The Number forty-six

In the searing mid-summer heat of Kajabbi, N.W. Queensland, I found solace hidden behind the Kalkadoon Hotel. It was a quiet place, suspended in time, where the oppressive air seemed to blanket thoughts and invite contemplation. The tin roof above me echoed the relentless heat, creating a unique atmosphere that I cherished, despite its discomfort.

A thermometer hung nearby, its crimson needle stubbornly stuck at 42 degrees Celsius, a testament to the blazing sun overhead. Just beyond the tin-roofed shelter, the grass—too parched to be called a lawn—held a couple of outdoor dunnies, while two small rented rooms loomed on the far side, a temporary refuge for weary travellers seeking relief from the heat.

I sat there, cradling a hot cup of tea, smoking a cigarette and truly content in my almost-cool nook of shade. In that moment, time seemed to merge with the warmth and the quiet, drawing me into a state of soft awareness. My thoughts drifted, and I noticed a handful of tiny sparrows nestled restlessly in the grass. Their presence intrigued me; they, too, sought shade, each finding refuge under a tree or the overhanging roof, where they looked to escape the punishing sun.

Not much of a birdwatcher, I recognised those small birds as reminiscent of the English Sparrows from my childhood. A thought crossed my mind—perhaps I could help them find a more comfortable spot. At the front of the pub, lush plants bordered a long veranda, beside a large tree that generously offered shade, and gentle breezes wafted from the evaporative air conditioning, creating a cooler haven.

I approached the first sparrow slowly, my hand outstretched. But as I neared, the tiny creature puffed up with alarm, darting away quickly. It ran—no flight, just a frantic scurry—clearly more frightened of me than the heat. Disheartened but undeterred, I returned to my shaded nook, brewed another cup of tea, and waited.

Time passed, and I returned to my makeshift observatory. To my surprise, the sparrows still sat dejectedly in the grass, the temperature now reading 46 degrees on the thermometer. It was the highest I had ever witnessed at the Kalkadoon Hotel, an ominous sign of discomfort for the little birds. Resolute, I prepared for a second attempt.

I approached the first sparrow once more, moving gently and cautiously. It looked up at me with bright, beady eyes, yet did not flee this time. Gathering my courage, I reached down and carefully scooped it into my hands. We shared a brief gaze, a moment of understanding between species, before I traversed the back gate toward the promised coolness of the front.

I placed the sparrow amid the greenery, where damp soil and water from the evaporative cooling system mingled, offering a welcome respite. Encouraged, I returned to gather the others. One by one, I transported each little bird to their new sanctuary, their anxiety subsiding with every careful relocation.

Within an hour, all the sparrows were tucked comfortably within the lush plants, hidden from the sun, safe from the unrelenting heat. As I stepped back to admire my work, a sense of satisfaction swelled in my chest. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of their newfound refuge.

Years later, whenever I cross paths with the number 46, whether it be a temperature, a bus number, or a page in a book, I am instantly transported back to that hot summer day at the Kalkadoon Hotel and the tiny sparrows who, at least for a while, found a cooler place to rest.

Dear Team,

 

                            The Unlikeliness of ‘Serendipity Rights.

A Reflection on Chance and Corporate Interests.  In today’s fast-paced world, where innovation often feels like an intellectual boxing match between massive corporations, I find myself pondering the concept of ‘Serendipity Rights.’

This idea brings forth a fascinating intersection between luck, discovery, and the corporate pursuit of knowledge. Not long ago, I stumbled across an article detailing a research initiative funded by a large corporation, a team of scientists racing to unlock secrets with the potential for monetary gain.

Their efforts, fueled by (often staggering) financial investments, reflect a key truth: some answers are exceptionally lucrative. Should these teams uncover something groundbreaking, you can bet that the legal machinery will swiftly move in to safeguard any findings with patents and proprietary rights. However, within this framework, another layer emerges.

Throughout history, countless individuals, motivated by natural curiosity, have made significant discoveries by simply observing the world around them. They remain acutely aware of the same questions that corporate entities are eager to tackle. Yet, these so-called ‘accidental’ discoveries often go unrecognised in the face of corporate interests.

Serendipity, frequently described as a fortunate happenstance, could easily be viewed as one of nature’s inherent laws—a whimsical partner in the dance of discovery. What struck me —and led me to reflect more deeply— is the idea of establishing a ‘Serendipity Law.’

Imagine if someone inadvertently found a unique benefit, such as finding relief from warts after an exotic animal bite. In such a case, should that individual not have a claim to the discovery born of chance? It’s essential to recognise that while there is often a million-dollar price tag attached to evidence and the development of a concept, serendipity operates on a much lower budget.

This could signify a refreshing approach to innovation—one that embraces the unexpected and honours the ‘aha’ moments that come from life’s unpredictable nature. Social media platforms like Facebook often prompt us to share what’s on our minds.

Recently, my thoughts gravitated toward this intriguing concept of Serendipity and its implications. Are large corporations, in their ardent hunt for control over knowledge, inadvertently stifling the magic of fortunate happenings? Are they so focused on proprietary achievements that they undermine the beautiful unpredictability that has fueled creativity and discovery for centuries? As thoughtful individuals, we must scrutinise this dynamic. In a world increasingly dominated by corporate interests, we should advocate for a balance that honours both the diligent pursuit of knowledge and the delightful accidents that sometimes lead us there. Who knows what discoveries lie around the corner, waiting for someone to be curious enough to look? Let’s not lose sight of the value in chance—after all, it may just lead us to our next big breakthrough. So, the next time you’re mulling over a seemingly trivial observation, remember: serendipity could be lurking nearby, ready to surprise us all.

new –

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ough Dance and Childhood Reflections**

Beginnings**

I don’t remember being born, but I have convincing evidence confirming that I entered this world on the twenty-second of November 1946. I possess a copy of my birth certificate, a memento that connects me to my earliest beginnings.

I had two older brothers, Billy and Graham, who left this world too soon. Billy succumbed to polio, while Mum told me that Graham was born with spina bifida. The details surrounding their lives have always been shrouded in mystery, leaving me with unanswerable questions.

My father, whom we called Pop, was a complex man. After a few scotches, he often went into lecture mode. He expressed his controversial belief that “people with low IQs should be put down at birth,” frequently referencing Adolf Hitler in this context. His words left an indelible mark on my young mind, sparking confusion and concern. I always wondered how one could know the IQ of a newborn.

On many occasions, I’ve pondered the circumstances of my two brothers’ passing. I’ve questioned whether Graham indeed succumbed to spina bifida or if there was a darker, untold story. The possibility that his loss contributed to our father’s controversial beliefs has crossed my mind. Mum’s decision to adopt or foster Donald seemed to to me to be her way of compensating for the void left byBilly & Graham’s absence, adding another layer to our family’s intricate dynamics.

My older brother Robert was born in 1940, so I had two brothers at an early age. When I entered this world, Mum adopted Peter, a boy six months older than me. Peter and I were like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. Best of all, I had a little sister, Lorrianne. Peter excelled in areas where I struggled, and I thrived where he faced challenges. Our differences became a source of light-hearted banter in our household, with Peter often playfully reminding me that he was the “chosen one.”

Family Ties and Mysteries**

I always believed that Peter was one of Pop’s Canadian connections. In Mum’s tin box full of photos, there was one picture of Pop and a friend who came to England on the same boat as him, though the specifics remain unclear. Pop was born in Canada to British parents. His father was reputedly an engraver who did work on Canadian banknotes. Eventually, Pop moved to England, leading a life shrouded in mystery and unspoken tales.

His fondness for whiskey hinted at underlying struggles, perhaps rooted in his upbringing. My grandfather, a man I never had the chance to meet, had emigrated to Canada, likely before his children were born, leaving an unexplored legacy. Pop, having half a dozen sisters and no brothers, carried the weight of his family’s history in ways I could only begin to comprehend.

**Chapter 3: School Days**

My first day at school remains a vivid memory. Our address, 38 Newburgh Road, Acton, London, was the backdrop for my early years. Just across the road loomed a massive brick wall, behind which lay Derwent water School. I can still visualize the wooden door embedded in that wall, a gateway to new beginnings.

As I ascended the stairs that led to my first classroom on that momentous day, I couldn’t contain my curiosity and excitement. Amidst the sea of desks, one boy stood out – his name I was told was, Hugh.
The unfamiliarity of the name sparked my mischievous nature, leading me to tease Hugh relentlessly. The teacher’s stern reprimand, “Turn around,” resulted in a comical 360-degree turn that remains a cherished fragment of my first day at school. “Hello You”. At five years old this was a funny name.

A Dance to Remember
I recall a beautiful morning at school when the teachers set up a Maypole for Morris dancing. A magnificent pole stood tall, adorned with colorful ribbons cascading down from the top. Each dancer held a ribbon and gracefully danced around the pole, intertwining the ribbons into intricate patterns. The joy of the dance filled me with excitement, and I couldn’t wait to rush home and exclaim to my mother, “I love dancing.”

Mum had always recognized an artistic potential within me, sharing that I was named after Sir Adrian Boult, an English conductor who led the BBC Symphony and other major orchestras, although I eventually chose a different name. She was keenly aware of my artistic inclinations and soon enrolled me in a local dancing school.

I vividly remember the day she took me to a large shop to purchase bright red shorts, along with ballet and tap shoes. The shop was a wonderland, with overhead trolley wires transporting small baskets of money and papers to different parts of the building. My six-year-old self was in awe as I watched the shop assistant place money into a tin basket, which whirred across the ceiling, navigating a maze of wires to an office on the far side of the shop. It felt like stepping into the future.

During my dancing classes, I befriended a girl my age. After a few lessons, I eagerly searched for her whenever I attended a ballet or tap class. She captivated me with her charming freckles and remarkable ability to leap high into the air—something I had never seen from a girl before. I can still picture her face, her hair tied back in a ponytail, as she danced, her freckles gradually fading towards her shoulders.

Even at that young age, I felt the fluttering’s of infatuation.
—We performed a basic tap dance routine in front of a large audience at Acton Town Hall, moving to the enchanting melody of “If You Were the Only Girl in the World.” Even after I moved to Australia, I kept the habit of closely observing ballet performances, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dancer with freckles.

During this time, I contracted ringworm and was sent to an isolation hospital in the countryside. Unfortunately, the hospital did not continue my education, which caused me to fall behind in learning my timetables. I distinctly remember writing to my mother, requesting paper to craft paper airplanes during my stay. The hospital was likely an old and grand manor house with a vast lawn featuring a row of trees at the bottom, an area as expansive as a football field. Much of my free time was spent experimenting with different paper airplane designs, which became a source of joy amidst my isolation. The observant nurses at the hospital recognized my preference for one-on-one company and my aversion to group gatherings. They were likely correct in their observations
My mother brought me a Lone Ranger album during my time there, which provided a small comfort. However, upon my discharge, I vividly recall feeling upset and lashing out at the nurses when they informed me that my book had to remain at the hospital. In a fit of frustration, I even kicked one of them.
I also distinctly remember my delight in singing carols, suggesting it was around Christmas time. Oddly enough, I was required to sit on the toilet before breakfast, regardless of whether I needed to go. To avoid reprimand, I would sit quietly for a minute, flush the chain, and then join the others at the breakfast table, navigating the quirks of childhood rituals. This collection of memories, woven together by threads of dance, illness, and the simple joys of life, captures a snapshot of my early years. Whether joyful or challenging, each moment shaped the person I would become, instilling a love for art and a tendency to treasure life’s connections and experiences. —

**Moving to Bristol**
When I was about eight, my family moved from London to Bristol, coinciding with my departure from the hospital.
I never returned to Newburgh road and never said goodbye to a single person.
I asked my mum what happened to my Crown, which was a five-shilling piece that I had left on top of the wardrobe in my bedroom. Mum did not know, and it could well be that this was the early beginning of my dislike for secrets.
I suspect that this move to Bristol was due to my dad getting a job with British Aviation.
While I was in the hospital, he bought a second-hand Sunbeam Talbot. Mum told me about it, and I was thrilled since I loved cars and had a keen eye for the ones I liked. The Sunbeam was one of my favorites, A beautiful car. Where we had lived on Newburgh Road, where there were very few cars. Newburgh road was lined With terraced houses, people could only park outside. So the only vehicles on our street was a Humber Super Snipe and Dad’s Ford.
Dad always had a car; Mum told us “That’s what they do in Canada.”

The Sunbeam was a lovely car, equally impressive as the Super Snipe. No sooner had I heard about our new vehicle than Mum explained, “He drove it straight out of the car yard and crashed it into the next street, so he took it back.”
In the 1950s, breathalyzers were not used, and Dad regularly drank while drunk.
Before I turned twelve, I learned how to operate the handbrake from the passenger seat. I was always ready to reach for the steering wheel to help guide the car back to our side of the road. When I felt it was required. Sometimes, Dad would shake the wheel, testing it when it drifted. To assist me, Mum would sometimes support my efforts, “Just hold on tight.” she would whisper.
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Around that time, I contracted ringworm and was sent to an isolation hospital in the countryside. Unfortunately, the hospital did not continue my education, leading me to fall behind in learning my timetables. I distinctly remember writing to my mother, requesting paper to craft paper airplanes during my stay. The hospital was likely a grand manor house featuring a vast lawn with a row of trees at the bottom, an area as expansive as a football field. Much of my free time was spent experimenting with different paper airplane designs, which became a source of joy amidst my isolation.
The observant nurses at the hospital recognized my preference for one-on-one company and my aversion to group gatherings. They were likely correct in their observations.
My mother brought me a Lone Ranger album during my time there, which became a small comfort. However, upon my discharge, I vividly recall feeling upset and lashing out at the nurses when they informed me that my book had to remain at the hospital. In a fit of frustration, I even kicked one of them.
I also distinctly remember my delight in singing carols, I would often wander around the many rooms of the old building singing loudly, I noted that empty rooms had a faint echo effect. My choice of carols suggesting it was around Christmas time.
At this time I found it Oddly amusing that I was required to sit on the toilet before breakfast, regardless of whether I needed to go. To avoid reprimand, I would sit quietly for a minute, flush the chain, and then join the others at the breakfast table, navigating the quirks of childhood rituals.
This collection of memories, woven together by threads of dance, illness, and the simple joys of life, captures a snapshot of my early years. Whether joyful or challenging, each moment shaped the person I would become, instilling a love for art and a tendency to treasure life’s connections and experiences.
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**Moving to Bristol**
When I was about eight, my family moved from London to Bristol, coinciding with my leaving the hospital. I never went back to Newburgh road and I never said goodbye to a single person. I asked Mum what happened to my Crown. It was a Five-shilling piece. It was on top of the wardrobe in my bedroom. Mum did not know. It could well be that this was the early beginning of my dislike for secrets
I this change of address was most likely due to Dad getting a job with British Aviation. This would have happened While I was in the hospital.
Dad bought a second-hand Sunbeam Talbot. Mum told me about it, and I was thrilled since I loved cars and had a keen eye for the ones I liked. The Sunbeam was one of my favorite beautiful cars.
We lived on Newburgh Road, where there were very few cars. With terraced houses lining the street, people could only park outside. The only vehicles on our street were a Humber Super Snipe and Dad’s Ford. Dad always had a car; Mum often said, “That’s what they do in Canada.”
The Sunbeam was a lovely car, equally impressive as the Super Snipe. No sooner had I heard about our new vehicle than Mum explained, “He drove it straight out of the car yard and crashed it into the next street, so he took it back.”
In the 1950s, breathalyzers were not used, and Dad often drank and drove. And before I turned twelve, I had learned how to operate the handbrake from the passenger seat. I was always ready to reach for the steering wheel to help guide the car back to our side of the road. Sometimes, Dad would shake the wheel, testing it when it drifted. To assist me, Mum would sometimes say to Dad, “I will sit in the back, dear,” just so I could sit in the front seat, she did this regularly if she felt Pop had got a little bit too wobbly.
I was upset about losing the Sunbeam Talbot, before I had even seen it, I don’t even remember the car we used to move to Bristol, It could have been a Ford station wagon (A Woody) (but we eventually ended up with a Hudson Terraplane parked outside our house on Bloy Street.
Local law required us to hang a visible red light on the car after dark. I helped Dad with this by using a battery-powered tail lamp I had borrowed from a bicycle left against a wall in the next street. Mum bought the batteries for it.
”
When we arrived at Bloy Street, Peter and I unloaded things from the delivery van and played games with these new and unusual accents, exaggerating for fun.
“This mattress bisn’t very heavy.”“No, it bisn’t, bis it?”“I bis not happy carrying this end.”“Well, I bisn’t carrying both ends.”
This silly but amusing conversation between two boys while moving furniture made the experience more enjoyable. Dad went crazy and punished us, but we always had to pick our punishment. We usually hid a short plank from an orange box. It was stiff to hold, lightweight, brief, and splintery.
Bristol, I wrote My first story
When I was eight years old, My English class at Whitehall Primary School Bristol was learning the poem “The pied Piper of Hamelin”. Most of us in the lesson learned at least a few lines by memory. It was a fun poem.
“Rats, they fought the dogs and killed the cats.” is the only line I can remember of the poem. The rest of the poem has faded from memory, Except I recall That one lame child never made it into the cave before it closed.
Our teacher asked the class to write a story in the following English lesson. A story about what happened to the children after the children entered the cave. ( Homework!)
I duly wrote a story that used up several pages and presented it to the teacher when the next English lesson came around.
I later found out that there was an upcoming competition and that The Headmaster intended to enter some of the stories we wrote into an inter-school competition. (nobody had mentioned this previously).
A problem resulted. The teacher expected me to rewrite my story. This time, in my best handwriting, using the silly ink pen (dip them in the inkwell style) that all students were expected to use.
I instantly knew that this task was going to be close to impossible. My school books were a mess, big blue blotches of ink. Smudges, my schoolbook pages were messy.
It took me hours (homework time). I liked my story, But I was not too fond of it in written format.
I vowed never to write another story.
From this point on, at school, whenever I presented my English teacher with messy work, I was constantly confronted with, “Patrick, We both know you can do better.” So one afternoon, I threw my stupid ink pen at the teacher.
The result. I sat in the classroom corner for the rest of the lesson and vowed to dismiss any thoughts of neatness or tidiness in schoolwork.
I stayed true to this vow. I rebelled against the teachers, and The teachers rebelled against me.
When I was thirteen, My Mother read my school report; she asked me, “What did the teacher mean when she wrote, “Patrick is the king of the pig-headed.”
I can not do Math’s (I never learned). The schools dismissed my written work due to my total disregard for presentation. I left school on my fifteenth birthday to become a bicycle mechanic.
I own a calculator. (math’s is a diddle)

