Updated and Backdated

Quick medical update first: The oncologist and the radiation oncologist I saw earlier this week on follow-up appointments both gave me a thorough "going over", declared me good for a while longer - well, anyway until my next appointments with both I guess; that will not be for 2 months. Perhaps I'll not be shuffling off before then, barring accidents and the unexpected, fingers crossed!

The temporary stand-in oncologist advised, with regard to pills for my pain-while-walking, that I can try using a double dose of the the minimum dose extended release morphine tablets, prescribed in July by another stand-in oncologist. The pills as prescribed had had no effect on my pain, so I just didn't take them and relied on the previous pain pills I'd been using. I'm now trying this new regime, with my old pain pills available for "break-through pain". I'm still not overly impressed with the morphine, the effect so far isn't as beneficial as my usual pain pills, but maybe lasts a little longer. I shall give it a longer testing and experimenting time.

I'm not sure how much longer Learning Curve on the Ecliptic will survive, in view of the fact that I shall have to buy a new computer before January 2020. Windows 7 operating system, which I use, will no longer be supported by Microsoft after that; this old computer has a hitch in its sound system so needs replacing anyway. I'm posting much less frequently than in years past. Survival of Learning Curve, at all, will depend on how compatible I find myself with Windows 10 once I've replaced my old faithful machine and operating system.

It was around this time of year in 2006 that I first jumped into Blogger and tried my hand at blogging. For many years I posted daily, initially about astrology, later on a variety of topics. In 2015 a kind commenter suggested that I should write some posts telling a little about my life. I was wary of doing so at first as it seemed particularly self-indulgent. Ah well, a bit of navel-gazing has never hurt anyone, so I began a weekend series of posts on my own life story. By the end of the series I found that I had actually enjoyed those backward glances.

Thinks: With a bit of filling out, this post could stand for the full week ahead, so...below is a list of links to the 8 parts of that self-indulgent story of my life mentioned above. Any stray passing reader might be brave enough to sample an episode - or two - or perhaps just take a look at the pictures.

Self Indulgence - episode 1
Self Indulgence - episode 2
Self Indulgence - episode 3
Self Indulgence - episode 4
Self Indulgence - episode 5
Self Indulgence - episode 6
Self Indulgence - episode 7
Self Indulgence - episode 8

Self-indulgent Saturday & Sunday #8

For links to earlier posts in this series see #7 where earlier links are included

I had so many happy times upon which to look back after my mother, then Bill, died.
We'd had regular vacations during the second half of the 1970s until the end of the 1990s. We'd taken in Spain's Costa del Sol; Tangier, Morocco; Honolulu, Hawaii; and many, many visits to Tenerife in the Canary Islands, off West Africa. We'd taken my mother on a couple of coach trips to Wales and to Scotland.

The loss of Bill had left a gaping hole in my life. I was alone - I'd been alone before, but this time I was really alone. Parents and grandparents had all gone before, old work friends were too far away for easy access. I was living in the small house on the East coast left to me by my parents, a two-train trip from Leeds. None of my old friends were using home computers at that time. I'd bought my first computer during Bill's slide into his last long illness. I credit that computer with aiding me through the painful months and the emotional storm that broke after Bill's death.

Communicating online had already become a daily pleasure, contributing to a few astrology forums, a fun AOL message board and, later, to a website that introduced me to what would now be termed social-networking. From the latter I made some friends to chat with - mostly male, as it happened, and mostly, though not all, from the USA, which seemed exciting and adventurous. I'll not go into detail - I'd embarrass myself too much, but I will admit that those online friends helped get me through what was the worst time of my life. Looking back on myself at that time, it wasn't me, not the me I know - but a version of me I'd not met before.

That period of my life just before, and after, Bill's death felt like struggling through a long-running violent storm and finding, from time to time, a sheltering arm, warm hugs, or sometimes just the loan of an umbrella to make the storm seem more bearable. I shall always feel grateful for those online friends, some of whom were as unhappy as I was, and I hope that our brief, passing friendship helped them through their storms as much as it helped me.

As the worst of the storm was passing, my now husband and I crossed paths on the internet. I knew then that this was me - back to the old me, the me I knew. From his first words - yes I knew!

I'm going to fall back now on part of an old post of mine to tell about the overture to the biggest change of my life.

Astrologically the outer planets had been either whipping me on throughout this storm and this journey, or holding the carrot - not sure which. Uranus conjoined my natal Jupiter at 6 Pisces for much of the early stages, and Pluto conjoined natal Venus in Sagittarius. These two planets seem to have orchestrated or choreographed the whole show!

 In Bridlington, East Yorkshire.

It all began at the end of 2003, when my now husband visited me in the UK. We decided that our future was together, and would need to be in the USA, because I had no remaining close family ties and he had many, back in the United States.

After much research and reading of immigration message boards, I came to the conclusion that, of the 3 methods available to us, one had the potential to be less painful than the other two. This method would involve Himself coming to live in the UK, with me, for a while, so that we could qualify to apply for a marriage visa, for me, via the US Embassy in London. Both other methods would have involved long spells apart, and having to rely on notoriously slow-moving USCIS Service Centers on the other side of the pond. The route we chose was more expensive, but we considered it worth the extra outlay.

First the husband-to-be had to return home to the USA, from whence he had to apply for a UK Fiancé Visa for himself. With this in hand, in the spring of 2004 he returned. We were wed at the end of April. The husband then had to apply, at the nearest immigration office (Liverpool), for an extension to his visa, for "Further Leave To Remain". This stage proceeded rapidly and painlessly, with a pleasant visit to Liverpool.

Next step: the husband needed to petition for permission for me, as his wife, to emigrate to the USA. Then I, potential immigrant, was required to apply for a visa on the ground of marriage to a US citizen.

