic carrier bags melted onto on plasterboard. The kids wash this unappetising snack down with some sort of coloured rocket fuel.

Discussions at the table remind me of watching Gorbachov and his interpreter negotiating nuclear arms reduction treaty. The 4 year old grandson, his hearing and speech affected by his grommets falling out of place ‘Я могу выпить просьба дед?

Me: ‘Eh?’ my hearing is not that much better.

My wife: ‘what did he say?’

His big sister and personal interpreter with a very serious face: ‘He says if you remove your missiles from Turkey he will move his back to the Urals’ (No, only joking he actually said ‘Can I have a drink please Grandpa?’)

The bowling alley is bijou but has all the usual electronic keyboards and screens and vending machines that dispense very small sweets for large amounts of money.

Surprisingly, the 4 year old manages not to trap his fingers between the balls as they emerge from the contraption that returns the balls. The appearance of some small friends in the aisle next to us combined the effect of the Subway rocket fuel concoction leads to a small but friendly skirmish.

Back home a pre-recorded film ‘James and the Giant Peach’ buys me a little time to have a furtive kip only to be rudely nudged awake by the four year old who wants to play football.

There is no escape.

His sister has that scrunched up serious ‘you promised’ look on her face.