Before Fording bridgeEight years to Eleven years old
The teacher discussed statistics during a math’s lesson at Burgate Secondary School in Hampshire. Math’s wasn’t my favorite subject, and I only paid a little attention to it. There were times tables on the back of every school book, but I usually guessed the answers to math’s problems. If the teacher told me I was wrong, I got angry and argued that they never told me how many cows were in the other fields, for example. Sometimes, I even thought I was more intelligent than the teacher because I believed the question was flawed if I didn’t know the answer.
I wouldn’t say I liked math’s. It may have been because I had a ringworm contagion during my early math’s classes at Derwentwater Primary School. As a result, I was moved to an isolation hospital and missed a fair bit of schooling school. The Isolation hospital had teachers who gave lessons but didn’t teach us the times tables. I do not recall them teaching me anything. I spent a long time at the isolation hospital, and during that time, my mother brought me a Lone Ranger Annual, which a nurse helped me read. The nurse also gave me a book called “Just William” by Enid Blyton, which I loved. I collected all the William books because I felt that William and I were alike in how we thought and dressed.
After I was let out of isolation, my family moved to Bristol, and I went to Whitehall Primary School. The other students there were good at multiplying small numbers by memory, but I struggled and had many
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embarrassing moments. However, reading was my strength, and I was way ahead of the other kids in my class. I remember one particular moment when I read a story called “George and the Dragon” out loud to the class. They all listened intently and understood what I read. It was a triumphant moment for me until the teacher corrected my pronunciation of ‘George’. ( GEE-ORGY) One of the girls in the class, Susan Ward, came to my aid and helped me out. I fell in love with her and her best friend, Margaret Bush, but I never got their attention. I did, however, get to sit at the same table as Susan, right in front of the teacher. We were ink monitors.
I failed my 11-plus exam and moved to Greenbank, close to the Cadbury Chocolate Factory at Bourneville – a strict school where the older kids ruled the roost. It wasn’t fun being part of the youngest intake; I was only there for about two months before my family moved to Fordingbridge, which resulted in more time off from my education.While living in Bristol, I had all the William books to keep me company. We also had a television and a plug-in radio service called Rediffusion, which allowed me to listen to different channels and films. This was also the year I had my first bet with Peter. We bet a shilling on the fight between Brian London and Henry Cooper. I don’t remember who won, but I was a big fan of Henry Cooper.
1957 – 1963
I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure suction; there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.
My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Long-room,” a room about nine feet wide, stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Longroom was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.
When we moved in, we were tol

We lived on Newburgh Road, where there were very few cars. With terraced houses lining the street, parking was limited to the area outside our homes. The only vehicles on our street were a Humber Super Snipe and Dad’s Ford. Dad always had a car; Mum often said, “That’s what they do in Canada.” The Sunbeam was a lovely car, just as impressive as the Super Snipe. No sooner had I heard about our new vehicle than Mum explained, “He drove it straight out of the car yard and crashed it into the next street, so he took it back.” In the 1950s, breathalyzers were not used, and Dad often drank and drove. Before I turned twelve, I learned how to operate the handbrake from the passenger seat. I was always ready to reach for the steering wheel to help guide the car back to our side of the road. Sometimes, Dad would shake the wheel, testing it when it drifted. To assist me, Mum would occasionally say to Dad, “I will sit in the back, dear,” so I could sit in the front. I was upset about losing the Sunbeam Talbot. I don’t even remember the car we used to move to Bristol, but we eventually ended up with a Hudson Terraplane parked outside our house on Bloy Street. Local law required us to hang a visible red light on the car after dark. I helped Dad with this by using a battery-powered tail lamp I had borrowed from an abandoned bicycle left against a wall in the next street. Mum bought the batteries for it. Moving to Bristol was disappointing. I had received letters from classmates wishing me well while I was in the hospital, but I never got them. I also lost my marble collection, the silver spoon I received from school to celebrate the Queen’s Coronation, and my Coronation jigsaw puzzle, which the whole family had carefully assembled and stored in a large wooden cigar box. However, Dad always remembered the television; he often said, “Regarding mine or Peter’s possessions, throw them out.” Because of this, I never read my school friends’ letters, which I’m sure I would have cherished forever. Today, I can’t remember any of my early schoolmates’ names except for one: “Hugh.” Despite these challenges, Bristol was exciting. The locals spoke differently in this part of the country. They used phrases like “Thicky way” instead of “this way,” and “I baint” or “I dint” instead of “I am not” or “This is not.” When we arrived at Bloy Street, Peter and I unloaded things from the delivery van and played games with these new and unusual accents, exaggerating for fun. “This mattress bisn’t very heavy.” “No, it bisn’t bis it?” “I bis not happy carrying this end.” “Well, I bisn’t carrying both ends.” This silly but amusing conversation between two boys while moving furniture made the experience more enjoyable. Dad went crazy and punished us, but we always got to pick our punishment. We usually hid a short plank from an orange box. It was stiff to hold, lightweight, brief, and splintery. Bristol, I Wrote My First Story When I was eight years old, my English class at Whitehall Primary School in Bristol was learning the poem “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” Most of us in the lesson memorized at least a few lines. It was a fun poem. The only line I can remember is, “Rats, they fought the dogs and killed the cats.” The rest of the poem has faded from memory, except that I recall one lame child who never made it into the cave before it closed. Our teacher asked the class to write a story in the following English lesson—homework about what happened to the children after they entered the cave. I wrote a story that spanned several pages and presented it to the teacher when the next English lesson came around. I later found out that there was an upcoming competition, and the Headmaster intended to enter some of the stories we wrote into an inter-school competition. Nobody had mentioned this previously. A problem arose. The teacher expected me to rewrite my story this time in my best handwriting, using the silly ink pen (the kind you dip into the inkwell) that all students were required to use. I instantly knew that this task would be nearly impossible. My schoolbooks were a mess, filled with big blue blotches of ink and smudges. It took me hours (homework time). I liked my story, but I wasn’t fond of it in written format. I vowed never to write another story. From that point on, at school, whenever I presented my English teacher with messy work, she constantly confronted me with, “Patrick, we both know you can do better.” One afternoon, I threw my stupid ink pen at the teacher. The result: I sat in the classroom corner for the rest of the lesson and vowed to dismiss any thoughts of neatness or tidiness in my schoolwork. I stayed true to this vow. I rebelled against the teachers, and the teachers rebelled against me. When I was thirteen, my mother read my school report. She asked me, “What did the teacher mean when she wrote, ‘Patrick is the king of the pig-headed’?” I could not do math (I never learned). The schools dismissed my written work due to my total disregard for presentation. I left school on my fifteenth birthday.

cylinder Kerosene engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it required a tiny amount of petrol to start, My Father instantly switched to Kerosene. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power. The 12-volt lights were also supplied by his work at Flight Refueling, Tarrant Rushton Airfield.
My Father also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke (often still hot) from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest of the ashes were used to fill the laneway mud holes. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my mother to cook on.
My younger sister, brother, and I had dinners at school and a shower after many P.T. lessons, soccer games etcetera. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school.
During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over five kilometers from home.
I never felt my life at Primrose Cottage was in any way difficult or hard.
When I got home from school most days, my immediate job was to kill, pluck and gut a chicken or two. (Pop sold them to workmates).
Pluck a Chicken. I distinctly remember an incident where my Mother wrote a letter to the school regarding homework. Mum permanently sealed letters (everybody in our family could read them), Peter and the Headmistress were buddies, and they would chat. The Head Mistress gave me a knowing nod now and then. Peter could do that, I was often referred to by (even the woodworking teacher), and Peter never went to woodwork lessons. Anyway, it was discovered that my mother had written a letter explaining, if I brought homework home. She would give me a live chicken in a bag to take to school, where I was to kill, Gut, and pluck it, so I would have time to do my home duties. I was still given homework, I ignored it.
If there were any difficulties, it was at school playtimes when the ground talk was most regularly about the TV programs, talking about “Gun smoke” or some other cowboy program. I was more interested in the “Inspector West Investigates” radio programs and other series. My transistor radio always managed to pick up Radio Luxembourg; This was one of the few channels I could listen to rock and other contemporary popular music under reasonable weather conditions, especially at night.
A lad can work to his heart’s content with a radio, eyes and hands free. I never watched TV in those years. And I learned to love work.
I left school on my fifteenth birthday.
Overall, I had far better pre-teen years growing up than anyone I have met since.
I lived with my family in a charming country cottage in the serene countryside of Hampshire from 1957 to 1963, during my formative years between the ages of eleven and eighteen. Our rustic abode, frozen in time, lacked the modern convenience of electricity, compelling us to rely on the gentle glow of oil lamps to illuminate our evenings. A quaint outdoor lavatory awaited us, necessitating the monthly ritual of excavating a fresh pit. Our water needs were met by a humble hand pump in the kitchen, which demanded a generous priming of water to ensure its faithful service. The kitchen was a humble sanctuary adorned with wood and gas stoves, standing stoically on concrete floors.

My responsibilities included tending to the crackling fires of the wood stove and the comforting hearth in our lounge, ensuring that my mother could conjure culinary delights and that our family could luxuriate in a steaming basin of water for our daily ablutions. The kitchen seamlessly melded with the “Longroom,” a spacious chamber stretching across our modest cottage’s front. Its exposed roof beams and tin roof bore the marks of its former life as a gamekeeper’s tool repository.
In our enchanting haven, our lighting was powered by a venerable single-cylinder kerosene engine, lovingly maintained by my father, affectionately known as Pop. The rhythmic “PHUT-PHUT-PHUT” of the engine reverberated through our garden, a testament to my father’s ingenuity and resourcefulness. To keep our lights aglow, my father would procure old aircraft batteries from his workplace at Flight Refueling Tarrant Rushton Airfield. Additionally, he would bring home bins filled with residual warmth and burnt coke from the furnace, which my younger sister and I eagerly sifted through to retrieve unburnt pieces while the remaining ashes found purpose in filling the muddy crevices of our laneway.
The routine of school life punctuated our simple joys. I would partake in the daily ritual of dispatching a chicken or two upon my return from school, a task that my industrious Pop would deftly transform into a means of supplementary income. Amidst the chatter of schoolmates engrossed in television programs, I found solace in the captivating radio dramas, particularly drawn to the allure of “Inspector West Investigates” and other enthralling series. My trusty transistor radio, a cherished possession, would faithfully tune in to Radio Luxembourg, offering a gateway to the pulsating rhythms of contemporary music, a rare treat under the veil of night.
As I reflect upon those halcyon years, I realize that the cherished memories of my upbringing in Primrose Cottage have given me a unique and enriching experience that has indelibly shaped my perspective on life.
—————–1961—————-
My mom came back from shopping one afternoon. We had been living at Primrose Cottage for a while. We all knew she didn’t like making the 2.5-mile trip to town because she had to wait for transportation, and Pop wasn’t always home. One day, she proudly announced that we now had a café. I’m not entirely sure, but those who knew my mom probably wouldn’t be surprised that it didn’t cost her anything.
This was the same mom who took me, Peter, and Lorianne to the Social Security office, sat us on the counter, and left us there because they forgot to give her a ration card. At that time, the government gave milk rations to mothers with small children. Another time, she pinned a note on Peter’s jacket with our address and details, claiming it was a big secret and that we shouldn’t talk to anyone except to say we were lost until Aunty Joan came to pick us up. She even bought us platform tickets (maybe she prepaid the fare?)—I can’t remember if it was from London or Bristol. I remember us all dressed up, with coats and scattered memories of a big train ride. Perhaps because she handed Peter and me a posy to give to Grandma. “Posy” was a new word, and I remember Peter and me first understanding the rhyme “Ring a Ring of Roses, a pocket full of posies.” I suspect Mom had to spend a few days in the hospital, but I don’t have any other memories apart from mine and Peter’s. I remember the train trip.
I also know that Mom never bought light bulbs. She always went down to the local council in Bristol to get new ones. She believed they only blew when council workers were close to our location. It was obvious to Peter and me that replacing the bulb was the easiest way to get rid of her.
I always suspected my mother was a little bit crazy, but it seemed like she was crazy with a purpose. Little things like standing at a bus stop, close to a roof or shelter of some kind. If it started to rain and we were going to walk to the shelter, she would shout, “Stand still! If you don’t move, you won’t get wet.” It was totally ridiculous.
When man first stepped on the moon, I expect she would have said, “See? I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”
So when she said, “We now have a café,” Pop accepted it, despite knowing full well that she didn’t have any cash assets. Later, I discovered that an old disused shop in Fordingbridge had been vacant for a while, and Mom was interested. (My grandmother had a sweet shop in St. Clair’s.)
The new shop was derelict, with the brick walls at the back falling down , but being at the end of a row of terraced houses, it had the same roof as the rest of the street. The fact that the back of the shop adjoined the neighbor’s house, and we could walk out the back and arrive at the neighbor’s home, did not seem to worry anyone.
Take Five Café – My First Floor.
When Pop saw the shop for the first time, he said, “It is falling to bits!” Mum shouted back at him in a tone I knew she had; I knew she used it, but I had never heard or seen it before. She cried, “The windows are not broken.” She ended the last word with a growl.
Pop pulled his chin in. He shrugged his shoulders and said to me, “She is a Bermondsey Girl (a district in southeast London).” I presumed that was an excuse. I was later told to believe that the landlord had agreed that if Mum moved in, she could have a couple of months free rent to fix some of the problems. I also learned that the two pinball machines and the Jukebox would cost Mum nothing, provided they produced money. Mum would get a percentage. There were no upfront costs.
She had arranged with a local hardware store to buy about half a dozen second-hand, whole sheets of heavy chipboard. The floorboards in the shop’s body seemed rotten, with places where they could be broken with just a stamp of the foot. But Mum said the beams were still solid. The new board would fit over the old floor, making it safe. Laid upside down, they would look cleaner and make the floor safe. The chipboard sheets had been removed from somewhere—I have no idea where—probably a wall, they came with a few nail holes. The only problem was that her price never covered the delivery cost. Mum presumed they would fit into Pop’s 5 cwt Commer Van, but they did not. Or maybe Pop avoided going home for a week.
In due course, I managed to walk them to our new shop, (one at a time), resting on the pedal of my bike. I had to remove the other pedal to walk closer to the bike and loosen the head bolt to turn the handlebars sideways. With a short piece of rope to tie it safely, it was a reasonably long walk to the shop. But I could manage two sheets at a time after I enlisted the help of a local Gypsy (Tommy Cooper). He saw my problems and jumped in to help. Tommy and his mate (I forgot his name) later became friends. We made four trips over a few days.
There was only one major problem. The Centre of the sheet felt reasonably solid and firm. But the edge of the boards did feel a bit soggy. That required support. This problem was solved with a bit of intuitive thinking. And as I mentioned somewhere in my story, Pop was carting home the ashes from the furnace at his work. He did this in 44-gallon drums. So, I cut sections of the drum out from between the ribs. A sledgehammer flattened them nicely. I did this with a hacksaw. Using the drum’s curve and slowly rolling the inch-by-inch unit, I eventually sawed right around and met the starting point. The result was a flattenable piece of metal about a foot wide. This was, to this date, and in my whole life, the most arduous task I ever attempted, my first ever blisters; my hands were raw for days. But when the drum section was fitted under the joins in the chipboard, it made the edges feel solid.
Mum’s words rang: “See, I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”
Mum took me to a doctor, who wrapped up my hand. He wrapped a few fingers separately, then the whole hand. It looked and felt like a boxing glove. They then put my entire arm in a sling and strapped my hand to the level of my left shoulder. I became left-handed for a couple of weeks.
After this event, I discovered that my left arm was useless compared to my right arm. I cannot even consider it competing with my right arm. The doctor asked me why I did not wear gloves; I said, “I did; I wore socks on my hand.”
——————–1957- 1964———————–
I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.