An incredible amount of information and documentation was called for at this stage. The photocopies we had to provide must have caused the downing of large areas of rain forest somewhere in Brazil.

Once submitted there was a long wait for the US Embassy to process our petition and application. During this interval I put my house on the market. I was called for interview and medical examination in London at the end of August 2004. By then we were on tenterhooks, waiting to give a buyer for my house in Yorkshire the go ahead. We dare not risk doing so until I had visa in hand. On 1st September I had this! (Below, left, in front of the US embassy in London).

Next stop Oklahoma, after disposing of most of my worldly goods, packing the rest in several large boxes, shipping 'em to the USA, and finally selling the house.

Once in Oklahoma my visa remained conditional on the marriage remaining intact for 2years, at which point, in the summer of 2006, I had to apply to have conditions removed, and prove that the marriage was, indeed, intact by providing financial and other proof. This was done relatively quickly, my Permanent Resident's Card ("green card") was then made good for a further 10 years.

Another year had to pass before I became eligible to apply for US citizenship, thus ridding myself of the USCIS for ever, becoming eligible to vote and to hold a US passport. As it happened, I became eligible to make my citizenship application on 26 July just a few days before a fee increase was to be implemented. A huge frontlog of applications was the result of this, and caused the process to take around twice as long as normal.

After a variety of delays, obstacles and long postponements, I attended my citizenship interview on 19 June 2008, passed muster, passed the civics test and waited a mercifully brief time for the next available Oath Ceremony to finish the job: 25 July, at 9.30am, just a year after applying for citizenship, and almost 4 years since I obtained my first visa.

I dare not add up the cost in either $$$$$ or nervous tension. I'd like to say the process was fun....but it wasn't!

And so, I became a citizen of the United States.

After five years in the USA, from another old post, these were some of my thoughts:

It's exactly 5 years since I arrived in the USA to live here permanently. Looking back, I realise that it was one of those situations where I'd had to switch to mental auto-pilot. I do a similar thing sometimes at the dentist's or doctor's office, a useful habit of blocking out peripheral stuff, and thoughts in the subjunctive, about things that could possibly go wrong; retaining focus on a time in the near future with awkwardness gone. I stayed that way for a while, then, one day the enormity of the move hit me. I was worried. My husband was worried. Adding even more chaos to an already daunting situation, we decided to move house from my husband's home of many years. That occupied my mind and blocked out the nerves for a while. I took two brief visits back to the UK in the spring and fall of the next year, which helped a lot. I haven't been back to England since.

I've now got the hang of light switches being "up" for "on"; it's the opposite in the UK. I no longer go to the driver's door to get to the passenger seat, because for my hardwiring, in the US the driver sits on the "wrong" side. I'm still, even now, finding it difficult to use American terms for things like taps (faucets), car boot (trunk), footpath (sidewalk) and so on. American spelling comes and goes in my writing, depending on where, when and to whom it's directed. I'm not going to worry about stuff like that - I kid myself that it'll all add to my (ahem) old world..... charm.

Much cursing and complaining accompanied a four-year, very frustrating, trek through the US immigration process to citizenship. I'm thankful the trek is behind me now. If I'd known in 2004 what I know now, would I have tried to persuade my husband to stay in England with me? I sometimes think I should have done that. Had I succeeded (unlikely) I'd have missed such a lot by so doing. The USA is a vast and beautiful land - can't help but love it. I've left my shadow among the petroglyphs in Arizona's Painted Desert, stood inside The Alamo, explored the Anasazi dwellings at Mesa Verde, explored the wonderful Rocky Mountains National Park, beautiful Santa Fe, travelled in Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Wyoming. Who'd have thunk it? And there's still more adventuring to be done.



Some attitudes here continue to rankle though, and I still have to perfect a way to ignore what irritates me most. "Take the rough with the smooth"....is the best advice for me I guess.

Emigration from my homeland was probably my destiny - my fate. A fortune teller told my mother, when I was still in early teenage, that I'd marry a foreigner and end my life abroad. I remembered it, but didn't ever really believe the last part. Marrying a foreigner wasn't difficult - I did it twice! I'd toyed with the idea of spending my retirement in Spain, but deep down knew that was not much more than a pipe dream.

If I could, would I go back to England? I ask myself this sometimes, then realise it's all hypothetical and hypothetical questions can be dangerous and misleading. There's nothing there for me, my family and loved ones are all gone. My family is here now. I can't go back, and that's good.

 Atop Mount Scott, Oklahoma

The other day I came across a card bought just before I left England. It bears this piece of prose by Vicki Silvers; I used to read it often. Perhaps a passing reader, who is also on the brink of a big life change, might find it helpful:

"There comes a time in your life when you realise that if you stand still, you will remain at this point forever. You realize that if you fall and stay down, life will pass you by. Life's circumstances are not always what you might wish them to be. The pattern of life does not necessarily go as you plan...

Beyond any understanding, you may at times be led in different directions that you never imagined, dreamed, or designed. Yet if you had never put any effort into choosing a path or trying to carry out your dream, then perhaps you would have no direction at all.

Rather than wondering about or questioning the direction your life has taken, accept the fact that there is a path before you now. Shake off the "why's" and "what if's", and rid yourself of confusion. Whatever was - is in the past. Whatever is - is what's important. The past is a brief reflection. The future is yet to be realized. Today is here.

Walk your path one step at a time - with courage, faith and determination. Keep your head up and cast your dreams to the stars. Soon your steps will become firm and your footing will be solid again. A path that you never imagined will become the most comfortable direction you could ever have hoped to follow.

Keep your belief in yourself and walk into your new journey. You will find it magnificent, spectacular, and beyond your wildest imaginings."

