Today I'm going to summon up the ghost of Ronnie Corbett.
On Sunday night I came across the Four Candles sketch on You Tube and once again realised how brilliant the word play was on The Two Ronnies show.
I won't go into that particular sketch because chances are that if you are of a certain age you will remember it. If not give it a look on You Tube.
On the two Ronnies there was a segment where Ronnie Corbett did a monologue sat in a very large chair. Ronnie C was vertically challenged, even more vertically challenged than myself. So the large chair made him look even smaller which was obviously the intention.
This monologue started off and then rambled all over the place before ending by returning to the start if you know what I mean.
I have always seen my blogs in the same way. Sometimes they seem out of control, veering off in all different directions. That is deliberate. You might look upon them as a brain dump (is that an accepted phrase or not in today's world of political correctness?)
And talking about political correctness (here I go off at a tangent) what about the latest situation on Scotland.
Not interested . . . neither am I, but it was thrust upon us on Monday evening's news.
"Now from the BBC it's the news at 10 with Jane Hill in the studio and Lorna Gordon live from Edinburgh."
Yes the SNP leader with the instantly forgettable name had resigned, the least surprising news of the day. But do we care? In my case not a jot, but we still had to endure full coverage of something very few people south of the border would be the slightest bit interested in.
A new leader for Scotland or to put it another way, the election of somebody else who will probably last six months before the knives slip quietly onto his or her back.
"Politics is a brutal business," said the outgoing First Minister (FM). It affects you physically and mentally and takes its toll on your family, he continued, as if we cared for that or the in depth analysis of the political situation in Scotland.
All I've learnt in the past couple of years from what's been happening in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland is that British politics is toxic, but probably still nowhere near as toxic as in the USA.
But enough of that. Let's get back to Ronnie Corbett. As I've said I've always seen my blogs as Corbett style rambles on this that and the other. Had breakfast over at Wymondham on Monday with Cousin Belinda and almost cousin Peter who incidentally I used to work with at the police. Now we share coffee and scones after he has biked over from the dark side of the county - a round trip of 30 miles. Well done that man.
When I say we share coffee and scones I don't mean that literally. We have our own coffee and our own scones. Cousin Belinda is actually my third cousin and Peter is her uncle and I have no idea what that makes his relationship to me but I'm sure somebody will tell me. I think Ancestry would just record it as uncle of third cousin which doesn't help much.
Anyway Peter was the one who mentioned my blogs were like Ronnie Corbett's monologues and I was so pleased that somebody had identified just what I'm trying to achieve.
I hope my blogs come from the heart. I hope readers realise that sometimes they are serious and sometimes they are light-hearted. Sometimes they are shot through with peace and sometimes they are sprinkled with anger, because that's me. I can be in hysterics when somebody says something funny or I can be very serious when a situation affects me and I guess many others will be the same.
Some days I can take on the world, other days I just want to slink away in a corner.
The other point about the blogs is they aren't necessarily correct. I make loads and loads of mistakes. They are often just my interpretation of life seen from my point of view. I get things wrong because I'm human. I could often correct things by looking them up on the internet but then they would be mechanical rather than spontaneous. So I will continue to be that smallish person sitting in a very large chair, writing what is mainly drivel and hope that it entertains you just like one of Ronnie Corbett's monologues.
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Thank you to all of you who told me where I would find good collections of books after I had specifically said "I must stop buying books." You seem to have taken my comment the wrong way but being a weak person I will now probably seek out all the charity shops mentioned, although I regularly frequent most of them anyway.
"I must not buy anymore books"
"I must not buy anymore books"
Only another 230 to go..
And talking of books. "Hell in Paradise" is selling nicely. Thank you for asking. The wonderful Derek James is writing an article and has told us that it will be in the Eastern Daily Press on Saturday, in the Norwich Evening News the following Tuesday and hopefully in weekly papers as well.
And we are doing a live presentation in Norwich on May 10th at the headquarters of the Norfolk Family History Society in St Giles from 11 am. The presentation will be by the Le Paradis Commemoration Group and it's a free event. Signed books will be available to buy for just £10. Cash only.