My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Longroom,” a room about nine feet wide stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Longroom was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.When we moved in, we were told it was a gamekeeper’s cottage, and the Longroom was where he kept his tools.
My Father had an old single-cylinder Kero engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it did require a tiny amount of petrol to start, My Father instantly switched to Kero. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power the 12-volt lights, which were also supplied by his work at Flight Refueling Tarrant Rushton Airfield. He also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest was used to fill mud holes in the laneway. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my mother to cook on.My younger sister, brother, and I had dinners at school, and we had showers after many P.T. lessons, soccer games, etc. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school because she preferred to cook in our lounge room.During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over four kilometers from home.

THE TAKE FIVE CAFE,The name taken from a song in the hit parade was “Take Five”, a jazz song.
When Pop saw the shop for the first time, he shouted, “It is falling to bits!” Mum shouted back at him in a tone I knew she had; I knew she used, but I had never heard or seen it directed at P0P. She cried, “The windows are not broken.” She ended the last word with a growl.
Pop pulled his chin in. He shrugged his shoulders and said to me, “She is a Bermondsey Girl.” (Bermondsey is a district in south-east London.) I presumed that was an excuse.I was later led to believe that the Landlord had agreed that if Mum moved in, she could have a couple of months of free rent to fix some of the problems. I also learned that Mum had organized two pinball machines and the Jukebox. These would cost Mum nothing, provided they produced money. Mum got a percentage. There were no upfront costs.
She had arranged with a local hardware store to buy about half a dozen second-hand sheets of heavy chipboard. The floorboards in the shop’s body seemed rotten, with places where they could be broken with just a stamp of the foot. But Mum said the beams were still solid. The new board would fit on the old floor, making it safe. Laid upside down, they would look cleaner and make the floor safe.The chipboard removed from Somewhere, I have no idea what I meant by “re socks on my hand.” In the meantime, Mum found some Marley 6-foot-wide sheet vinyl that had a polished concrete look. I think she discovered it in Salisbury. Mum and Pop did their monthly shopping there whenever they could. The vinyl laid very flat, so we laid and overlapped it; it fit flush and never moved. Mum had worked in a café before. I remember her walking me across a park to visit her coworkers at the café where she had been employed, and I have a vague memory of living in London. The café was close to Acton Town Hall, which I recognized from when I had gone there to perform my “If you were the only girl” routine. Mum probably knew more about working in a café than I did. She often said we didn’t have any cooking facilities; we only had a kettle for boiling water, so there was nothing for the local health inspector to check. She was right. The only drink Mum sold was Coca-Cola, which she served at room temperature, as everyone at the time drank it that way. She bought it in wooden trays that could be stacked, and although I don’t remember counting them, there were 24 bottles. I recall the fellow who delivered it. On the day Mum first opened up, she only had one box of Coca-Cola, which didn’t last a day, so deliveries from the Coca-Cola man quickly became regular. Mum was pleased with me one day and said, “I got you a present.” It was a secret, but I later found out she had bought it from the ‘Tally-man’ who came around every fortnight. He was the man with the catalogue of goodies. It was called ‘WALTONS.’ You would pay a shilling a week or whatever amount was required. He would return in a week with his catalogue, and you could spend another shilling and look at the catalogue again. Walton’s was everywhere, and Primrose Cottage was not out of his way. I bought my first nylon shirt from him, which slowly turned a dull yellow. Mum also bought me a Dianne 1.77 air rifle. We had chickens and rats (and the rats were going to suffer). I knew the rifle was well out of Mum’s budget and that it wasn’t even my birthday. Peter got nothing; Lorrianne got nothing; Greg got nothing. I assumed that this gift was a payment for the floor work Mum had done. Even today, just writing about it brings tears to my eyes, although many topics have this effect on me. Above the café were two bedrooms with bare wooden floors, but they had electricity. Mum and Lorrianne could stay there when they weren’t at the cottage. Peter, Robert, and I stayed at the cottage. Robert was either working at the same place as Pop—flight refueling, I think Pop got him that job—or he ended up with a job at the bus company. They had a depot in Ringwood, and he became a Hants & Dorset bus driver. I know he was very proud of his P.S.V. (Public Service Vehicle) license. We didn’t see much of Rob, but he occasionally brought his girlfriend home. Mary, on first glance during our initial meeting, seemed very strange and unsociable. She refused to step past the front door of Primrose Cottage and actually sat in the gutter along the side wall of the cottage. However, sixty years later, nobody ever doubted that Rob could have dreamed of a better partner; Mary was, and still is, perfection. They had three children: Jacky, Robby, and Oscar—one girl and two boys.
Stops here
In the meantime, Mum had found some Marley 6-foot wide sheet vinyl with a polished concrete look. I think she found it in Salisbury. Mum and Pop did the monthly shopping there if they could. It laid very flat. We laid and overlapped it, which laid flush and never moved.
Mum had worked in a Café before. I remember her walking me across a park, visiting her workmates at the café where she had worked, and living in London. I remember the walk though the park to get there. I vaguely remember it was close to the Acton Town Hall. I recognized it; I had been there to do my “If you were the only girl routine.” I recognized the street. Mum probably knew more than I did about working in a café. Mum said we do not have any cooking facilities. We had a kettle for boiling water but no refrigerator, so there was nothing for the local health inspector to inspect. She was right. The only drink Mum sold was Coca-Cola. She sold it at room temperature, as everyone drank it at room temperature at the time. She bought it in wooden trays that could be stacked. I do not remember counting them, but there were 24 bottles. I remember the fellow who delivered it. And the day Mum opened up, she only had one box. They did not last a day; deliveries from the Coca-Cola Man became regular.Mum was pleased with me. She said, “I got you a present.” But it was a secret. I found out later that she bought it from the ‘Tally-man’ who came around fortnightly (He was the man with the catalogue of goodies.) ‘WALTONS’ it was. You pay a shilling a Week or whatever amount is required. He returns in a week with his catalogue, and you spend another shilling and look at the catalogue again. Walton’s were everywhere, and Primrose Cottage was not out of the way for them. I bought my first nylon shirt from Him. (it slowly turned to a dull yellow). Mum had bought me a Dianne 1.77 Air Rifle.
We had chickens and rats. (The rats were going to suffer.) I knew the rifle cost was way out of her budget, and it was not my birthday. Peter got nothing, Lorrianne got nothing, and Greg got nothing. I assumed that this was payment for the floor. Even today, while I was writing this, just writing brings tears to my eyes. (Although a lot of topics do this to me.) ——-Above the Café were two bedrooms, bare wooden floors, but they had electricity. Mum and Lorrianne could stay there when not at the cottage. Peter & Robert, and I stayed at the cottage,
Peter had his friends. One of their parents owned a Pub. I cannot recall his name. But the pub backed on to the Avon river. And he had a row boat. I became quite adept at rowing. (I suspect that was the reason I was invited to join them occasionally]
Peter later joined the Army Cadets, I do not recall him ever spending a lot of time at the shop. But I know he must have because he got a part-time job pedaling a bike with a carrier on the front for the local off-license, doing wine, beer, and spirits delivery. And they were situated relatively close by. Peter joined the Army Cadets. Later, after school, he dismissed the thought of going to university, and joined the Army Medical Corps instead. He did this moment he could. (He told me that his long term goal was to become to be a physio- therapist for Chelsea (Football Club).
The Army always tell you what they want you to hear.
They told me I could be a vehicle mechanic, but after three months of having my arse kicked, and getting a hiding for wearing my cap back to front. And other pointless things by military police.
All I learned was how to put a gloss shine on my boots. So I borrowed some money off Mum to buy myself out. I still have a single photo of me and two mates after our “Passing Out Parade.”

If anybody asked me if I had ever been in the Army, I would tell them, “Yes! But I do not like to talk about it.” Most people seem very understanding.
After his Army service, He married a girl I never met and had two sons. They separated, and my mother snaffled the two boys and emigrated to Australia, which was handy because Robert had emigrated. And I followed in 1968. Peter eventually ended up in Zimbabwe as a medical advisor and hospital supervisor (I never really knew). The last thing I heard about him was when I saw him on the television a few years back.
On the Television one day watching the news, I saw A news report where Peter’s face confronted me in in my lounge room on the T.V. News,
He said, “The biggest political problem in Zimbabwe was ‘Aids”.
At the time I had been following the political strife that was in the news. (My Brother was living there.)
Peter was brave, considering the political situation. And this was probably why his words appeared on my television in the other half of the world. I recall at the time thinking that this was typical Peter. I am brought to mind the expression “Read the Room” Peter never could even from the earlies age I can recall countless times when I stepped in to neutralize his natural aloofness.
I could never contact my Brother again; he disappeared off the planet. I believe he had a Zimbabwe wife.
He simply vanished off the face of the planet. (this sort of thing happened in Zimbabwe)
—————- Burgate School ————
(Fording bridge (school))
My new school was a pussy cat. There was no local grammar school close to Fordingbridge. There was only Burgage. Burgate was what they called a modern secondary school. (I still have no idea what that means)
So we both eventually faced up at Burgate. My sister Lorrianne went to primary school in Fordingbridge. And because we lived a little bit out of town in a country cottage (Primrose Cottage), a taxi picked the three of us up at the end of our laneway every morning and dropped us home at the end of school time.
My Brother Peter was assigned to the A grade stream.
They placed me in the B stream. Peter made friends with the clever kids.
My potential B group friends were to be laborer’s, the Tradesmen stream, woodworkers, metalworkers,and gardeners—and, as it turned out, Artists.
So Peter never made a bookshelf. He never made chair legs, planted tomatoes, or bent tin into an ashtray. His destiny was to be a little higher on the ladder, Maybe a Doctor or a business executive; who knows? (Peter joined Army Medical Core)

I learned different stuff from Peter; I never learned how to multiply or divide (without using lots of time and paper to calculate). Still, handheld calculators were about to be invented.
Who needs math to build a bicycle wheel, re-assemble a Sturmey Archer 3-speed wheel hub, saw down a tree, or pluck a chicken?

Peter and I went to school together in the Taxi, and on our first day, Peter encountered a problem. An older boy confronted him. I never figured out what Peter did early in our new school to initiate this confrontation. Peter could aggravate. One of his aggravating habits was to sniff anything he ate. Give him an apple, and Peter polishes it with his hands, then puts it to his nose (often touching it to smell it). I have seen him turn and walk away from people while they were talking to him.

Silly things that were simply Peter. I need to find out what message he had inadvertently sent. It would take his new friends some time to understand him. He would undoubtedly gather them; Peter made friends like a Circus Clown, handing out balloons. But Peter often needed to be looked at carefully before the balloons became evident. He regularly offered his opinion without fear of favor. This inclination to speak his mind caused this minor confrontation.
He had attracted someone into a disagreement. They did not wish for an explanation.
Peter was looking a little distressed. I knew and understood that look.
I can not remember the exact details of my conversation, but I probably said, “Hello.I am Peters, Brother.”
“Who are you.” would have been the response
“Peters brother.” (I know I could not have resisted that answer)
I suspect (to the confronter) two Brothers were less comfortable than one.
“I was looking for 5A”, said Peter.
Sixty years later, I cannot recall the precise details of the conversation. Still, I remember that Peter had accidentally upset someone on his first day. I did make a mental note at the time. Some B stream students and many C streams considered anyone in the A stream a natural target. My impression of the boy confronting my Brother was “definitely C grade.”
I knew Peter was an A stream, and I was a B stream. Before attempting friendships, I made a mental note to find out who was in my class. I did discover my would-be friends at a later date.
Peter was brilliant But lacked what they now call “Street-wise.”
They do not count ‘Street Smart’ on IQ tests.
—————————-
( this section- moved to “Australia life”
BUCK the Cockatoo
(move to Gladstone section)
I can’t remember where I bought Buck. (It would have been a pet shop in Gladstone.) I never found out whether this Sulphur Crested Cockatoo was truly a male, but his name was enough to convince me. I never did work out how to tell the difference. But this big white crazy bird came with a cage, and he was called Buck.Buck was a boisterous bird, aggressive, and a smart-ass, get-out-of-anything escape artist. On one attempted escape, he caught a claw on the cage door and ended up with the claw pointing upwards. This awkward-looking foot did not bother him; I saw him scratching the equivalent of his chin with it. But this was true to Bucks’ nature; if he could find a purpose or use for anything he encountered, he would use it.The upturned claw became useful later in his life as an identifier. He would visit us, perching himself on a large tree branch at the rear of our garden.My next-door neighbor on the south side would tell me, “Buck called by today; I knew it was Buck because of his claw.” Then my neighbor would say, ” He shouted, ‘What are you doing?’, waited a while, and took off.”
I had helped Buck to learn to fly; I had always presumed that birds could fly naturally. But Buck demonstrated that they did not know.Getting airborne was reasonably trouble-free. The landing was Buck’s initial problem, and it took him a while to find a clear area, gliding ungraciously into a wall and finding his footing only after sliding down the wall, aided by gravity.Initially, Buck seemed reluctant to fly, unwilling to step out of the cage when the door opened. He seemed to have the energy to escape, but once free, he seemed to like staying close. A sense of security? The source of food? I cannot think like a Sulphur Crested Cockatoo, so I do not know.I used to remove the base of his cage and lay it on its side, leaving Buck with one side of his cage open to the world.Buck watched the outside world and occasionally stepped out to walk around a bit and then got back.The next-door neighbor on the north side had a cat. One weekend morning, I was fiddling in the garden, supporting my tomato plants with a wooden stake. (one eye on Buck).The cat silently dropped from the top fence and proceeded to sneak up on Buck, with a silent, stealthy move, only when the Cockatoos eyes were averted cat technique. Then, the whole body Froze when the bird’s head moved to face the cat’s direction.I do not think like a cat or a Cockatoo. But I felt the cat did not realize Buck could leave his cage. The cat did not realize that one side of the cage was missing.I will always wonder if Buck was aware of the cat’s approach. But with knowledge of my own peripheral vision, I expect that Buck had better. I had seen birds weaving through branches at speed. I suspect that Buck was distinctly aware of the cat.Cockatoos are not silly; they can imitate and talk. I suspect that Cockatoos are of equal intelligence to cats. Cats are natural predators and possibly not as bright as cockatoos, not as naturally aware, with the bird’s inborn and instant awareness of becoming prey. Compared to Cockatoos, Cats are arrogant little shits.