So, do I hear a faint voice asking (if any valiant reader has, indeed, made it this far) "how do you feel about living in the USA after what are now 11 years?" I feel fine - it was my destiny I guess, you don't argue with destiny - and I'm happy. Outside of my personal, home life though, rather than "taking the 5th" I'll echo Alice, courtesy of Lewis Carroll, whose birthday (27 January) I share:

...How are you getting on?' said the Cat......................
'I don't think they play at all fairly,' Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, 'and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear oneself speak — and they don't seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them.'

Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where —' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'

Self-indulgent Sat. & Sun. #7 Christmas Past and Present

As Christmas is rapidly approaching #7 in this Self-indulgent series is going to be a re-run of a post I wrote in 2008 - it almost seems tailor-made for today. For links to previous posts in this series see #6 where earlier links are included.

Looking back over the years - and I have lots to look back over - Christmas stands as a kind of milepost. It's a focal point when a pattern of change can be identified. In some ways, the pattern could be equated to the cycle of the zodiac, as of course, can our whole life's cycle.

The earliest Christmases I recall, I shall call them the Aries ones, were spent at my maternal grandparents' home in a tiny village, where I was sent during the worst period of the war years in the UK, safe from the bombing of the city where my parents lived and worked. My parents would make a last minute bus journey the 20 miles or so on Christmas Eve so we could all be together for "the day".

My grandmother (right) was a wonderful cook. With the few facilities she had in those days, I can hardly imagine how she managed to put such delicious meals on her table. She often said that she and I had a "special bond" - it didn't extend to inheriting her culinary prowess though! Water came from a pump in the yard, direct from an underground spring. The only oven she had was at one side of the big black fireplace, powered by coal and wood fires, at the other side, a tank for heating water.
No refrigerator, food was kept out in a building called "the wash-house" where a boiler for boiling water and equipment for washing clothes was also kept. Earliest memories come from a time before the grandparents had electric light, when I went off to bed with a candle, and rooms were lit by oil lamps. I used to be given an early present each Christmas Eve, a book - the "Rupert Book" into which my little head was thrust for hours on end, reading about the adventures of a little bear and his friends, as I waited for Mum and Dad to arrive.

As the cycle moved around to Taurus and Gemini, Christmases evolved into bigger family gatherings, accompanied at times by school friends, both sets of grandparents, occasional aunts and uncles. Sometimes there was carol singing with a group of friends around the town on Christmas Eve, attending midnight service, or a Christmas morning service, then back to Dad's excellent cooking - he was the head cook of our family, after grandma retired from her post. Traditional, sociable, predictable - Christmases then were all those things.

Cancerian Christmases were fewer in number - they involved my retiring into a shell, for a variety of reasons. Working in hotels for a brief period in my life, I'd find that after all the hard work and long hours put in during the run up to Christmas, we staff were often to be found exhausted and alone in lowly staff accommodation, too tired to get together. I remember one particular Christmas evening walking out alone around the city where I worked, gazing longingly into the windows of houses where families celebrated together. I'd be home in the next day or two though, when my parents and I enjoyed a delayed celebration, also in honour of their wedding anniversary on 27 December. Another Christmas day around this period, I clearly recall, was spent alone in a cramped apartment, with a can of chicken breast a loaf of wholemeal bread, and a radio. I remember that much, but have no recollection of how it came about - something connected with my disastrous first marriage I think. Best forgotten!

So.... on to the Leo Christmases which developed as my life changed, accompanied by a new partner, a new job, and an altogether brighter frame of mind. Christmases at the office were fun - always. Some years we'd have a fancy dress party (that's me, under the clock, as Dick Whittington!) Sometimes we'd organize a special quiz or other years just a buffet with plenty of wine.

One Christmas a bright spark in the office persuaded the chairmen (all respected lawyers) to act in our version of a pantomime - "Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp". A few in-jokes were included in the much-adapted scripts to further engage an already enthusiastic audience of staff and uninvolved chairmen.

This is one of my favourite treasured Christmas memories. Magical! They were all such good sports. Most have now "gone before" to the great tribunal in the sky, others are High Court Judges.






Virgo/Libra/Scopio Christmases cover a long period of very mixed flavours. My parents were growing older, they lived at a distance for much of the period, but my partner and I always spent most of Christmas time with them, as much as my job would allow. Tensions arose sometimes, as they are wont to do among most family groups.

But many years saw beautiful Christmas-times, trouble-free and filled with love and good humour. We'd spend hours singing songs and carols and recording them on a tape machine. I still have a couple of the tapes but I find it difficult to listen to them even now, so many years later. Photographs are fine - but those so familiar, long gone voices always bring on the tears.


After my Dad died in 1992, we spent each Christmas with my mother (below), usually at our home.

Tensions arose more frequently during these years. There was almost always one scarily passionate argument, where I found myself in the middle, loving them both, trying to appease both sides. Eventually things would calm down to an uneasy peace. After my mother died in 1997, my late partner and I spent quiet times together at Christmas, some gentle and precious memories of his last years remain, his health began to slowly deteriorate. Then death visited once more, not long after my last Scorpio Christmas.


Sagittarius Christmases have found me here in the USA - 5000 miles from Christmases of yore, with a new husband and family.

Christmases here are bright and happy. A family get together on Christmas Eve, then, weather permitting the husband and I like to take a drive to Mount Scott with a pack of cheese sandwiches, some fruit and soft drinks, and eat our version of Christmas Dinner surveying the Oklahoma countryside from 2000ft up, followed by a leisurely drive home through the wildlife refuge, hoping to greet some buffalo or long horned cattle, or even a colony of prairie dogs. Our new tradition!

Aquarius Christmas? Well, maybe the Christmases I've been blogging come into this category. Or perhaps my Aquarius and Pisces Christmases are still to come.



HAPPY CHRISTMAS (when it comes) Y'ALL!!
I hope all your Christmases are as happy as my happiest ones.
Know that any less happy ones will give way to joy again.