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This has already been a lengthy blog but I'm only just getting started. I have to tell you about my day re-visiting places from my childhood. As I said, I wasn't at all sure how I would be affected by this but here goes.
I will ignore the bus journey from Hethersett into Norwich as that plays no part in the past I'm talking about. Ignore that is apart from making a comment about the rude woman who got on in St Stephen's and berated the driver about how long she had been waiting for a number 15 as if it was his fault. We did pass another number 15 which had broken down which wasn't a good advert for the new electric buses.
"Jesus I've been waiting for a bleedin' bus for one and a half hours" she said loud enough so that everyone could hear her. Personally I think she was exaggerating for effect. I doubt whether Jesus was listening anyway, he's probably sick of people moaning.
Can we ever relive our past and does it just grip us so tightly because we feel safer there? I found my journey uncomfortable, not because everything had changed as you might expect but because so many things were practically the same in some kind of strange way.
My journey into the past started in Tombland at the bus stops just down from Norwich Cathedral Close. This is where I caught the bus every day to go home from The Norwich School. The bus numbers have changed, as have the routes. Yesterday I was looking for either a 36 or a 37. Back in the sixties it was an 84 or 86 down Reepham Road or an 85 or 87 down the Cromer Road. The 84 and 86 took me to Berkeley Close which was just a few yards from the shop where I lived. When we moved to Middleton's Lane it was best to catch an 85 or 87 which terminated in Windsor Road, again a short walk to home. I used to get the first bus to come along as it was a very short walk from any of them. When we lived in Reepham Road my parents had to pay my bus fare to school and back as you only got a free bus pass if you lived more than three miles from the school as the crow flies. When we moved just round the corner to Middleton's Lane I got a free bus pass despite the fact that I often got the bus to and from the same place as before.
As I write this I'm sitting on a bench on Hellesdon Recreation Ground. In the distance I can hear children's voices. It's 11 am and there goes a whistle which must indicate the end of what we called playtime and what is now known as morning break. The noise from the children will have come from Kinsale Avenue Infant School - My old school.
I sit on the bench watching dogs run for tennis balls. Nobody is playing football or cricket or tennis today as it's a school day. There are quite a few small children with their mothers on the swings, a reminder that our darling granddaughter Lyla isn't far short of being five months old. Soon we will be able to take her to the swings.
But enough of this reverie. Back to the present in search of the past. Trips rarely go to plan and I got slightly the wrong bus. I say slightly because it allowed me to retrace my past ok but in a slightly different way.
The 37 went down Cromer Road and onto Horsford rather then the past when the service turned left down Middleton's Lane and terminated in Windsor Road. On the way we passed Buxton Road where I had piano lessons on a Tuesday and Mecca Bingo Hall which used to be the Norwood Rooms, Mecca of entertainment.
I got off opposite what was formerly The Firs pub but which now isn't and I walked through what will forever be known to me as The Firs - the place I spent many happy hours watching Norwich speedway.
As I walked I tried to hear in my mind the roar of the bikes and the smell of the track. I tried to conjure up the ghosts of Ove Fundin and Ollie Nygren, the twin Swedish spearhead that made Norwich famous in the speedway world. Fundin is still alive so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that I couldn't conjure up his ghost.
I think I failed anyway as the houses that replaced the speedway stadium are packed so closely together as to destroy memories. Architecturally I have always thought them to be awful. Many have two floors with the upper floor sloping alarmingly from the front to the back. I was glad to get out of the development and just remember the days when we rode our bikes around the outside before being chased off by the speedway team manager whose name was Len Parkin. The things I remember from all those years ago.
As I exited the Firs I took note that there is no longer a bus stop in Windsor Road. I walked the route I had walked many times before which took me from Middletons Lane to number 122 Reepham Road where my grandparents lived. On the way I passed Chapel Court which is a housing development with a church that was built on land sold to developers by my grandfather for a pittance - prime development land in a major suburb of Norwich.
I walked past the dentists on Reepham Road where I had so much pain inflicted on me as a boy. It's still a dentist but I hope the treatment is a little more modern today. No I hope the treatment is a lot more modern.