So I watched the cat. I watched Buck. When the cat sneaked close enough, Buck turned on it, wide open wings. The loudest screech that only an angry cockatoo could create, and it lunged.I had never actually seen a cat jump vertically about four feet, with its back hunched and front paws outstretched and claws exposed. I had never seen a bird in reverse flight, upside down and backward, Somersaulting in time to catch the petrified and in mid-air cat by the tail. The cat was back over the fence (not a tiny fence, but possibly six feet).Buck lost a couple of feathers. Buck grounded himself, and I noticed his beak had a piece of cat fur hanging from his beak.The cat was gone.I had noticed the cat in my garden occasionally on several previous occasions, but I never saw it again.
When Buck learned to fly, he had problems landing. He made a few attempts to land in the fair-sized bush at the front of my house, but it was more like a tall hedge. Buck opened his wings to brake speed and crash-landed.Over a few weeks of practice, Buck could fly into my veranda. Under the roof line, Open his wigs to slow his descent. Then, quickly close the unfurled width to give him room to navigate the doorway sure enough to carry him gracefully to the Centre of the room for a precise and accurate soft landing.
This newfound ability to leave the yard and investigate the local neighborhood caused minor problems.A retired mechanic lived a few houses away; upon speaking to his wife, it seemed that although retired, he still went to work every day. He had a workshop that included a permanent vehicle hoist outside it.True to his lifelong working habits, the retired mechanic left his house every morning with a packed lunch and flask, worked in his shed, and returned home at ‘knock-of’ time—precisely the same way he had always done during his working life. A local car was always in his yard awaiting repairs.As expected, the retired mechanic stopped at noon for lunch, Sandwiches, a flask of coffee, and a regular working lunch.Buck flew in to investigate one lunchtime, and I expected the old fellow to toss him some bread because Buck quickly understood the time and place where lunch was regularly served. It’s the sort of thing a Pet Cockatoo learns relatively quickly.Buck demanded a little more each time he visited. And I presume there developed some reluctance to feed all his working man’s lunch to a damned Cockatoo every day.A dispute occurred between Buck and the mechanic, and I received a knock on my door to solve it.
We eventually solved the problem of eating the retired mechanic’s lunch. However, It did take several attempts.The first attempt was to keep a half-filled bucket of water on hand, and when Buck landed, we threw the water at him. The water did not work; Buck seemed to like it, even opening his wings to catch more.The successful solution involved hanging chicken wire from the garage awning to obscure Buck’s view. The mechanic’s wife liked the chicken wire idea and planted some runner beans and jasmine on the two sections. The result was that Buck could not simply fly in. Access had to be in ‘walk’ mode (through the garage door). We had screened off the carport flight path.( I later discovered that the mechanic’s wife had begun squishing lemon juice directly at Buck.) That might have been cruel, but I thought it was wiser to accept the situation as it stood.
In the meantime, Buck had taken the time to recognize my VW Kombi van. It looked distinct from the air, and the homemade exhaust had a noticeably different tone from other vehicles.Buck used to notice my VW and then fly ahead to perch on a power pole or some such overhead perching place. He would give an almighty screech of “What are you doing?” a phrase he had learned from his “confined to the cage” days.

When Buck first left the nest (so to speak), he returned within the hour, but as time passed, it was a daily return; eventually, the time away grew, and sometimes I never saw him for weeks.Occasionally, while driving around town, I saw a Cockatoo with a bent-up toe. I would always go down the window to hear the greeting screech.After having moved from the house for a few months, the last information I got was when I called to visit my ex-neighbor to say1.He said, “You should have been here last week; when I took the dog out to play ‘tug-a-rope’, Buck was sitting in the tree at the end of the yard, and he shouted, ‘What are you doing’.”
The photos are of Buck and Tyson. (1) Buck scrounging food.(2) Buck taking apart Tysons Meccano set. nut by nut.
1968, before I left England,
my sister and I eagerly anticipated Sundays, as they meant tuning in to a delightful comedy sketch program on the radio. The laughter and joy it brought us inspired us to create our comedy recordings using a reel-to-reel tape recorder. While most of our creations have faded from memory, one sketch remains vivid in my mind. It revolved around a couple venturing into the desert for a long journey across the arid landscape. They brought the camel and a male horse along with only one camel at their disposal. However, the horse presented a challenge as camels can endure longer journeys without water than horses. The sketch cleverly orchestrated the horse’s attempt to drink from a trough. At that precise moment, I added a comical twist by playfully nudging the horse, resulting in a funny ‘whoosh’ and the horse guzzling a few extra pints of water. As if that wasn’t enough, we also encountered a mirage, only to realize it was a French jet, adding to the absurdity and hilarity of the situation.

—————Pedophiles————
My brother Peter and I used to collect Stones to throw at a man who parked his Vespa scooter outside the Public toilets in the Centre of Fordingbridge and loitered. However, our mother found out and confiscated our stones. She changed them to marbles in a little bag. She advised us that if a policeman ever caught us, we should pretend to be playing ‘marbles’. She suggested we place our school cap on the ground, step back a few paces, and play, throwing the marbles into the hat.
When she was little, my sister Lorrianne stood with crossed legs outside the ladies’ toilet, asking passers by for a penny. I recall she made three pence one afternoon.

———————————————
Mum said, “I fancy a cup of coffee made with milk.” Mum always seemed to be under the impression that coffee made with milk was wrong. That it was her own Personal invention. Peter, me, and my little sister all nodded our heads in agreement.
Lorrianne jumped and shouted, “I will make it.” This was surprising, as I was barely 12 years old and at least two and a half years older than my sister. Mother never trusted me to boil milk, as I had, on previous occasions, returned from the kitchen with a black saucepan, asking the question, “Where is the spare milk?”
Mother always said, “Be careful you don’t burn the kitchen down.” This always seemed amusing to us kids because the kitchen was made entirely of stone stone walls, stone floors, and not a scrap of wood.
My little sister rushed out of the front room, “I will make it.”
It must have been about five minutes before Mum had thoroughly chewed over the potential for disaster.
“Go and check on your sister,” she said.
In the kitchen, Lorrianne was happily standing next to the stove with the biggest smile, proudly displaying an attitude of accomplishment and total adulthood. “Where’s the milk?” I asked.

The Gas Oven flames blasted heat as Lorraine swiftly opened the Oven door, revealing an entire bottle of milk, complete with a silver top. In her hand, Lorrianne held a burnt matchstick that she put to her lips, and imitating a Western gunslinger with a six-shooter, she blew the match out for the second time.
( Note: when I wrote this in February 2012, Lorrianne denied it.)
—————Pedophiles————
My brother Peter and I used to collect Stones to throw at a man who parked his Vespa scooter outside the Public toilets in the Centre of Fordingbridge and loitered. However, our mother found out and confiscated our stones. She changed them to marbles in a little bag. She advised us that if a policeman ever caught us, we should pretend to be playing ‘marbles’. She suggested we place our school cap on the ground, step back a few paces, and play, throwing the marbles into the hat.
When she was little, my sister Lorrianne would stand with crossed legs outside the the public ladies’ Toilet Fordingbridge, asking for a penny. I recall she made three pence one afternoon.

——————————————————-
MY LITTLE SISTER (a memory)
Mum said, “I fancy a cup of coffee made with milk.” Mum always seemed to be under the impression that coffee made with milk was her own personal invention. Peter, me, and my little sister all nodded our heads in agreement.
Lorrianne jumped and shouted, “I will make it.” This was surprising, as I was barely 12 years old and at least two and a half years older than my sister. Mother never trusted me to boil milk, as I had, on previous occasions, returned from the kitchen with a black saucepan, asking the question, “Where is the spare milk?”
Mother always said, “Be careful you don’t burn the kitchen down.” This always seemed amusing to us kids because the kitchen was made entirely of stone—stone walls, stone floors, and not a scrap of wood.
My little sister rushed out of the front room, “I will make it.”
It must have been about five minutes before Mum had thoroughly chewed over the potential for disaster.
“Go and check on your sister,” she said.
In the kitchen, Lorrianne was happily standing next to the stove with the biggest smile, proudly displaying an attitude of accomplishment and total adulthood. “Where’s the milk?” I asked.
The Gas Oven flames blasted heat as Lorraine swiftly opened the Oven door, revealing an entire bottle of milk, complete with a silver top. In her hand, Lorrianne held a burnt matchstick that she put to her lips, and imitating a Western gunslinger with a six-shooter, she blew the match out for the second time.
1957- 1964

I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.

My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Long room,” a room about nine feet wide stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Long room was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.
When we moved in, we were told it was a gamekeeper’s cottage, and the Longroom was where he kept his tools.

My Father had an old single-cylinder Kerosene engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it did require a tiny amount of petrol to start, My Father instantly switched to Kerosene. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power the 12-volt lights, which were also supplied by his work at Flight Refueling ,Tarrant Rushton Airfield. He also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest was used to fill mud holes in the laneway. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my mother to cook on.
My younger sister, brother, and I had dinners at school and showers after many P.T. lessons, soccer games, etc. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school because she preferred to cook in our lounge room.
During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over four kilometer’s from home.

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Expression of total filth. Pop caned the crap out of us, and he kept paddling until we admitted that we were swearing. Later that evening, Peter and I laughed when we concluded that if Peter and I were in the war and the Germans captured us, We should tell them what they wanted to know before they even asked.
While living in London, we lived near a main highway, grocery shops, and a place to buy marbles at the bottom of the street. There was a second-hand shop where you could even buy smoked class to watch the eclipse with. A picture theatre, A bomb site with hidden basements, parks, and a big river, all within walking distance if you had a big brother. And I had a big brother.
From London Bridge to Hyde Park, Kew Gardens was a heaven. At seven, a boy can see things adults no longer notice.
Robert was born in 1940, and he was in his early teens. He moved to Bristol with us. Donald stayed behind; He worked at Kew Gardens. I believe he had some Horticultural apprenticeship (I do not know). Mum and Pop took Peter and Me to Kew Gardens several times. I loved the smell inside the tropical Greenhouse. It was a smell I later recognized in Northern Queensland, where the sun, heat, dust, and rain occasionally combine. There is no tropical heat to create the same fragrance in England. If there is, I never tasted it. But it is there at Kew inside the massive Greenhouse.
Donald stayed in London, and I have never heard from or heard anything about him since.
Robert was six years older than me when we moved to Bristol. He got an apprenticeship at a butcher shop. I do not recall him returning to school, not that it mattered. I remember sitting on the crossbar of his Raleigh bicycle, old style with Rod Brakes, and being taken to the shop where he worked. We went inside an enormous refrigerated room, and I was given a tour. I also remember him riding the same bike back and forth to Wales. He visited Aunt Joan and Nan. A different country (I was impressed. I did some touring on my bicycle in later years. His ride was no remarkable feat (Robert probably took the ferry across the river seven. I do not know.
Peter and I started school at Whitehall Primary School Bristol Five. It was only a short walk from our Bloy St Address. I remember Peter and I being interviewed by a teacher at the new school. “What is your date of birth?” Mine was November 22nd, and I think Peters was February 29th (I think it had something to do with a leap year. “Were we brothers (the same age?” YES! She asked for our mother’s name, “Mum, we told her. “father’s name/” Pop, we told her” I remember her getting confused and told us we would need to give her a form to fill out and she gave us a letter to take home,
So, I never went back to Derwent water after I left the hospital –
The Student at my new school Seemed confident at multiplying numbers by memory, and I suffered a lot of highly embarrassing moments. I remember getting extremely angry when I was expected to know seven times eight. I still do not know, but I have a calculator handy—I habitually cut out the timetable from the back of a school exercise book and keep it in my back pocket. I remember one kid telling me, “Only idiots do not know their timetable”. I told him, “Only idiots don’t duck when they get a punch on the nose”. The headmaster disagreed with me.
Soon after this mishap, a teacher asked someone to read a paragraph from a book they read aloud. There was an ominous silence. After my multiplication hassles, I was wary. But I took the plunge. (I was no chicken heart) This event became one of the most embarrassing moments of my short life. I was about to read from my book ‘George and the Dragon’ to a classful of kids my age, and most of them were still putting words together.
George and the Dragon. I sailed through the section of the story that I had selected without a stutter or hesitation. All my classmates listened, understood, and followed intently to the words I fluently read out loud. I watched them with my newly discovered peripheral vision. I looked up at the end of my reading. My audience was happy; they understood. My pride of achievement filled me with a warm glow.
About 1957?
Me and Peter, discovered Trains, There was a railway station only a few streets away. We were please to find that for only a penny. We could get onto the railway platform. It did not take us long to realise that we could simply jump on any train. Nobody asked question about where you travelled from. Where we were going. The only thing that mattered is that you can only get off the train from the station you started on.
In no time we had between us an ‘Ian Allen trainspotter booklet’ this book had every train listed. GWR (Great Western Railway) we simply underlined every individual train we spotted. There was also An LMR version London – Midlands – Region.
One Saturday morning we arrived at Temple Meads railway station. We decided that it was the most magnificent building in the world. Then we discovered it was built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel . This let us to visit the Clifton suspension Bridge. Brunel became our first hero. Temple meads was so inspiring. Me and Peter spent hours simply look at the roof. We read everything we could about Brunel.
Brunel, and trains took up a lot of our time. And the ability to travel anywhere on a penny platform ticket. This Opened up a new world.
We discoverer that we could talk to other kids through the fence and for tuppence they could get on to temple meads station, and then get off. Leaving me and Peter with the ability to get off at Temple meads. And still have the ability to get off with our platform ticket when we got home. No station Master ever asked us what we did all day on the platform. He just knew we were train spotters. Very Forgiving fellows are Station Masters.

This was before we moved to Fordingbridge So I guess we were about eleven years old.
Buses were excellent for traveling to museums and the like. But before we hopped onto a bus we always made sure that the only money we had in our pocket was two pennies. We jumped on to the bus that was heading to our intended destination. When the conductor asked where we wanted to go, we would say something like “the Clifton Suspension bridge. If he said ‘three pence’ we both got out our penny, and tried to look as helpless and lost as we possibly could.
Peter had a small panic attack routine. The conductor issued a couple of penny tickets. We discovered one Sunday Afternoon that each ticket had a location on where the bus was when the ticket was issued. We also discovered that Ticket inspectors. Were just as soft as conductors.
Me and were quite good persuading grown ups. My Sister Lorrianne, could get a penny of any chosen target. She merely needed to be within view of the ‘Ladies’ Even at that age me and Peter both knew that men peed for free, girls had to pay.
—-

The Take Five Café
My mother came back from shopping one afternoon. We had been living at Primrose Cottage for a while. We all knew she didn’t like making the 2.5-mile trip to town because she had to wait for transportation, and Pop wasn’t always home. One day, she proudly announced that we now had a café. I’m not entirely sure, but those who knew my mom probably wouldn’t be surprised that it didn’t cost her anything.
This was the same Mother who took me, Peter, and Lorianne to the social security office, sat us on the counter, and left us there because they forgot to give her a ration card. At that time, the government was giving out milk rations to mothers with small children. Another time, she pinned a note on Peter’s jacket with our address and details, claiming it was a big secret and that we shouldn’t talk to anyone except to say we were lost until Aunty Joan came to pick us up. She even bought us platform tickets (maybe she prepaid the fare?)—I can’t remember if it was from London or Bristol. I do remember us being all dressed up, with shirt tie and jackets, and some scattered memories of a big train ride. Perhaps because she handed Peter and me a posy to give to Grandma. “Posy” was a new word, and I remember Peter and I first understanding the rhyme “Ring a Ring o’ Roses, a pocket full of posies.” I suspect Mom had to spend a few days in the hospital, but I don’t have any other memories apart from mine and Peter’s. I just remember the train trip.
I also know that Mom never bought light bulbs. She always went down to the local council in Bristol to get new ones. She believed they only blew when council workers were close to our location. It was obvious to Peter and me that replacing the bulb was the easiest way to get rid of her.
I always suspected my mother was a little bit crazy, but it seemed like she was crazy with a purpose. Little things like standing at a bus stop, close to a roof or shelter of some kind. If it started to rain and we were going to walk to the shelter, she would shout, “Stand still! If you don’t move, you won’t get wet.” Totally ridiculous.
I expect that when man first stepped on the moon, she would have said, “See? I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”
So when she said “We now have a café,” even Pop accepted it, despite knowing full well she didn’t have any cash assets. Later, I found out that an old disused shop in Fordingbridge had been vacant for a while, and Mom was interested. (My grandmother had a sweet shop in St. Clair’s.)
The shop It was derelict, with the brick walls at the back fallen down, but being at the end of a row of terraced houses, it had the same roof as the rest of the street. The fact that the back of the shop adjoined the neighbor’s house and we could walk out the back and arrive at the neighbor’s house did not seem to worry anyone. When Pop saw it for the first time he simply said “it is falling to bits!” Mum shouted back at him in a tone I knew she had, I knew she used it. But I had never heard nor seen it before. She simply shouted “The windows are not broken” she ended the last word with a growl.