Self-indulgent Saturday & Sunday #6

Self-indulgent #6 coming up (#5 is here, with earlier links to #1 to #4).

From here onward I'm dividing remaining stories into three segments: work/play/home & family. Starting today with what's likely to be the most boring segment: WORK:

As the bells rang in New Year 1971 I don't remember whether I was still in Berverley or had moved to be with Bill in Brighton, on the south coast of England. Detailed recollection has blurred. Never mind. Our sojourn in Brighton didn't last long. We moved back north, to Leeds after less than a year, then followed a further couple of years of general muddle and mis-direction. I eventually found a job in the Sales Office of a company who manufactured computer paper (that stuff with green and white lines and holes down each side - remember?) It was just secretarial work for the regional manager, and one or two representatives. This job was alright, though not very stimulating - undemanding. I was on my own in the office for much of the time. Following some reorganisation the Leeds office was closed after a couple of years, yours truly was made redundant. That redundancy did me a big favour. After haunting the Job Centre I eventually landed a post as Clerical Officer in the Civil Service.

I would remain in the Civil Service from July 1975 until retirement some 24 years later. My new job was in the Regional Office of what were then known as The Industrial Tribunals. These days they're called Employment Tribunals. I began as a straight-forward Clerical Officer, dealing with the administrative side of applications from people who had suffered unfair dismissal, or problems with redundancy payments, or had suffered racial or sex discrimination, or had problems relating to equal pay. After a few months the Regional Secretary asked if I'd enjoy "acting up": standing in as Tribunal Clerk when needed. I would, and did.

The Tribunal Clerk's job, back then, was usually carried out by Executive Officers. There were four EOs in the office to cover three tribunal rooms in Leeds, one in a nearby town and one in Hull, an hour's train ride away. I was often called on to assist - in fact it became more or less permanent. I didn't achieve actual promotion to Executive Officer status until the early 1980s, after moving to another department for a year to extend my experience. Once I passed the interview and achieved EO status I returned to the Tribunals and continued as Tribunal Clerk. I travelled out more often, sometimes even to one of the Tribunal offices in London, for weeks. The job was fascinating. I understand that things have changed quite a bit since my day so can relate only my own experience of the job.

The Tribunal Clerk would first meet the parties: applicant, respondent and their representatives (lawyers/union reps) and witnesses. Procedure had to be explained, details taken, questions answered, nerves calmed. The parties were then ushered into a Tribunal Room. Tribunal hearings were open to the press and public. The photograph below is of a mock tribunal set-up, but gives a general idea of the type of scene in a typical Tribunal room.

Hat-tip HERE

Tribunals consisted of a Chairman (a well-respected lawyer or judge) some were permanently with the Tribunal Office, others part-time; and two lay-members drawn from a list of people with some knowledge and standing in the commercial, industrial or service worlds, one from what could be termed "the employer's side" and one from "the employee's side" - usually the latter was a Union official or someone with the same type of experience; the former perhaps someone from Chamber of Commerce or an ex-employer of some standing.

As the Chairman and Members entered the room the parties and onlookers were asked to "Stand please!" Seated once more the hearing proper began. In those early years the Clerk remained in the room throughout, took notes, administered the Oath to witnesses, handed exhibits to the Tribunal Chairman and Members. Hearings ranged in length from a full day to several days (occasionally weeks) of evidence. Observing the skill of the Chairman in delivering his detailed decision, after discussions with the Lay Members, having absorbed all the evidence presented with minimal notes to assist, was always absolutely fascinating to me.

As time went on duties and procedures changed. Actual dates are foggy, but by late 1980s the work of the office had grown so much that a move to larger premises became essential. We weren't fully computerised until, I think, the early 1990s, but even then most paper documents were retained. We were being involved in different categories of cases. Clerical Officers were trained to take over the job of Tribunal Clerks, while the Executive Officers, myself included, became section managers.

I was chosen to manage the "Listing Section" consisting of between 5 and 7 Clerical Officers. I was responsible for listing cases to be heard, on a certain date, in a given location, always listing some "spare" cases to make certain the tribunal was not left twiddling their thumbs if the primary case settled at the last minute - as happened regularly. My aim was to keep the Tribunal Rooms filled, and "earning their keep". It was my job, also, to allocate each case to a set of Chairman and Members, booking the Chairmen (if part-time) and the lay-members - all by telephone following up with a notice, and ensuring the case parties, chairmen and members all arrived at the right place on the right date at the correct time. When a last-minute settlement happened another set of parties had to be alerted, often with very little notice. There was lots of room for error, making it necessary to be ultra careful and accurate, always, or things could become very hairy very quickly! Mine could be a stressful job, nobody else wanted it, but I loved it - and though I say it myself, I was good at it - it suited me. The staff management side had to be done too, of course. I didn't enjoy having to write copious amounts of critical and/or back-slapping "stuff" about my team once a year - but it had to be done.

My section was also responsible for dealing with requests for postponement of hearings, and other mailed-in enquiries, and for answering phone calls relative to same. This could, on occasion, become quite lengthy and difficult, especially if a chairman had refused a request for postponement of an important case! I still clearly recall taking such a call just before leaving the office one evening. The caller argued and on and on. I was alone in the office. The whole building had been locked up by the time I'd placated the caller sufficiently; I couldn't find the caretaker to let me out! Trapped! I phoned Bill to tell him I'd be late - and I was, very late. Wandering around 7 or 8 floors looking for another live body I eventually heard the sound of a lone cleaner somewhere, tracked them down and was given the caretaker's phone number.