I passed the house where Robert Votier lived. He had the nickname Bubs for a reason I never knew. And there it was 122 Reepham Road. The bungalow I have so many happy memories of. Saturday night watching television with my grandad who always called me Old Petner which was obviously Norfolk for partner. The bungalow where I went so often for Sunday lunch. My grandmother did the biggest roast potatoes known to man (or woman).
And across the road was number 157 where I was born. The old windows of my bedroom have been replaced and what was the back garden is now a concreted car park "they paved paradise, put up a parking lot" as Joni Mitchell once said. If I had taken the car I could have boasted that I parked it in my back garden.
Inside Dixon's it felt dark and soulless and on this Tuesday morning there was hardly anyone around. I didn't fancy a cup of coffee as the cafe seemed lacking in charm as well. I climbed up a floor to try to get as close to my old bedroom as possible but it was just a maze of corridors. My mind was in overdrive but I couldn't imagine it as it once was and gave up.
As I exited the shops I glanced at number 155 where Elsie Watson lived. It's now a shop entitled Heart of Norfolk. Many is the time I went searching in her garden after kicking a football in or hitting a tennis ball so hard against our wall that it ended in her garden. She never complained about me going in or breaking her flowers and plants as I probably did on many occasions.
So next on my walk was to go down Links Close to the little cut through that would take me to Kinsale Avenue School. It was a six minute walk. How on earth did we take an hour to get home from school?
"It's only me," I would announce as I entered the shop.
One thing I did establish was the name of our shop. I have always believed it was called Northgate Fruit Stores but never been able to nail it down.
But there on a road sign was the word "Northgate." It wasn't the main name of the road which ran alongside Dixon's but it did confirm the name of the shop.
So back to my walk.
There was the house where Karen Magee lived and close to the school was the house where my friend Eric Xuereb lived. His parents were Maltese, hence the unusual name.
Next I walked down to the park/recreation ground.
Well I've been sitting on this park bench writing for almost an hour so it's time to move on with the walk before I seize up.
So I went to the library and it was an unstaffed day but, as I have what is called open access, I was able to get in for a brief look. It's very different from the days of high counters and only four books per person with all the shelves in rigid rows. Now it's a much more welcoming place although Hellesdon Library isn't as pleasant as either Hethersett or Wymondham. It still feels a little dark.
I walked down to have a look at my former home in Middleton's Lane. It's down a small cul de sac off the main road, so I felt a bit conspicuous trying to have a crafty look whilst going absolutely nowhere. It's now a strange place. They have erected large boards in what was the front garden and it looks as if there's a large extension in the back garden. I didn't hover too long and I had seen enough anyway.
I did think about going back to Dixon's for coffee and lunch but didn't fancy it. I decided I had had enough and achieved what I came to do. Maybe the past is best left there. That's probably why I didn't take a single photo despite having a camera and mobile with me. I wouldn't be able to create what I remembered. I did think about my life though and how the days I was reminiscing about were days before my life's adventure had really begun. Days before college, days before marriage, days before work, days before children and grandchildren, days when the future stretched out ahead before it began closing in.
It did make me think about the support and good education that my parents made possible for me, primarily my mother, and how grateful I truly am that today I am able to write reasonably coherent blogs and books and that I feel I can genuinely call myself a writer. A writer at home, a writer on buses, a writer on a park bench, a writer in a library and sometimes just a writer.
Somehow I felt that a day that had promised so much actually delivered little and do you know what? I wasn't too unhappy about that. I had assuaged my curiosity. From now I will keep my memories in my mind or for my writing. I feel no need to return to the places of my youth. Been there, done that and got the T shirt as they say.
I got a number 37 bus (this one did go along Reepham Road) back to the City centre and then a second bus back to Hethersett, realising that more of my past memories are in this South Norfolk Village rather than in the Broadland suburb of Hellesdon and there must have been a reason why when we decided to return to Norfolk from the Midlands we didn't even consider living in Hellesdon.
And as I shut the door in Hethersett I realised that once and for all, I do know where my home and where my happiness is.