Pop pulled his chin in. Shrugged his shoulders and said to me “She is a Bermondsey Girl. ( a district in southeast London) I presumed that was an excuse.
I was told later led to believe that the Landlord had agree, that if mum moved in she could have a couple of months free rent, to fix up some of the problems. I also found out that the two pin-ball-machines and the Juke box would cost Mum nothing, provided they produced money. That Mum got a percentage. No up front costs.

She had arranged with a local hardware store to buy about half a dozen second hand, full sheets of heavy chipboard. It seemed that the floorboards in the body of the shop were rotten, with places where they were capable of being broken with just a stamp of the foot. But Mum said the beams were still strong. And the new board would fit on top of the old floor and make it safe.

Laid upside down they would looked cleaner, and make the floor safe, the chipboard sheets had been removed from somewhere, I have no idea where, probably a wall, it had nail holes . The only problem was that for the price she paid never covered the cost of delivery. Mum had presumed they would fit into Pop 5cwt Commer Van, but they did not fit? Or maybe Pop avoided going home for a week.
In due course I managed to walk them to our new shop resting on the pedal of my bike. I did have to remove the other pedal so I could walk closer the the bike, and I did have to loosen the head bolt so I could turn the handle bars sideways. With a short piece of rope to tie is safe it was a a fairly long walk to the shop. But I could manage two sheets at a time after I enlisted the help of a local Gypsy . (Tommy Cooper). He simply saw my problems and jumped in to help. Tommy and his mate (forgot name) later became friends. I think we made four trips over a few days.
There was only one major problem. The Centre of the sheet felt reasonably solid.firm. But the edge of the boars did feel a bit soggy. That required support. This problem was solved with a little bit of intuitive thinking. And as I mentioned somewhere in my story. Pop was carting home the ashes from the furnace at his work . He did this in 44 gallon drums. So I simply cut sections of the drum out from between the ribs.A sledge hammer flattened them nicely. I did this with a hacksaw, and a Black & Decker Jig saw, with new blades from the local hardware store. Using the curve of the drum and slowly rolling inch by inch unit I eventually had sawed right around and met up with the starting point. This cave me a flattenable pieces of metal about a foot wide. This was to this date, and quite possibly in my whole life the most arduous task I ever attempted, my first ever blisters, my hands were raw for days. But when the drum section were fitted under the joins in the chipboard made the edges feel solid.

Mums words rung in my head. “See I told you, you just have to set your mind to it”.

Mum took me to a doctor and he wrapped up my hand he wrapped a few fingers separately, then wrapped the whole hand. It looked and felt like a boxing glove. The then put my whole arm in a sling ands strapped my hand to the level of my left shoulder. I became left handed for a couple of weeks I discovered after this event that my left arm is useless, I am so right handed. I cannot even think about my left arm competing with my right arm. The Doctor asked me why I did not wear gloves, I Told him “I did. Well they were actually socks.

I had only made one basic cut in the chipboard. The cut was along was along the dotted line. similar to the diagram on the left below. There was a few more sheet than this laid. But the method was the same. Draw a line on the overlap – then cut it off. I remember being slightly pleased that the off cuts fitted perfectly.
The 44 gallon drum was not so simple to cut, But the result was far better than I ever would have imagined.
When Mum did eventually open the shop We had a visit from some sort of inspector. Mum said “he thinks we will be serving food.” But mum only ever sold Coca Cola, Tea and coffee. The coffee was half milk. half water, one teaspoon of Nescafe.
I noticed the inspector jumping up and sown jumping up and down in a few different spots on my new floor . I knew that he had seen the floor before. And he had a look that I would later know from my two sons. He gave me the “You are Tricking me” look.
The vinyl I laid was If I remember 6 foot wide with the name Marley, I think Marley Consort. The instruction I was given for laying was – just lay it on the floor and it will settle in after a while, that it will probably shrink half an inch, so let it settle for a week or two and trim the edges later
It had a polished concrete look, I think Mum found it in Salisbury. Mum and Pop did the monthly shopping there. . It laid very flat, I loose laid it, overlapped it, it laid flush and it never moved.
Mum had worked in Café before , I remember her walking me across a park and visiting her workmates, she told me that this was where she worked. This was in London, I remember the park walk. I do vaguely thinking it was close the the Acton Town hall. I had been there to do my “If you were the only girl routine”. I recognized the street.
So I understood that probably she knew a bit more than I had thought. Mum said we do not have any cooking facilities. We have a kettle for boiling water no refrigerator nothing for him to inspect.
She was right. And the only drinks Mum sold was Coca-Cola, and coffee. she sold The Coke at room temperature. Everyone drank Coke at room temperature at the time. It was always delivered in in a wood tray/pallet that could be stacked. I do not ever remember counting them but probably 24 bottles. I remember the fellow that delivered it. And the day when mum opened up she only had one box.
Mum was Pleased with me, She told me “I got you a present” But it was a secret. I found out later that the Tally man came around (He was the man with the catalogue of goodies.) ‘WALTONS’ it was. You pay a shilling a Month or whatever. And he comes back in a month with his catalogue, you pay another shilling, and look at the catalogue. Walton’s were everywhere, and Primrose Cottage was certainly not out of the way for them. I bought my first nylon shirt from them.
Mum had bought me a Dianne 1.77 Air Rifle. We had chickens, We had rats. (The rats were going to suffer) The cost of the rifle I knew was way out of her Budget, It was not my Birthday. Peter got Nothing, Lorrianne got nothing. Greg got nothing. This was payment for the floor. Even today while I write this, Just writing it brought tears to my eyes. (Although a lot of topics do this to me.)-
——-
Above the Café there were two bedrooms, bare wooden wooden floors, but had electricity. Mum and Lorrianne could stay there when not at the cottage. Me and Peter & Robert stayed at the cottage,
Robert was either working at the same place as Pop, Flight refueling (I think Pop got him a job). I understood he was a ‘progress chaser’ or a title similar. He did get a job with the bus company. They had a Depot at Ringwood. He became a bus driver, I know that he was very proud of his P.S.V. (Public Service Vehicle license). We did not see much of Rob. Although he did Bring his Girlfriend home occasionally. Mary Who at first glance, first meeting, seemed very weird, strange,unsociable, She refused to go past the front door at Primrose Cottage and actually sat in the gutter that ran along the side wall of the cottage. But now Sixty years later, nobody ever doubted that Bob could ever have dreamed of a better partner, Mary was, and still is Perfection. Three Children, Jacky, Robby, and Oscar, One Girl, two Boys.

Peter had his own friends, one of them had parents owned a Pub, He joined the Army Cadets, and I do not recall him ever going to the shop. But I know he must have because he got part time job pedaling a bike with a carrier on the front for the local Off license, Doing wine, beer, spirits delivery. And they were situated fairly close by.
Peter Joined the Army Cadets – Later the Army Medical corps, the moment he was able to. After his Army service, He married a girl I never met and had two sons. They separated and my mother snaffled the two boys and emigrated to Australia. Which was handy because Robert had emigrated. And I followed in 1968. Peter eventually ended up in Zimbabwe as some sort of medical advisor, hospital supervisor, (I never really knew) the last thing I heard about him was when I saw him on the television a few years back. A news report. Where he Said “ the biggest Political problem in Zimbabwe was ‘Aids’. I thought that Peter was being a little bit brave considering the political situation. And this was probably why his words appeared on my television on the other half of the world.
I could never contact my Brother again, He simply disappeared off the planet. I believe he had a Zimbabwe wife. I did locate his Home address and his phone number. But the woman that answered the phone , did not have a forwarding address and did not know much more than that.
I tried to locate him but failed. I did make an attempt to find a copy, a video, or some sort of memento from the TV News report that I had seen. But nothing was ever found.
.—————-
My fifteenth birthday.
I had been told many times that I could not quit school until I was Fifteen. So on my fifteenth birthday I peddled my bike to Ringwood. Ringwood was the nearest town that had a Labour exchange, it was a mere five mile ride.
My inquiry gave me the address of A Baker and Son. This was a Bicycle shop with a long history, and for many years sold and repaired Motor bikes. It had evolved to incorporate Teddy Baker the son of George. Teddy was a Television professional and had done some sort of apprentice with Phillips – Teddy Baker did tell me it was him that invented whatever it was that stabilised the fading of tv signals. Into a steady stream.
So naturally A.E. BAKER. & Son sold TVs
Reddy had a works shop at the end of the laneway that was full of old TVs and one of my jobs was to assist teddy picking up TVs that had to be brought to the shop for repairs. In 1961 many TVs had huge cabinets, So I spent a fair proportion of my time there riding in the Mini Van assisting Teddy in collecting and delivering repaired Televisions.
I was also being taught bit by bit firstly how to fix punctures in bicycle tyres. I was there for about five years, and I was still working there when Mum bought the Café.
By this time i was doing all the repairs, I had done a course on Sturmy Archer 3 speed, I could rebuild wheels.
George Baker told me I was the “dumbest lad that ever worked for him”. But he paid me to get a haircut every month.
And he gave me a three shilling pay increase at the same time.
( My pay at the Time was Two pound seventeen and sixpence )
He had found my little notes that were hidden around the shop. The one he found was stuck on the wall behind the battery stand.
One of the popular batteries was the ‘U2’ (EverReady) it had an equivalent in the the Exide. I remember they sold for Eight-pence. So, hidden On the wall was a handwritten charts
1 = 8p
2 = 1 shilling 4p
3 = 2 shilling
And so on. I had done this throughout the shop with hidden stickers on the wall. If somebody came in and bought 7x U2
I was stuffed. I did not do maths!
Everything I was likely to be asked for in the shop and was sold in multiples had a hidden sticker.
I absolutely loved doing bicycle repairs. There was a standard price list for every job, from punctures to straightening front forks, so everything was easy.
I was still working for George Baker when I put the ‘Take Five Café floor down. George had seen my right hand bandaged. He looked at the wrapping and said, “Tell customers that need repairs that there is a waiting list of a week.”
He never asked what I had done to my hand.
I later found out that George Baker was a war hero, He had been secretly dropped into Germany during the war,
It was about this time that Pop and Mum had some sort of disagreement, I think he left home.
So Mum did the same. She shut the shop. I do not know if she sold it. I just knew we moved to Glastonbury, just like that.
I had no clue what was going on. I do remember Pop had pulled a muscle in his back at a bowling alley and had a job in Bristol.
He called into the shop one day. I was stacking some Coke bottles overhead when one of them fell and broke on my head.
Pop must have misread the situation because he put his head down and charged at me; we fought.
Pop had clearly not been brought up with a brother. He had never learned how to throw a punch or wrestle an opponent to
the ground. He was not half the competition that Peter had been. I was angry. I sat on Pop’s chest and punched his face until it bled.
When he recovered, with help from Mum, he told me, “Get out of my house.”
My reply was ‘NO’. I told him ‘It is you who is going,’
We made friends again while living in Bristol a couple of years later.

Some residents living in Bloy Street firmly believed that young Henry Wallace was insanity just waiting to hatch. Some of the other locals duly acknowledged that Henry was, at the very least, a little odd. There was, however, a firm and consistent understanding throughout the entire length of Bloy Street and the adjoining neighbourhood, or at least the area where the milkman made his regular deliveries, which recognised that any horse manure deposited on the daily milk round was Henry’s.

Suppose anyone wished to lay claim to these precious leavings with thoughts of fertilising their small garden or allotment. They would want to dismiss the idea instantly. Henry’s father told him he needed the horse droppings to grow vegetables. Henry had taken this to be an irrefutable fact. He even believed that his family would starve to death without them. Henry was convinced that unless he dutifully retrieved this life-saving material and stored it where his father could spread it, he would be contributing to the death of his parents and siblings.

At this point, nobody, no school teacher, no Doctor, no policeman,  could shake Henry’s belief. The seriousness of this problem became evident one weekend when Henry’s father took the whole family to the seaside. There did not seem to be any potential risk when Henry’s parents gave him a small bucket and a spade to make sandcastles. Henry’s mother assumed that Henry was merely being himself when he demanded that the chosen toy was not suitable; Henry selected a giant beach spade with a long wooden handle and a broad, flat steel shovel-style end.

It had become public knowledge that some of the older boys who knew of Henry’s obsession had been teasing him. Sometimes, even attempting to steal the horse manure that Henry had laid claim to. The moment Henry appeared back on the local streets after returning from the family day at the beach, a few of these manure thieves learned a hard lesson. Henry had become highly adept at handling his spade; he could swiftly and accurately—and quite painfully—slap a potential thief’s thigh with the flat side of the shovel far faster than any known local child could jump out of the way.

Henry was barely 13 years old; nobody could reasonably describe him as a big lad. He was extremely quick with his mouth, agile in his body, and seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

Tim, the local bookmaker, had noticed young Henry. Tim himself had a considerable reputation for protecting what was rightfully his. Known for his powerful presence and steely demeanour, Tim was not just a mild-mannered bookie; he was a hard man, someone who demanded respect and fear in equal measure. Engaging in lucrative cash loans, he was regularly seen around town in the company of Basher Billy Watson, a well-known hard man himself. Basher had once fought for the heavyweight boxing title and had been banned from the sport after he kicked an opponent in the head before the referee finished the ten-count. Tim would often say, “Basher is not an evil guy. He gets a bit enthusiastic sometimes,” but even the bravest souls knew it was wiser to stay on Tim’s good side.

Together, Tim and Basher recognised Henry’s potential. In the echo of Tim’s booming voice, he was once heard to say, “Henry could be a handy lad in a few years.” Tim organised for Basher to drop a shilling in Henry’s direction every week, viewing it as “an investment in the future.” Basher, with his muscle and intimidating presence, had concrete instructions to keep a fatherly eye on Henry. After all, there had been several occasions when older lads came into the Bloy Street district to check out the local tough kid whose obsession with horse manure had evolved into a fierce reputation.

Tim had a vested interest in maintaining the status of the Bloy Street neighbourhood. To him, little things—minor vulnerabilities—could attract competition, other moneylenders seeking to establish their presence. Tim was a proud man and often boasted that within a local half-mile around his Bloy Street neighbourhood, “You cannot even steal horseshit.” This was indeed a fact, and young Henry saw to that, under the watchful eye of a bookmaker who was as formidable as he was shrewd.

Several weeks later, Tim challenged Basher to see if he could buy some of Henry’s horse manure. “Tell him I want to add some improvement to my mother’s vegetable patch,” Tim ordered, the tension in his voice reflecting the stakes of the request.