In time I became senior of the Executive Officers in the office and as such was responsible for taking charge of the whole office in the Manager's absence. I'd sometimes wondered if I could achieve promotion to the next management grade, HEO, and did attempt one interview, for a post as Conciliation Officer (a different but associated department dealing with arbitration and settlements). Not being a driver was a strike against me, but not a complete no-no - that'd be my age at the time. A lot of costly training would have to be undertaken, and it'd go to waste on someone with just a few years to go before retirement. Retirement was at 60 for Executive Officers and above, and was not too far away for me at that point.

If anyone's up for a bit of light reading, here are links to a couple of fairly recent reports of Tribunal hearings in Leeds - my old stomping ground - to give you an idea of what's what:

www.thirdsector.co.uk

and www.dailymail.co.uk

There were vacations - lots of 'em. More on some of these - and more, next time.

Self-indulgent Saturday & Sunday #5

A short span again this week, it teeters around 1970. Previous episodes are at #1, #2, #3 and #4). In #4, I left myself in limbo, wandering around Lonely Corner, separated, unlikely to achieve divorce in the foreseeable future. I resolved to be pro-active.

One day, while picking up my newspaper and magazine from the newsagent's, I noticed a publication in the racks - The London Weekly Advertiser; I doubt it exists now, at least not in the form it was back in 1970. The publication was purely a forum for advertising items for sale, or services available around Britain - rather like a print version of E-bay or Craigslist. One section of the paper was dedicated to "Personal" adverts: people wanting to meet other people. Personal ads of this nature still exist, if not in print, then certainly on-line.

Should I? I bought the publication for several weeks before deciding yes, I should!

I wasn't about to respond to any adverts I'd found, but settled on drafting an ad of my own. I don't recall the exact wording but it included my age, gender, marital status, rough location, type of job I had, and type of friend I'd like to meet...oh, and my Sun sign. Wondering when astrology would rear its mystical head here were ya? I was at simple Sun sign level only at this point, so there'd be no astro-acrobatics!

I suspected that this escapade was all rather daring as I typed out my ad, but it was a while since I'd had an adventure. I sent it in, snail mail of course. It took a while to be published, even longer for replies to be posted back to me by the newspaper, who acted in place of a P.O. Box. I think I received around 8 or 9 replies in all. A few were discarded at once as being mildly objectionable or quite sweet but too obviously not my type. Eventually I was left with 3 letters which I reckoned merited a longer reply than the brief "thanks, but no thanks" type response.

By this time my "gung-ho" was rapidly gung-ing off. I wrote 3 nice letters back to the short-list, decided that should be that, and began thinking about a Plan B.

 Bill

I'd underestimated the persistence of one of the responders. He wrote back in reply to mine - I replied, again, that I'd changed my mind about the whole idea of meeting someone in this way. He wrote back - yet again. His handwriting was very attractive, nice writing style, sounded warm and sincere. He excused himself for being "a Taurus", asked me not to discard him on that reason alone. We corresponded for several weeks. He was living in the south of England, though by birth was Northern Irish, was quite a lot older than me, and asked me not to discard him solely on that account either. I decided he seemed interesting enough to be checked out on a quick day trip to London, using the fastest trains available. Setting out early I could just about make it there and back in a day, with a tiny bit of time to spare in the city.

He was waiting for me at King's Cross station. I still remember what he was wearing: dark green corduroy jacket, khaki slacks. Back then I always loved corduroy jackets for men. His jacket had a lot to answer for! There wasn't much time to see the sights, and I wasn't much interested in them anyway at that point. We spent some time in Piccadilly Square, ate a sandwich, chatted...about what? I don't recall. He had a wonderful, softly cultured, Northern Irish accent. I liked him. He asked that we, at least, remain friends. We did. And what's more, eventually spent the next 32 years together, 'til death us did part - though nobody ever declared those words over us in a marriage ceremony.

To be continued.

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday #4

This fourth episode covers just 3 years, 1967-1970. Previous episodes are at #1 and #2 #3).

I returned to work in the County Record Office older, wiser and I'd like to think a tad more... erm..sophisticated. By this time my parents had left Yorkshire and were in the midst of their own itchy feet expeditions, almost as mixed and muddled as my own. I found a decent furnished apartment above a hairdresser's shop in Beverley's market place (top floor of building on left of photo) - it was a short walk to work. I had no telephone, but there was a phone box in the market place opposite; no fridge, no TV for a couple of years, just a record player and a transistor radio. Beverley is a lovely old town, some picturesque streets and beautiful Minster church.

 View of  Beverley Bar (ancient gateway)

The next three years proceeded in a much calmer steadier mode than the previous twelve. I took on extra work at the weekends, at home, to make a little extra cash.
Mr H was doing some extra work himself, on the archives of ancient Trades Guilds in London and I agreed to type and index for him. Later a friend of Mr H, a child psychologist, had some reports and data to type up, which I took on. The extra cash went towards cost of an annual vacation.

One vacation during this time was a trip to the Loire Valley in France - alone, by train and ferry across the English channel - all very adventurous! Stayed in a tiny hotel in Tours, a town with easy access to the many famous chateaux (castles) in the area. I treated myself to a couple of trips around the region by coach, tried out my schoolgirl French - it was just about enough to get me where I needed to be.

The following year I wandered back south-west to Devonshire for my vacation. While walking along the sea front early one evening a guy came up and walked beside me, asked if I knew...don't recall what exactly - the time? The way to....? Something. Hmm - is this a pick-up was my question! We chatted a while, both lonely it seemed. He suggested going for a drink . He took me to a bar in what was probably the poshest hotel in town. This fellow was quite "posh" himself it seemed to me from his accent - not one of my usual rag, tag and bobtail suitors.

I'll call him Hal, he was in town selling pet-related products to pet stores and supermarkets, a job he didn't much like but had been more or less forced to take, for reasons I could only guess at - perhaps divorce and loss of whatever. He had previously been a lion keeper, had been employed at Longleat Safari Park on the estate of the then Marquess of Bath. (Off topic - the current Marquess of Bath, by the way, is a character and a half).