Basher returned later that day empty-handed. He told Tim, “The beach spade that Henry wielded has been flattened on one side; it now has a freshly filed edge. When I made your request, young Henry held the spade and turned it away from flat smack mode into cutting mode. I have seen him use that spade. I have looked him in the eye.” Basher paused, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. “You go get your own shit.”

In the world they lived in, it was best to respect the boundaries of both Henry and the hard men who guarded their turf.

I don’t remember being born, but I have evidence confirming that I entered this world on the twenty-second of November, 1946. I have a copy of my birth certificate, a cherished memento that connects me to my beginnings. I had two older brothers, Billy and Graham, who left this world too soon. Billy succumbed to Polio, and Mum told me that Graham was born with Spina Bifida. The details surrounding their lives have always been shrouded in mystery, leaving me with unanswerable questions.

My Father, whom we called Pop, was a complex man. He often went into lecture mode, particularly after drinking a few drinks. He would express his controversial belief that people with low IQs should be put down at birth, and he often referenced Adolph Hitler in this context. His words left an indelible mark on my young mind, sparking confusion and concern.

I always wondered how you would know the IQ of a newborn.

On many occasions, I have pondered the circumstances of my Brother’s passing. I’ve wondered if Graham indeed succumbed to spina bifida or if there was a darker, untold story. I’ve even considered the possibility that his loss contributed to our Father’s controversial beliefs. Mum’s decision to adopt or foster Donald seemed to be her way of compensating for the void left by Graham’s absence, adding another layer to our family’s intricate dynamics.

My older Brother, Robert, was born in 1940, so I had two older brothers at an early age. When I entered this world, Mum adopted Peter, a boy six months older than me. Peter and I were like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. He excelled in areas where I struggled, and I thrived where he faced challenges. Our differences became a source of lighthearted banter in our household, with Peter often playfully reminding me that he was the chosen one.

I always believed that Peter was one of Pop’s Canadian connections; in Mum’s tin box full of photos, there was one photo of Pop and a friend who came to England on the same boat with him, although the specifics remain unclear. Pop, a Canadian native who later moved to England, led a life shrouded in mystery and unspoken tales. His fondness for whiskey hinted at underlying struggles, perhaps rooted in his upbringing. My grandfather, a man I never had the chance to meet, had emigrated to Canada. I suspect this was before his children were born, leaving an unexplored legacy. With Pop’s half a dozen sisters and no brothers, Pop carried the weight of his family’s history in ways I could only begin to comprehend.

———————-

My first day at school remains a vivid memory. Our address, 38 Newburgh Road, Acton, London, was the backdrop for my early years. Just across the road loomed a massive brick wall, behind which lay Derwent Water School. I can still visualise the wooden door embedded within the wall, a gateway to new beginnings. As I ascended the stairs on that momentous day, I couldn’t contain my curiosity and excitement. Amidst the sea of desks, one name stood out – Hugh. The unfamiliarity of the name sparked my mischievous nature, leading me to tease Hugh relentlessly. The teacher’s stern reprimand, “TURN AROUND”, resulted in a comical 360-degree that remains a cherished fragment of my first day at school.

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** A Journey Through Dance and Childhood Reflections**

I remember a beautiful morning at school when the teachers set up a Maypole for Morris Dancing. A magnificent pole stood tall, adorned with colourful ribbons cascading from the top. Each dancer held a ribbon and gracefully danced around the pole, intertwining the ribbons into intricate patterns. The dance’s joy filled me with excitement, and I couldn’t wait to rush home and exclaim to my Mother, “I love dancing.”

My Mother had consistently recognised the artistic potential within me. She shared that I was named after Sir Adrian Boult, although I eventually chose a different name. She was keenly aware of my artistic inclinations and soon enrolled me in a local dancing school. I vividly remember the day she took me to a large shop to purchase bright red shorts and ballet and tap shoes. The shop was a wonderland, with overhead trolley wires transporting small baskets of money and papers to different parts of the building. My six-year-old self was in awe as I watched the shop assistant place the money into a tin basket, which whirred across the ceiling, navigating a maze of wires to an office on the far side of the shop. It felt like stepping into the future.

During my dancing classes, I befriended a girl my age. After a few lessons, I eagerly searched for her whenever I attended a ballet or tap class. She captivated me with her charming freckles and remarkable ability to leap high into the air—something I had never seen from a girl before. I can still picture her face, her hair tied back in a ponytail, and her freckles gradually fading towards her shoulders. Even at that young age, I felt the flutterings of infatuation.

We performed a basic tap dance routine in front of a large audience at Acton Town Hall, moving to the enchanting melody of “If You Were the Only Girl in the World.” Even after I moved to Australia, I maintained a habit of closely observing ballet performances, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dancer with freckles.

————————————INSERT one **

Around that time, I contracted ringworm and was sent to an isolation hospital in the countryside. Unfortunately, the hospital did not continue my education, leading me to fall behind in learning my timetables. I distinctly remember writing to my Mother, requesting paper to craft paper aeroplanes during my stay. The hospital was likely a grand manor house featuring a vast lawn with a row of trees at the bottom, an area as expansive as a football field. Much of my free time was spent experimenting with different paper aeroplane designs, which became a source of joy amidst my isolation.

The observant nurses at the hospital recognised my preference for one-on-one company and my aversion to group gatherings. They were likely correct in their observations. My Mother brought me a Lone Ranger album during my time there, which became a small comfort. However, upon my discharge, I vividly recall feeling upset and lashing out at the nurses when they informed me that my book had to remain at the hospital. In a fit of frustration, I even kicked one of them.

I also distinctly remember my delight in singing carols, suggesting it was around Christmas time. Oddly enough, I was required to sit on the toilet before breakfast, regardless of whether I needed to go. To avoid reprimand, I would sit quietly for a minute, flush the chain, and then join the others at the breakfast table, navigating the quirks of childhood rituals.

This collection of memories, woven together by threads of dance, illness, and the simple joys of life, captures a snapshot of my early years. Whether joyful or challenging, each moment shaped the person I would become, instilling a love for art and a tendency to treasure life’s connections and experiences.

——————————————-

**Moving to Bristol**

When I was about eight, my family moved from London to Bristol, coinciding with my leaving the hospital. I never went back and never said goodbye to a single person.  I asked Mum what happened to my Crown. It was a Five-shilling piece. It was on top of the wardrobe in my bedroom. Mum did not know.  It could well be that this was the early beginning of my dislike for secrets.

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I suspect this change was due to Dad getting a job with British Aviation. While I was in the hospital, Dad bought a second-hand Sunbeam Talbot. Mum told me about it, and I was thrilled since I loved cars and had a keen eye for the ones I liked. The Sunbeam was one of my favourite beautiful cars.

We lived on Newburgh Road, where there were very few cars. With terraced houses lining the street, people could only park outside. The only vehicles on our street were a Humber Super Snipe and Dad’s Ford. Dad always had a car; Mum often said, “That’s what they do in Canada.”

The Sunbeam was a lovely car, equally impressive as the Super Snipe. No sooner had I heard about our new vehicle than Mum explained, “He drove it straight out of the car yard and crashed it into the next street, so he took it back.” In the 1950s, breathalysers were unused, and Dad often drank and drove. Before I turned twelve, I learned how to operate the handbrake from the passenger seat. I was always ready to reach for the steering wheel to help guide the car back to our side of the road. Sometimes, Dad would shake the wheel, testing it when it drifted. To assist me, Mum would sometimes say to Dad, “I will sit in the back, dear,” so I could sit in the front.

I was upset about losing the Sunbeam Talbot. I don’t even remember the car we used to move to Bristol, but we eventually ended up with a Hudson Terraplane parked outside our house on Bloy Street. Local law required us to hang a visible red light on the car after dark. I helped Dad with this by using a battery-powered tail lamp I had borrowed from a bicycle left against a wall in the next street. Mum bought the batteries for it.

Moving to Bristol was disappointing. I had received letters from classmates wishing me well while in the hospital, but I never got them. I also lost my marble collection, the silver spoon I received from school to celebrate the Queen’s Coronation, and my Coronation jigsaw puzzle, which the whole family had carefully assembled and stored in a big wooden cigar box.

However, Dad always remembered the television; he often said, “Regarding mine or Peter’s possessions, throw them out.” Because of this, I never read my school friends’ letters, which I’m sure I would have cherished forever. Today, I can’t remember any of my early schoolmates’ names except for one: “Hugh.”

Despite these challenges, Bristol was exciting. The locals spoke differently in this part of the country. They used phrases like “Thicky way” instead of “this way,” and “I baint” or “I dint” instead of “I am not” or “This is not.”

When we arrived at Bloy Street, Peter and I unloaded things from the delivery van and played games with these new and unusual accents, exaggerating for fun.

“This mattress bisn’t very heavy.”

“No, it bisn’t, bis it?”

“I bis not happy carrying this end.”

“Well, I bisn’t carrying both ends.”

This silly but amusing conversation between two boys while moving furniture made the experience more enjoyable. Dad went crazy and punished us, but we always had to pick our punishment. We usually hid a short plank from an orange box. It was stiff to hold, lightweight, brief, and splintery.

I whitehall  (here)

                    Before Fording bridge

Eight years to Eleven years old

The teacher discussed statistics during a maths lesson at Burgate Secondary School in Hampshire. Maths wasn’t my favourite subject, and I only paid a little attention to it. There were times tables on the back of every school book, but I usually guessed the answers to maths problems. If the teacher told me I was wrong, I got angry and argued that they never told me how many cows were in the other fields, for example. Sometimes, I even thought I was more intelligent than the teacher because I believed the question was flawed if I didn’t know the answer.

I wouldn’t say I liked maths. It may have been because I had a ringworm contagion during my early maths classes at Derwentwater Primary School.  As a result, I was moved to an isolation hospital and missed a fair bit of schooling school.  The Isolation hospital had teachers who gave lessons but didn’t teach us the times tables. I do not recall them teaching me anything.  I spent a long time at the isolation hospital, and during that time, my Mother brought me a Lone Ranger Annual, which a nurse helped me read. The nurse also gave me a book called “Just William” by Enid Blyton, which I loved. I collected all the William books because I felt that William and I were alike in how we thought and dressed.

After I was let out of isolation, my family moved to Bristol, and I went to Whitehall Primary School. The other students there were good at multiplying small numbers by memory, but I struggled and had many embarrassing moments. However, reading was my strength, and I was way ahead of the other kids in my class. I remember one particular moment when I read a story called “George and the Dragon” out loud to the class. They all listened intently and understood what I read. It was a triumphant moment for me until the teacher corrected my pronunciation of ‘George’. ( GEE-ORGY) One of the girls in the class, Susan Ward, came to my aid and helped me out. I fell in love with her and her best friend, Margaret Bush, but I never got their attention. I did, however, get to sit at the same table as Susan, right in front of the teacher. We were ink monitors.

I failed my 11-plus exam and moved to Greenbank, close to the Cadbury Chocolate Factory at Bournville – a strict school where the older kids ruled the roost. It wasn’t fun being part of the youngest intake; I was only there for about two months before my family moved to Fordingbridge, which resulted in more time off from my education.

While living in Bristol, I had all the William books to keep me company. We also had a television and a plug-in radio service called Rediffusion, which allowed me to listen to different channels and films. This was also the year I had my first bet with Peter. We bet a shilling on the fight between Brian London and Henry Cooper. I don’t remember who won, but I was a big fan of Henry Cooper.

——————insert———————  1957-1963

1957 – 1953

I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure suction; there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My Mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.

My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Long-room,” a room about nine feet wide, stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Longroom was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.

When we moved in, we were told it was a gamekeeper’s cottage, and the Gamrkeeper kept his tools in the long room.

My Father had an old single-cylinder Kerosene engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it required a tiny amount of petrol, My Father instantly switched to Kerosene. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power. The 12-volt lights were also supplied by his work at Flight Refueling, Tarrant Rushton Airfield.

My Father also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke (often still hot) from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest of the ashes were used to fill the laneway mud holes. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my Mother to cook on.

My younger sister, Brother, and I had dinners at school and a shower after many P.T. lessons, soccer games, etcetera. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school.

During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over five kilometres from home.

I never felt my life at Primrose Cottage was complicated.

When I got home from school most days, my immediate job was to kill, pluck and gut a chicken or two. (Pop sold them to workmates).

Pluck a Chicken. I distinctly remember an incident where my Mother wrote a letter to the school regarding homework.  Mum permanently sealed letters (everybody in our family could read them). Peter and the Headmistress were buddies, and they would chat. The Head Mistress gave me a knowing nod now and then.  Peter could do that;  I was often referred to by (even the woodworking teacher), and Peter never went to woodwork lessons. Anyway, it was discovered that my Mother had written a letter explaining if I brought homework home. She would give me a live chicken in a bag to take to school, where I was to kill, Gut, and pluck it so I would have time to do my home duties.   I was still given homework, but I ignored it.

If there were any difficulties, it was at school playtimes when the ground talk was most regularly about the T.V. programs, and the conversation was usually about “Gunsmoke” or some other cowboy program. I was more interested in the “Inspector West Investigates” radio programs and other series. My transistor radio always managed to pick up Radio Luxembourg; This was one of the few channels I could listen to rock and other contemporary popular music under reasonable weather conditions, especially at night.

A lad can work to his heart’s content with a radio, eyes and hands-free. I never watched T.V. in those years. And I learned to love work.

I left school on my fifteenth birthday.

Overall, I had far better pre-teen years growing up than anyone I have met since.

I lived with my family in a charming country cottage in the serene countryside of Hampshire from 1957 to 1963, during my formative years between the ages of eleven and eighteen. Our rustic abode, frozen in time, lacked the modern convenience of electricity, compelling us to rely on the gentle glow of oil lamps to illuminate our evenings. A quaint outdoor lavatory awaited us, necessitating the monthly ritual of excavating a fresh pit. Our water needs were delivered via a humble hand pump in the kitchen, demanding generous water priming to ensure its faithful service. The kitchen was a humble sanctuary adorned with raw concrete walls and a gas stove, standing stoically on concrete floors.

My responsibilities included tending to the crackling fires of the wood stove and the comforting hearth in our lounge, ensuring that my Mother could conjure culinary delights and that our family could luxuriate in a steaming basin of water for our daily ablutions. The kitchen seamlessly melded with the “Longroom,” a spacious chamber stretching across our modest cottage’s front. Its exposed roof beams and tin roof bore the marks of its former life as a gamekeeper’s tool repository.

In our enchanting haven, our lighting was powered by a venerable single-cylinder kerosene engine, lovingly maintained by my Father, affectionately known as Pop. The rhythmic “PHUT-PHUT-PHUT” of the engine reverberated through our garden, a testament to my Father’s ingenuity and resourcefulness. To keep our lights aglow, my Father would procure old aircraft batteries from his workplace at Flight Refueling Tarrant Rushton Airfield. Additionally, he would bring home bins filled with residual warmth and burnt coke from the furnace, which my younger sister and I eagerly sifted through to retrieve unburnt pieces while the remaining ashes found purpose in filling the muddy crevices of our laneway.

The routine of school life punctuated our simple joys. I would partake in the daily ritual of dispatching a chicken or two upon my return from school, a task that my industrious Pop would deftly transform into a means of supplementary income. Amidst the chatter of schoolmates engrossed in television programs, I found solace in the captivating radio dramas, particularly drawn to the allure of “Inspector West Investigates” and other enthralling series. My trusty transistor radio, a cherished possession, would faithfully tune in to Radio Luxembourg, offering a gateway to the pulsating rhythms of contemporary music, a rare treat under the veil of night.

As I reflect upon those halcyon years, I realise that the cherished memories of my upbringing in Primrose Cottage have given me a unique and enriching experience that has indelibly shaped my perspective on life.

—————–1961—————-

My mom came back from shopping one afternoon. We had been living at Primrose Cottage for a while. We all knew she didn’t like making the 2.5-mile trip to town because she had to wait for transportation, and Pop wasn’t always home. One day, she proudly announced that we now had a café. I’m not entirely sure, but those who knew my mom probably wouldn’t be surprised that it didn’t cost her anything.