I'd met a diverse bunch of people in my travels, but never a lion keeper! We got on well, but once his work was done in town he had to move on and so did I as my vacation ended. Hal wrote to me several times (always drew a little lion as part of his signature) suggested coming up to Yorkshire...then, I don't recall exactly what happened to stop him - maybe lines became crossed and several things happened at the same time.

 With Dad c. 1969

During this three years my Dad had a health scare - it turned out to be less serious than first thought, but still meant a week in hospital for him and some surgery. It was the first time I'd encountered any such serious worry about someone close, and came as a nasty shock to the system for us all. But in that instance all was well....what's the expression: Dad "dodged a bullet", and so did we. There would be many more bullets to dodge (or not) as years went by, but this first one taught us never to panic too soon.

I had few opportunities to meet people outside work so decided to try joining an amateur dramatics class planned locally. I turned up but was one of only two individuals who showed interest, so it was ditched. I was happy at work but increasingly lonely at home. I'd occasionally spend time at weekends with my grandparents - 2 bus rides away, or  go to see my parents, who were flitting around a lot back then - I think during this time they were in the midst of a move, but my memory's blurred on detail.  They did actually come to stay with me for a  short time, between moves.

There's a follow-up to a story from episode #3: the once apple of my eye, "O", who had disappeared, was eventually sighted again. His sister had promised to let me know if she had news of her brother, she wrote to me, told me that "O" was in a military hospital in North Yorkshire, suffering from TB, but recovering well. I arranged a visit, took the fairly long bus trip up to North Yorkshire and saw him once again - albeit with me wearing a mask and gown! The sparkle had gone out of my eyes - and heart - sadly, but it was still good to see him again. Once fit, out of hospital, and eventually out of the military he wrote to me, asked if I'd go to London with him. I had a bad feeling about it and gracefully declined. I was lonely, but that inner antenna was sending out warning signals that this would be a mistake. I was learning - well...kind of.

Separated but not divorced; outside of work this was an unpleasant limbo time, and was to continue for quite a while longer. Divorce was very difficult back then, especially from a Roman Catholic who made it his business to disappear, whenever it suited his purpose. It was years before I was free and single once more. I swore to myself that I'd never marry again - not ever!

Roads not taken, roads taken and reversed, roads still to be taken....
To be continued

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday #3

This third episode covers around 12 years between 1955 & 1967, following my leaving Bridlington High School (previous posts are at #1 and #2 ).

 Posing! c.1955

I coulda stayed in school for two more years, coulda then gone to university or teacher training college - coulda but didn't wanna. I wanted to earn money, see life, learn from experience, get away from regimentation, exploit my independence.

A youthful dream was to be a newspaper reporter, but living where we did, that was a forlorn hope. Second choice, and one with more chance of success: work in a library aiming to become a fully fledged librarian. I was interviewed at our County Library in Beverley, some 14 miles from home, but was unsuccessful, mainly due to my lack of work experience - my GCE academic exam qualifications well exceeded what was required. That interview did lead to another opening, and one almost tailor made for me at that time : general assistant to the County Archivist, in the County Record Office, also in Beverley. It turned out to be a fascinating job which I grew to love.

I travelled to Beverley from home by train, 5 and a half days a week. I'd been learning to type and trying to learn shorthand in evening classes and spare time for a few months. My new job wasn't simply as a typist though, that was a side-requirement. The County Archivist, Mr H. had established the County Record Office a few years earlier and was still deep in process of persuading local gentry and minor aristocracy, of which there was a goodly number in East Yorkshire, to deposit their family archives in the Record Office for safe keeping, and to be catalogued and used for research by historians and genealogists.

Mr H. was a delightful guy, I wish I had a photograph of him to share, but any I owned were lost in what I call the Great Fire of 1996. I can find no photo of him online, but did unearth a list of reference numbers to archive documents since transferred from the Beverley Record Office to the History Centre of Hull University. I noticed, with glee, that all those in second half of the list - those with prefix double D ("DD..") were those I helped to sort, catalogue, index etc. so many years ago. (See here).

Mr H's powers of persuasion worked well, our three large strongrooms soon filled with lots of valuable materials - stuff crying out for investigation and interpretation. The documents, on receipt, were often absolutely filthy, having been stored in dusty attics, or dank, musty cellars, for centuries. Our first job was to clean and sort, then Mr H. would draft entries for detailed catalogues which I would type, then stamp and number the documents, store them carefully in specially-made labelled boxes, then index and cross-index a large card index system (steam version of Google!) After the first year or so I was allowed to actually catalogue many of the later documents myself.

We had visitors to the office daily, asking to see particular documents, some were staff from County Hall - we stored all the County Council's ancient and modern records too, relating to education, highways and bridges, council meeting minutes, court records, etc etc etc. Quite frequent also were visits from out of town students, historians, and the occasional person looking for family history clues. It was part of my job to locate required documents and either log them out (modern council records) or pass them over to the researcher who would study them in an outer office.

In preparing this post I searched online for a photograph of the Record Office building, which stood next door to County Hall. To my dismay I find it has been demosished and a fancy new "Treasure House" replaces it. The old building was a single story affair, with pillared doorway (looked a bit Grecian). A corner of it can be seen on the far left in the photo of County Hall below.

The new structure is shown in an article HERE, A Diamond Anniversary for the East Riding Archives and Local Studies Service which also tells that:

There is a display in the Treasure House featuring photographs of some of the buildings the archives have been stored in and some of the staff who have helped build the service up over the years.

I doubt my photograph was there, don't recall ever having had photograph taken at work, maybe I was named as one of the early staff, there were so few of us: Mr H + one general assistant; I was that one for two separate periods of 3 years: 1955-8 and 1967-70.

After 3 happy years in the County Record Office, in 1958 my itchy feet began to tingle. I loved and respected Mr H, he'd taught me such a lot, not only about history and local history, but about poetry and politics and ....well life in general beyond what I'd experienced in my own family circle. Even so, East Yorkshire was somewhat isolated, I wanted more, began to feel trapped. Once those itchy feet began to tingle something had to give.

I don't recall what propelled me into the life of a live-in hotel receptionist, I really don't. Looking back, it seemed an unlikely next step. Perhaps, at age 19, it was the only way I could find to leave home but still have a place to live and be fed. I found an advert in some publication for a job in a North Yorkshire hotel office, was interviewed, and to my surprise was successful. The hotel was a lovely old coaching inn in a picturesque area close to the border of North Yorkshire and County Durham. From what I can glean online that hotel is now quite different in atmosphere from the Morritt Arms I knew back in the late 1950s. I guess it has been 21st-centurised, maybe now owned by an offshoot of some hotel corporation or other. There's a piece mentioning it HERE.

 As was

I spent the summer there, fell in love, for the very first time, but after a few months the object of my affection disappeared one night without any warning to me, or to the hotel owners or other staff members. A mystery! Owen was his name, he was working as general hotel dogsbody and hall porter, but really didn't seem to fit that role. He befriended me immediately, we "clicked" right away. His disappearance haunted me for years. Later on I learned, from his sister, that at the time he disappeared he had been AWOL from the RAF and had either been apprehended by the authorities, or had gone "on the run". I did, eventually, meet him again, just once - that'll likely be mentioned in #4.

 Married 1962, his pic gone.  With my  parents

The years following were filled with seasonal work in the offices of 10 different hotels around the UK - north, south, east and west. Checking around the internet for photographs of said hotels told me that all have changed almost beyond recognition. One has been taken over by Best Western, others have been tarted up to the eyeballs, extended, modernised. Inevitable, I guess. There were intervals, too, as cashier in a city restaurant, secretarial work in a Rolls Royce Gas Turbine factory, assistant in the Devonshire public transport accounts offices.

In 1960/1 I met first husband, married in 1962, separated in 1963. Tried again a little later - still didn't work. I ought not to speak ill of the dead (if he is ). I'll say only that it was because of him I got to experience Rome, twice, for several weeks; for that, and perhaps for introducing me to Sinatra's genius I have to thank him. He, Val, was Italian, sometime head waiter, sometime ordinary waiter, sometime gambler, philanderer....Enough said, for now. He was removed from the wedding photo (right) it came from my mother's collection, any photos of Val I had in my own collection were destroyed in the Great Fire.

Life as a hotel receptionist, more accurately in those days described as book-keeper/receptionist, because we had to keep "the books" - detailed account ledgers as well as the usual booking records. The luxury of computers to do much of the work for us was non-existent back then. It was from learning how to keep a ledger that I taught myself, through constant practice, to add very long columns of figures (L-S-D: pounds, shillings and pence) without the aid of a calculator. I can still do that, amazingly! We answered correspondence, phone enquiries, typed menus, and in some hotels I was also responsible for making up wage packets for the staff, and dealing with related tax and National Insurance issues. We worked in shifts, very early morning to mid afternoon, or mid-afternoon to late night. We were expected to wear black - navy blue might be tolerated, though not always. I could usually eat in the hotels' dining rooms, choosing from the full menu, or sometimes from a limited list. It was politic, of course, to always cultivate a pleasant relationship with the hotels' chefs - and waiters! Occasionally office staff would be asked to do a shift in one of the bars, or assist at a wedding or banquet - that was fun! Live-in staff were sometimes allocated a room in the hotel itself - top floor or at the back; occasionally there'd be a designated staff house nearby.


Before meeting first husband there had been some boyfriends. Two of the longer lasting ones were Douglas in Devon, who loved big cars (his Jaguar in photo) and dreamed great plans for the future - I hope they transpired; and Ronnie in Lancashire who loved his pint of beer and a game of soccer. Neither ticked all my boxes, but both were good friends. Dang - but I was picky, falling in love again was not easy! There were lots of short term friendships with hotel staff members. Pam, a fellow receptionist in a Lancashire hotel, who was also training as a fashion model, comes to mind. I have her to thank for teaching me how to put on makeup properly, and how to style my hair. Pam was another friend with a birthday close to mine; it's odd how that kept happening.

I have especially nice memories of a pair of travelling representatives for tobacco firms who used to co-ordinate their visits to a North Devon hotel where I worked for one summer and an autumn in the mid-1960s. These two, Tony and Bill, were great buddies, witty, easy-going, well-read, and amazingly they befriended yours truly whenever they were in town. I loved 'em - quite innocently, like brothers I guess...they were both happily married. I often wonder if I was always looking for the brother(s) I never had. Another visitor, to the same hotel, a relief bank manager, Mr S. asked me out regularly for a meal during the time he was seconded to the area. He was a sweetie, middle-aged bachelor, rather old fashioned. I could've, probably should've....but I didn't. When he left, after a month or so, he sent me a huge bunch of wonderful long stemmed bronze chrysanthemums (because I'd told him how I loved the scent).

Mid 1960s, with Mum and Grandparents

It had all been a big adventure for me, hotel life became addictive for a time, even though in retrospect this period of my life was a chaotic patchwork of good, bad and indifferent experiences, lots of movement, not much real progress. Eventually the novelty and addiction wore off, it became tiresome, I began to long for stability.

By 1967, working in a non-hotel environment in Devon, living in a tiny rented apartment, I received a letter one January day, from Mr H, the County Archivist in East Yorkshire, my first boss. Mr H. and I had kept in touch by letter occasionally all through this chaotic patchwork time of my life. He told me that my successor, his assistant, was leaving, would I like to go back to my old job? I decided to take him up on his offer, it was a damp and cold January in Devon, I was lonely, and my feet had stopped itching.