This was the same Mother who took me, Peter, and Lorianne to the Social Security office, sat us on the counter, and left us there because they forgot to give her a ration card. At that time, the government gave milk rations to mothers with small children. Another time, she pinned a note on Peter’s jacket with our address and details, claiming it was a big secret and that we shouldn’t talk to anyone except to say we were lost until Aunty Joan came to pick us up. She even bought us platform tickets (maybe she prepaid the fare?)—I can’t remember if it was from London or Bristol. I remember us all dressed up with coats and scattered memories of a big train ride, perhaps because she handed Peter and me a posy to give to Grandma. “Posy” was a new word, and I remember Peter and me first understanding the rhyme “Ring a Ring of Roses, a pocket full of posies.” I suspect Mom had to spend a few days in the hospital, but I don’t have any other memories apart from mine and Peter’s. I remember the train trip.

I also know that Mom never bought light bulbs. She always went down to the local council in Bristol to get new ones. She believed they only blew when council workers were close to our location. It was obvious to Peter and me that replacing the bulb was the easiest way to get rid of her.

I always suspected my Mother was a little bit crazy, but it seemed like she was crazy with a purpose. Little things like standing near a bus stop or a roof or shelter. If it started to rain and we were going to walk to the shelter, she would shout, “Stand still! If you don’t move, you won’t get wet.” It was ridiculous.

When man first stepped on the moon, I expect she would have said, “See? I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”

So when she said, “We now have a café,” Pop accepted it, despite knowing full well that she didn’t have any cash assets. Later, I discovered that an old disused shop in Fordingbridge had been vacant for a while, and Mom was interested. (My grandmother had a sweet shop in St. Clair’s.)

The shop was derelict, with the brick walls at the back falling, but at the end of a row of terraced houses, it had the same roof as the rest of the street. The fact that the back of the shop adjoined the neighbour’s house, and we could walk out the back and arrive at the neighbour’s home, did not seem to worry anyone.

Take Five Café – My First Floor.

When Pop saw the shop  for the first time, he said, “It is falling to bits!” Mum shouted back at him in a tone I knew she had; I knew she used it, but I had never heard or seen it before. She cried, “The windows are not broken.” She ended the last word with a growl.

Pop pulled his chin in. He shrugged his shoulders and said to me, “She is a Bermondsey Girl (a district in southeast London).” I presumed that was an excuse. I was later told to believe that the Landlord had agreed that if Mum moved in, she could have a couple of months free rent to fix some of the problems. I also learned that the two pinball machines and the Jukebox would cost Mum nothing, provided they produced money. Mum would get a percentage. There were no upfront costs.

She had arranged with a local hardware store to buy about half a dozen second-hand, whole sheets of heavy chipboard. The floorboards in the shop’s body seemed rotten, with places where they could be broken with just a stamp of the foot. But Mum said the beams were still solid. The new board would fit over the old floor, making it safe. Laid upside down, they would look cleaner and make the floor safe. The chipboard sheets had been removed from somewhere—I have no idea where—probably a wall; they came with a few nail holes. The only problem was that her price never covered the delivery cost. Mum presumed they would fit into Pop’s five-cwt Commer Van, but they did not. Or maybe Pop avoided going home for a week.

In due course, I managed to walk them to our new shop (one at a time), resting on my bike pedal. I had to remove the other pedal to walk closer to the bike and loosen the head bolt to turn the handlebars sideways. With a short piece of rope to tie it safely, it was a reasonably long walk to the shop. But I could manage two sheets at a time after I enlisted the help of a local Gypsy (Tommy Cooper). He saw my problems and jumped in to help. Tommy and his mate (I forgot his name) later became friends. We made four trips over a few days.

There was only one major problem. The centre of the sheet felt reasonably solid and firm. But the edge of the boards did feel a bit soggy. That required support. This problem was solved with a bit of intuitive thinking. And as I mentioned somewhere in my story, Pop was carting home the ashes from the furnace at his work. He did this in 44-gallon drums. So, I cut sections of the drum out from between the ribs. A sledgehammer flattened them nicely. I did this with a hacksaw. Using the drum’s curve and slowly rolling the inch-by-inch unit, I eventually sawed right around and met the starting point. The result was a flattenable piece of metal about a foot wide. This was, to this date, and in my whole life, the most arduous task I ever attempted, my first ever blisters; my hands were raw for days. But when the drum section was fitted under the joins in the chipboard, it made the edges feel solid.

Mum’s words rang: “See, I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”

Mum took me to a doctor, who wrapped up my hand. He wrapped a few fingers separately, then the whole hand. It looked and felt like a boxing glove. They then put my entire arm in a sling and strapped my hand to the level of my left shoulder. I became left-handed for a couple of weeks.

After this event, I discovered that my left arm was useless compared to my right arm. I cannot even consider it competing with my right arm. The Doctor asked me why I did not wear gloves; I said, “I did; I wore socks on my hand.”

——————–1957- 1964———————–

I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My Mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.

My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Longroom,” a room about nine feet wide stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Longroom was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.

When we moved in, we were told it was a gamekeeper’s cottage, and the Longroom was where he kept his tools.

My Father had an old single-cylinder Kero engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it did require a tiny amount of petrol to start, My Father instantly switched to Kero. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power the 12-volt lights, which were also supplied by his work at Flight Refuelling Tarrant Rushton Airfield. He also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest was used to fill mud holes in the laneway. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my Mother to cook on.

My younger sister, Brother, and I had dinners at school and showers after many P.T. lessons, soccer games, etc. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school because she preferred to cook in our lounge room.

During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over four kilometres from home.

THE TAKE FIVE CAFÉ,

The name taken from a song in the hit parade was “Take Five”, a jazz song.

When Pop saw the shop for the first time, he shouted, “It is falling to bits!” Mum shouted back at him in a tone I knew she had; I knew she used, but I had never heard or seen it directed at P0P. She cried, “The windows are not broken.” She ended the last word with a growl.

Pop pulled his chin in. He shrugged his shoulders and said to me, “She is a Bermondsey Girl.” (Bermondsey is a district in southeast London.) I presumed that was an excuse.

I was later led to believe that the Landlord had agreed that if Mum moved in, she could have a couple of months of free rent to fix some of the problems. I also learned that Mum had organised two pinball machines and the Jukebox. These would cost Mum nothing, provided they produced money. Mum got a percentage. There were no upfront costs.

She had arranged with a local hardware store to buy about half a dozen second-hand sheets of heavy chipboard. The floorboards in the shop’s body seemed rotten, with places where they could be broken with just a stamp of the foot. But Mum said the beams were still intense. The new board would fit on the old floor, making it safe. Laid upside down, they would look cleaner and make the floor safe.

The chipboard sheets had been removed from somewhere—I have no idea where—probably a wall with nail holes. The only problem was that her price never covered the delivery cost. Mum presumed they would fit into Pop’s 5cwt Commer Van, but they did not. Or maybe Pop avoided going home for a week.

In due course, I managed to walk them to our new shop, resting on the pedal of my bike. I had to remove the other pedal to walk closer to the bike and loosen the head bolt to turn the handlebars sideways. With a short piece of rope to tie it safely, it was a reasonably long walk to the shop. But I could manage two sheets at a time after I enlisted the help of a local Gypsy. (Tommy Cooper). He saw my problems and jumped in to help. Tommy and his mate (I forgot his name) later became friends. We made four trips over a few days.

There was only one major problem. The centre of the sheet felt reasonably solid and firm. But the edge of the boars did feel a bit soggy. That required support. This problem was solved with a bit of intuitive thinking. And as I mentioned somewhere in my story. Pop was carting home the ashes from the furnace at his work. He did this in 44-gallon drums. So, I cut the drum sections out from between the ribs. A sledgehammer flattened them nicely. I did this with a hacksaw and a Black & Decker Jigsaw with new blades from the local hardware store. Using the drum’s curve and slowly rolling the inch-by-inch unit, I eventually sawed right around and met up with the starting point; this gave me flattenable pieces of metal about a foot wide. Cutting this drum up was, to this date and in my life, the most arduous task I had ever attempted. My first-ever blisters, and my hands were raw for days. But when the drum sections were fitted under the joins in the chipboard, the edges felt solid. I had wedged a few old bricks from a fallen wall under a few broken beams. The floor did indeed seem like a total mess. But the top cover was quite acceptable; later, we discovered just enough bounce to match the music on the Jukebox.

Mum’s words rang: “See, I told you, you just have to set your mind to it.”

But my effort had taken a toll on my hands. Cutting a 44-gallon drum into strips proved to be quite hazardous. So Mum took me to a doctor, who wrapped up my hand. He wrapped a few fingers separately, then the whole hand. It looked and felt like a boxing glove. They then put my entire arm in a sling and strapped my hand to the level of my left shoulder. I became left-handed for a couple of weeks.

After this event, I discovered that my left arm was as good as useless. I cannot even think about competing with my right arm. The Doctor asked me why I did not wear gloves; I said, “I did; I wore socks on my hand.”

In the meantime, Mum had found some Marley 6-foot wide sheet vinyl with a polished concrete look. I think she found it in Salisbury. Mum and Pop did the monthly shopping there if they could. It laid very flat. We laid and overlapped it, which laid flush and never moved.

Mum had worked in a Café before. I remember her walking me across a park, visiting her workmates at the café where she had worked, and living in London. I remember the park walk. I vaguely remember it was close to the Acton Town Hall. I recognised it; I had been there to do my “If you were the only girl routine.” I recognised the street.

She probably knew more than I had about working in a café. Mum said we do not have any cooking facilities. We had a kettle for boiling water but no refrigerator, so there was nothing for the local health inspector to inspect.

She was right. The only drink Mum sold was Coca-Cola. She sold it at room temperature, as everyone drank it at room temperature at the time. She bought it in wooden trays that could be stacked. I do not remember counting them, but there were 24 bottles. I remember the fellow who delivered it. And the day Mum opened up, she only had one box. They did not last a day; deliveries from the Coca-Cola Man became regular.

Mum was pleased with me. She said, “I got you a present.” But it was a secret. I found out later that she bought it from the ‘Tally-man’ who came around fortnightly (He was the man with the catalogue of goodies.) ‘WALTONS’ it was. You pay a shilling a Week or whatever amount is required. He returns in a week with his catalogue, and you spend another shilling and look at the catalogue again. Walton’s were everywhere, and Primrose Cottage was not out of the way for them. I bought my first nylon shirt from Him.

Mum had bought me a Dianne 1.77 Air Rifle. We had chickens and rats. (The rats were going to suffer.) I knew the rifle cost was way out of her budget, and it was not my birthday. Peter got nothing, Lorrianne got nothing, and Greg got nothing. I assumed that this was payment for the floor. Even today, while I was writing this, just writing brings tears to my eyes. (Although a lot of topics do this to me.)

——-

Above the Café were two bedrooms, bare wooden floors, but they had electricity. Mum and Lorrianne could stay there when not at the cottage. Peter & Robert and I stayed at the cottage,

Robert was either working at the same place as Pop, Flight refuelling. (I think Pop got him a job). I understood he was a ‘progress chaser’ or a title similar. He did get a job with the bus company. They had a Depot at Ringwood. He became a Hants & Dorset bus driver; I know he was very proud of his P.S.V. (Public Service Vehicle license). We did not see much of Rob. However, he brought his girlfriend home occasionally. Mary, who at first glance, at the first meeting, seemed very weird, strange, and unsociable/withdrawn, refused to go past the front door at Primrose Cottage and sat in the gutter that ran along the side wall of the cottage. But now, Sixty years later, nobody ever doubted that Bob could ever have dreamed of a better partner; Mary was, and still is, Perfection: three Children, Jacky, Robby, and Oscar, One Girl and two Boys.

Peter had his friends. One of them’s parents owned a Pub. He joined the Army Cadets, and I do not recall him ever going to the shop. But I know he must have because he got a part-time job pedalling a bike with a carrier on the front for the local off-license, doing wine, beer, and spirits delivery. And they were situated relatively close by.

Peter joined the Army Cadets. Later, after school, he ignored university and joined the Army Medical Corps when he could. (He told me he wanted to be a physio for Chelsea (Football Club).

The Army always tell you what they want you to hear.  They told me I could be a vehicle mechanic, but after three months of having my arse kicked and getting a hiding for wearing my cap back to front by military police.  All I learned was how to put a gloss shine on my boots. So I borrowed some money from Mum to buy myself out.  I still have a single photo of me and two mates after our “Passing Out Parade.”

If anybody asked me if I had ever been in the Army, I would tell them, “Yes! But I do not like to talk about it.” Most people seem very understanding.

After his Army service, He married a girl I never met and had two sons. They separated, and my Mother snaffled the two boys and emigrated to Australia, which was handy because Robert had emigrated. And I followed in 1968. Peter eventually ended up in Zimbabwe as a medical advisor and hospital supervisor (I never really knew). The last thing I heard about him was when I saw him on the television a few years back. A news report. He said, “The biggest political problem in Zimbabwe was ‘Aids”. Peter was brave, considering the political situation. And this was probably why his words appeared on my television in the other half of the world.

I could never contact my Brother again; he disappeared off the planet. I believe he had a Zimbabwe wife. He vanished off the face of the earth.  (this sort of thing happened in Zimbabwe)

—————-Burgate School ————

3 Fording bridge (school)

My new school was a pussy cat. There was no local grammar school close to Fordingbridge. There was only Burgage. Burgate was what they called a modern secondary school. (I still have no idea what that means)

So we both eventually faced up at Burgate. My sister Lorraine went to primary school in Fordingbridge. And because we lived a little bit out of town in a country cottage (Primrose Cottage), a taxi picked the three of us up at the end of our laneway every morning and dropped us home at the end of school time.

My Brother Peter was assigned to the A grade stream.

They placed me in the B stream. Peter made friends with the clever kids.

My potential B group friends were to be labourers, the Tradesmen stream, woodworkers, metalworkers, gardeners—and, as it turned out, Artists.

So Peter never made a bookshelf. He never made chair legs, planted tomatoes, or bent tin into an ashtray. His destiny was to be a little higher on the ladder, Maybe a Doctor or a business executive; who knows? (Peter joined Army Medical Core)

I learned different stuff from Peter; I never learned how to multiply or divide (without using lots of time and paper to calculate). Still, handheld calculators were about to be invented.

Who needs math to build a bicycle wheel, re-assemble a Sturmey Archer 3-speed wheel hub, saw down a tree, or pluck a chicken?

Peter and I went to school together in the Taxi, and on our first day, Peter encountered a problem. An older boy confronted him. I never figured out what Peter did early in our new school to initiate this confrontation. Peter could aggravate. One of his aggravating habits was to sniff anything he ate. Give him an apple, and Peter polishes it with his hands, then puts it to his nose (often touching it to smell it). I have seen him turn and walk away from people while they were talking to him.

Silly things that were simply Peter. I need to find out what message he had inadvertently sent. It would take his new friends some time to understand him. He would undoubtedly gather them; Peter made friends like a Circus Clown, handing out balloons. But Peter often needed to be looked at carefully before the balloons became evident. He regularly offered his opinion without fear of favour. This inclination to speak his mind caused this minor confrontation.

He had attracted someone into a disagreement. They did not wish for an explanation.

Peter was looking a little distressed. I knew and understood that look.

I cannot remember the exact details of my conversation, but I probably said, “Hello.I am Peters, Brother.”

“Who are you.” would have been the response

“Peters brother.” (I know I could not have resisted that answer)

I suspect (to the confronter) two Brothers were less comfortable than one.

“I was looking for 5A”, said Peter.

Sixty years later, I cannot recall the precise details of the conversation. Still, I remember that Peter had accidentally upset someone on his first day. I did make a mental note at the time. Some B stream students and many C streams considered anyone in the A stream a natural target. My impression of the boy confronting my Brother was “definitely C grade.”

I knew Peter was an A stream, and I was a B stream. Before attempting friendships, I made a mental note to find out who was in my class. I did discover my would-be friends at a later date.

Peter was brilliant But lacked what they now call “Street-wise.”

They do not count ‘Street Smart’ on IQ tests.

———-Gladstone —— Buck

Buck, my pet Cockatoo.

I can’t remember where I bought Buck. (It would have been a pet shop in Gladstone.) I never found out whether this Sulpher Crested Cockatoo was a male, but his name was enough to convince me. I never did work out how to tell the difference. But this big white crazy bird came with a cage, and he was called Buck.

Buck was a boisterous bird, aggressive, and a smart-ass, get-out-of-anything escape artist. On one attempted escape, he caught a claw on the cage door and ended up with the claw pointing upwards. This awkward-looking foot did not bother him; I saw him scratching the equivalent of his chin with it. But this was true to Bucks’s nature; if he could find a purpose or use for anything he encountered, he would use it.

The upturned claw became useful later in his life as an identifier. He would visit us, perching himself on a large tree branch at the rear of our garden.

My next-door neighbour on the south side would tell me, “Buck called by today; I knew it was Buck because of his claw.” Then my neighbour would say, ” He shouted, ‘What are you doing?’, waited a while, and took off.”

I had helped Buck to learn to fly; I had always presumed that birds could fly naturally. But Buck demonstrated that they did not know.

Getting airborne was reasonably trouble-free. The landing was Buck’s initial problem, and it took him a while to find a clear area, gliding ungraciously into a wall and finding his footing only after sliding down the wall, aided by gravity.

Initially, Buck seemed reluctant to fly, unwilling to step out of the cage when the door opened. He seemed to have the energy to escape, but once free, he seemed to like staying close. A sense of security? The source of food? I cannot think like a Supher Crested Cockatoo, so I do not know.

I used to remove the base of his cage and lay it on its side, leaving Buck with one side open to the world.

Buck watched the outside world and occasionally stepped out to walk around a bit and then got back.

The next-door neighbour on the north side had a cat. One weekend morning, I was fiddling in the garden, supporting my tomato plants with a wooden stake. (one eye on Buck).

The cat silently dropped from the top fence and proceeded to sneak up on Buck, with a silent, stealthy move, only when the Cockatoos eyes were averted cat technique. Then, the whole body Froze when the bird’s head moved to face the cat’s direction.

I do not think like a cat or a Cockatoo. But I felt the cat did not realise Buck could leave his cage. The cat did not realise that one side of the cage was missing.

I will always wonder if Buck was aware of the cat’s approach. But with knowledge of my peripheral vision, I expect that Buck had better. I had seen birds weaving through branches at speed. I suspect that Buck was distinctly aware of the cat.

Cockatoos are not silly; they can imitate and talk. I suspect that Cockatoos are of equal intelligence to cats. Cats are natural predators and possibly not as bright as cockatoos, not as naturally aware, with the bird’s inborn and instant awareness of becoming prey. Compared to Cockatoos, Cats are arrogant little shits.

So I watched the cat. I watched Buck. When the cat sneaked close enough, Buck turned on it, wide open wings. The loudest screech that only an angry cockatoo could create, and it lunged.

I had never actually seen a cat jump vertically about four feet, with its back hunched, front paws outstretched, and claws exposed. I had never seen a bird in reverse flight, upside down and backward, Somersaulting in time to catch the petrified and in mid-air cat by the tail. The cat was back over the fence (not a tiny fence, but possibly six feet).

Buck lost a couple of feathers. Buck grounded himself, and I noticed his beak had a piece of cat fur hanging from his beak.

The cat was gone.

I had noticed the cat in my garden occasionally on several previous occasions, but I never saw it again.

When Buck learned to fly, he had problems landing. He made a few attempts to land in the fair-sized bush at the front of my house, but it was more like a tall hedge. Buck opened his wings to brake speed and crash-landed.

Over a few weeks of practice, Buck could fly into my veranda. Under the roof line, Open his wigs to slow his descent. Then, quickly close the unfurled width to give him room to navigate the doorway sure enough to carry him gracefully to the centre of the room for a precise and accurate soft landing.

This newfound ability to leave the yard and investigate the local neighbourhood caused minor problems.

A retired mechanic lived a few houses away; upon speaking to his wife, it seemed that although retired, he still went to work every day. He had a workshop that included a permanent vehicle hoist outside it.

True to his lifelong working habits, the retired mechanic left his house every morning with a packed lunch and flask, worked in his shed, and returned home at ‘knock-of’ time—precisely the same way he had always done during his working life. A local car was always in his yard awaiting repairs.

As expected, the retired mechanic stopped at noon for lunch, Sandwiches, a flask of coffee, and a regular working lunch.

Buck flew in to investigate one lunchtime, and I expected the old fellow to toss him some bread because Buck quickly understood the time and place where lunch was regularly served. It’s the sort of thing a Pet Cockatoo learns relatively quickly.

Buck demanded a little more each time he visited. And I presume there developed some reluctance to feed all his working man’s lunch to a damned Cockatoo every day.

A dispute occurred between Buck and the mechanic, and I received a knock on my door to solve it.

We eventually solved the problem of eating the retired mechanic’s lunch. However, It did take several attempts.

The first attempt was to keep a half-filled bucket of water on hand, and when Buck landed, we threw the water at him. The water did not work; Buck seemed to like it, even opening his wings to catch more.

The successful solution involved hanging chicken wire from the garage awning to obscure Buck’s view. The mechanic’s wife liked the chicken wire idea and planted some runner beans and jasmine on the two sections. The result was that Buck could not simply fly in. Access had to be in ‘walk’ mode (through the garage door). We had screened off the carport flight path.

( I later discovered that the mechanic’s wife had begun squishing lemon juice directly at Buck.) That might have been cruel, but I thought accepting the situation as it stood was wiser.

In the meantime, Buck had taken the time to recognise my VW Combi van. It looked distinct from the air, and the homemade exhaust had a noticeably different tone from other vehicles.

Buck used to notice my VW and fly ahead to perch on a power pole or an overhead perching place. He would give an almighty screech of “What are you doing?” a phrase he had learned from his “confined to the cage” days.

When Buck first left the nest (so to speak), he returned within the hour, but as time passed, it was a daily return; eventually, the time away grew, and sometimes I never saw him for weeks.

While driving around town, I occasionally saw a Cockatoo with a bent-up toe. I would always go down the window to hear the greeting screech.

After having moved from the house for a few months, the last information I got was when I called to visit my ex-neighbour to say1.

He said, “You should have been here last week; when I took the dog out to play ‘tug-a-rope’, Buck was sitting in the tree at the end of the yard, and he shouted, ‘What are you doing’.”

The photos are of Buck and Tyson.

(1) Buck scrounging food.

(2) Buck taking apart Tysons Mechano set nut by nut.

In 1968, before I left England,

my sister and I eagerly anticipated Sundays, as they meant tuning in to a delightful comedy sketch program on the radio. The laughter and joy it brought us inspired us to create our comedy recordings using a reel-to-reel tape recorder. While most of our creations have faded from memory, one sketch remains vivid. It revolved around a couple venturing into the desert for a long journey across the arid landscape. They brought the camel, a male horse, and only one camel at their disposal. However, the horse presented a challenge as camels can endure longer journeys without water than horses. The sketch cleverly orchestrated the horse’s attempt to drink from a trough. At that precise moment, I added a comical twist by playfully nudging the horse, resulting in a funny ‘whoosh’ and the horse guzzling a few extra pints of water. As if that wasn’t enough, we also encountered a mirage, only to realise it was a French jet, adding to the absurdity and hilarity of the situation.

—————Pedophiles————

My Brother Peter and I used to collect Stones to throw at a man who parked his Vespa scooter outside the Public toilets in the Centre of Fordingbridge and loitered. However, our Mother found out and confiscated our stones. She changed them to marbles in a little bag. She advised us that if a policeman ever caught us, we should pretend to be playing ‘marbles’. She suggested we place our school cap on the ground, step back a few paces, and play, throwing the marbles into the hat.

When she was little, my sister Lorrianne stood with crossed legs outside the ladies’ toilet and asked for a penny. I recall she made threepence one afternoon.

——————————————————-

MY LITTLE SISTER (a memory)

Mum said, “I fancy a cup of coffee made with milk.” Mum always seemed to be under the impression that coffee made with milk was her own personal invention. Peter, me, and my little sister all nodded our heads in agreement.

Lorrianne jumped and shouted, “I will make it.” This was surprising, as I was barely 12 years old and at least two and a half years older than my sister. Mother never trusted me to boil milk, as I had, on previous occasions, returned from the kitchen with a black saucepan, asking the question, “Where is the spare milk?”

Mother always said, “Be careful you don’t burn the kitchen down.” This always seemed amusing to us kids because the kitchen was made entirely of stone—stone walls, stone floors, and not a scrap of wood.

My little sister rushed out of the front room, “I will make it.”

It must have been about five minutes before Mum had thoroughly chewed over the potential for disaster.

“Go and check on your sister,” she said.

In the kitchen, Lorraine was happily standing next to the stove with the biggest smile, proudly displaying an attitude of accomplishment and total adulthood. “Where’s the milk?” I asked.

The Gas Oven flames blasted heat as Lorraine swiftly opened the Oven door, revealing an entire bottle of milk, complete with a silver top. In her hand, Lorrianne held a burnt matchstick that she put to her lips, and imitating a Western gunslinger with a six-shooter, she blew the match out for the second time.

( Note: when I wrote this in February 2012, Lorrianne denied it.)

—————Pedophiles————

My Brother Peter and I used to collect Stones to throw at a man who parked his Vespa scooter outside the Public toilets in the Centre of Fordingbridge and loitered. However, our Mother found out and confiscated our stones. She changed them to marbles in a little bag. She advised us that if a policeman ever caught us, we should pretend to be playing ‘marbles’. She suggested we place our school cap on the ground, step back a few paces, and play, throwing the marbles into the hat.

When she was little, my sister Lorrianne stood with crossed legs outside the ladies’ toilet and asked for a penny from any passerby. I recall she made threepence one afternoon.

——————————————————-

MY LITTLE SISTER (a memory)

Mum said, “I fancy a cup of coffee made with milk.” Mum always seemed to be under the impression that coffee made with milk was her own personal invention. Peter, me, and my little sister all nodded our heads in agreement.

Lorrianne jumped and shouted, “I will make it.” This was surprising, as I was barely 12 years old and at least two and a half years older than my sister. Mother never trusted me to boil milk, as I had, on previous occasions, returned from the kitchen with a black saucepan, asking the question, “Where is the spare milk?”

Mother always said, “Be careful you don’t burn the kitchen down.” This always seemed amusing to us kids because the kitchen was made entirely of stone—stone walls, stone floors, and not a scrap of wood.

My little sister rushed out of the front room, “I will make it.”

It must have been about five minutes before Mum had thoroughly chewed over the potential for disaster.

“Go and check on your sister,” she said.

In the kitchen, Lorraine was happily standing next to the stove with the biggest smile, proudly displaying an attitude of accomplishment and total adulthood. “Where’s the milk?” I asked.

The Gas Oven flames blasted heat as Lorraine swiftly opened the Oven door, revealing an entire bottle of milk, complete with a silver top. In her hand, Lorrianne held a burnt matchstick that she put to her lips, and imitating a Western gunslinger with a six-shooter, she blew the match out for the second time.

( Note: when I wrote this in February 2012, Lorrianne denied it.)

1957 – 1953

I lived with my family in a country cottage in Hampshire between the ages of eleven and eighteen. The cottage did not have electricity, and we had to use an outside toilet that required digging a hole every month. We did not have running water either; we only had a hand pump in the kitchen that needed at least a full mug of water to prime to ensure suction; there was always an old milk bottle filled with water to prime the hand pump. The kitchen was a small brick room with a concrete bench, a wood stove with a tank for storing heated water, and a gas stove with a gas bottle – all concrete floors. My Mother did not like using the gas stove and preferred to cook on the open fire in our lounge room instead.

My job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that my Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we used to stand in for washing our entire bodies. The kitchen did not have a door and was connected to the “Long-room,” a room about nine feet wide stretched across the front of the four-roomed cottage. The Lon-groom was not lined, and the roof bearings and tin roof were exposed. The cottage never had an indoor toilet, bathroom or shower.

When we moved in, we were told it was a gamekeeper’s cottage, and the long room was where he kept his tools.

My Father had an old single-cylinder Kerosene engine, which he used to power our 12-volt lights. Although it required a tiny amount of petrol to start, My Father instantly switched to Kerosene. The PHUT-PHUT-PHUT sounded around the garden (about half an acre). My Father, whom we called Pop, used to collect old aircraft batteries from work so that we could run the generator and power. The 12-volt lights were also supplied by his work at Flight Refueling, Tarrant Rushton Airfield.

My Father also brought home dustbins full of burnt coke (often still hot) from the furnace, and my younger sister and I would rake through them to collect small pieces of unburnt coke. We managed to sort about a full bucket most days. The rest of the ashes were used to fill the laneway mud holes. Coke burns very hot and was excellent for my Mother to cook on.

My younger sister, Brother, and I had dinners at school and a shower after many P.T. lessons, soccer games, etcetera. We were picked up each school day and delivered to the end of our laneway after school.

During the seven years, my job was to keep the wood stove and lounge room fires burning so that Mother could cook and the family could fill the dishwashing bowl with hot water, which we could then stand in and wash our entire bodies. I did this with the help of my bow saw; the new blades were in the hardware shop in town, a bit over five kilometres from home.

I never felt my life at Primrose Cottage was difficult or hard.

When I got home from school most days, my immediate job was to kill, pluck and gut a chicken or two. (Pop sold them to workmates).

If there were any difficulties, it was at school playtimes, when the general conversations were most regularly about the T.V. programs; the conversations were “Gun smoke” or some other cowboy program. I was more interested in the “Inspector West Investigates” radio programs and other series. My transistor radio always managed to pick up Radio Luxembourg; This was one of the few channels I could listen to rock and other contemporary popular music under reasonable weather conditions, especially at night.

A lad can work to his heart’s content with a radio, eyes and hands-free. I never watched T.V. in those years. And I learned to love work.

I left school on my fifteenth birthday.

I was always told That I could not leave school until I was fifteen. So, the day I was fifteen, I rode my bike to Ringwood –

Overall, I had far better pre-teen years growing up than anyone I have met since.

                                                                  There are only 1% of us left.

I was born between 1930 and 1946, a member of a generation representing just 1% of my peers still living today. With ages from 77 to 93, we embody a living snapshot of a pivotal era in human history—one marked by challenges, resilience, and remarkable transformations.

I entered the world during difficult times, weathering the Great Depression and witnessing a global conflict that reshaped our societies. I vividly remember ration books, saving every scrap of foil, and the mantra of reusing everything. Waste was not an option, and discipline was instilled in us by both Mums & Dads and teachers. Life was simpler then, grounded in the essentials that truly mattered.

Back in those days, when the milkman delivered fresh gold-top and silver-top milk to our front door, my imagination became my playground. Without the distractions of television, I spent hours outdoors, crafting entire worlds in my mind. Families would gather around the radio for news and entertainment; those moments were pure gold.

As a child, I lived in an era brimming with optimism. After WWII, the future felt bright, with few worries aside from the ongoing troubles related to groups like the Irish Republican Army (IRA), created in 1919 to end British rule in Ireland. The IRA played a significant role during the Irish War of Independence. Although turbulent times arose later with the Troubles in Northern Ireland, peace began to take hold by the late 1990s with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, allowing my generation to dream of a better world. I remember living in Bristol when my mother took in boarders, including many Irish Navvies working on building sites. I still hear her telling one Irishman seeking lodging, “No bombs in the house.”

In those early days, technology was starting to come alive. Shared phones were the norm, and newspapers served as my primary source of information. Typewriters—not computers—were how we captured our thoughts. I belong to the last generation that recalls the marvel of black-and-white TVs and the experience of shopping downtown. While polio loomed as a real fear, my parents determined to rebuild their lives and helped create a world rich with possibilities for me.

Reflecting on my life at over 77, I feel pride. I’ve lived through some crazy times with monumental events and changes. I belong to that fortunate 1% who can proudly say, “I lived through great times,” drawing connections between the trials of my youth and the evolving narrative of history.