To be continued....

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday # 2

Second chapter of bits and pieces from my life's pattern, just the bits which float easily to the top of my memory pool. Chapter #1 can be found here.

I find few really stand-out memories of schooldays in England in the 1940s and 1950s. First school was in Grandparents' village, during the war, the same tiny one-room school my mother had attended, with probably the same headmistress (head of only two): Miss White. I mostly remember learning to write there, using pieces of chalk on a little black slate. Writing the figure 8 caused me much angst, the rest seemed easy. Next came a junior school in Hull, just after the war had ended. From that school the clearest memory I have is of being taught to knit, then of knitting a coat-hanger cover with added bobbles dangling on a braided string. The bobbles were made from cardboard circles with a hole in the middle - re-purposed milk-bottle tops in fact. It was at this school that I received, along with a couple of classmates, my one and only physical reprimand in school - a slap across the palm of my hand with a ruler by the teacher, don't recall what we'd done to deserve it.

When my parents moved to a market town, around 20 miles from Hull, to establish their own bakery and shop I changed school once again. In the Church of England junior school there I met a friend with whom I'm still in contact from time to time. Our birthdays are just a week apart. From this school, at age 11, I took the exam then nationally known as "The 11 Plus". This exam decided which of us would benefit most from academic-type further education, and which from a more practical based curriculum. From the exam results it was decided I fit the former group. The following September I began 5 years at The Bridlington High School for Girls, some 12 miles from our town.

High School/Grammar School in England back then was quite different from High School in the USA. I'd venture that it was a much more serious undertaking for pupils. We experienced no such entertainments as Prom Nights, ego boosting graduation ceremonies, or undue emphasis on sport - just solid work and a high degree of discipline much of the time.

I, and others from our town attending BHS, travelled by train each day - which entailed a longish walk or bike ride to the home railway station, and another longish walk from the Bridlington station to school, in designated groups. All school uniform hats had to be worn on these walks - or else! We had strict uniform requirements in those days. The uniforms were not cheap, but of good quality. Bottle green, white and black were the school's colours.

Gym slips, shirts, striped ties, striped blazer (see below - dress tucked in knickers), sweaters, raincoat, woollen coat, scarf, hat (horrible hat), and summer dresses. Shoes were supposed to be of a certain make and style, but most of us managed to get away with alternatives. Gymslips had to be of a certain length so as to just clear the floor when kneeling. No nylon hosiery allowed, just white ankle socks in summer, brown knee socks or nasty, thick lisle stockings in winter. Oh, the regimentation of it all!

Our BHS school motto was Laetus Sorte Mea, which, translated = Happy In My Lot. We, pupils of the Bridlington High School for Girls, carried it on the pockets of our green/black/white striped blazers and a smaller version on our green, and hated, hats. Whether all of us were - happy in our lot - isn't known, for my part, I wasn't, not really, and certainly not all the time, though the experience did develop my self-discipline, I guess.

 1951, Bridlington beach

I wasn't happy at school in my early teens. A severe bout of tonsillitis with attendant burst ear-drum during the first few months of attending BHS kept me home for three weeks. I missed so much in both learning new stuff and making friends with new people that it took me years to catch up. I must have managed it, because once the smell of freedom came along some 5 years later, at age 16, I cranked up my game and came out of seven General Certificate of Education exams with flying colours - 7 for 7, one of only two to do so in my class.

 Mum and Me, School Sports Day, 1954-ish

Bridlington High School, for many years before World War II, had been a rather exclusive private boarding school for the daughters of the so-called great and good of the area and beyond. That changed after the war. Education moved on apace from those days of class segregation, but still retained academic and gender segregation. Gender segregation tended to lead to girl "crushes". In the absence of males, among either pupils or teachers, upon which our young female adoration might rest, we youngsters would find one of the senior girls to adore. My "crush" was a senior-six called Judy. She was brilliant at everything, all the time: sports, athletics, music, art, academic subjects - and funny too. She did a little ink drawing for me in my autograph book, of a Scottie dog (Scotch Terrier) wearing a kilt - my nickname in school was "Scotty". Since my day things changed again, and again education-wise, on all fronts without, as far as I could see, any improvement in quality.

How about time out of school during those years? More crushes - on a few males, any who made me laugh went immediately into my "A-list" of crush-worthiness. Proper boy friends? Some. One, who lasted more than a couple of dates, a couple of years in fact, I'll call him GB. His birthday was in late January like mine, but he was a year or two older - and an only child as was I. GB was a farmer's son, very shy, nice looking, rode a motor bike or drove his Dad's Hillman occasionally. His Dad, the farmer, sweet guy, would come to our bakery from time to time, made friends with my parents. When the idea of an engagement (GB and me) came up it was time for yours truly to bolt and run. Being a farmer's wife had no place in my plan for the future; this plan had few ideas of what I wanted, but some very definite ideas of what I didn't want.

Shortly after GB's reign I remember going to a New Year's Eve dance at the Town Hall with a girlfriend. I wasn't much of a dancer, went mainly out of curiosity and to wear a nice new pink dress. A slightly older guy kept asking me to dance, I eventually accepted and did my best to shuffle around the floor with him. His name was Paul (how odd that I still remember his name!) He was probably in his mid-20s, horn-rimmed spectacles, not unattractive, but dark hair receding a wee bit. A gentle fellow, very nice. He was, he told me, a teacher. Oh dear - I was very silly back then, didn't want anything to do with that either! Paul tried to contact me via my parents several times afterwards but I didn't want to know. I often wonder how things might have turned out if I'd been a better friend to him, maybe even leading to...whatever.

Roads not taken! As Edith Piaf used to warble so prettily "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"

(To be continued)

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday #1

Regular commenter "Sonny" suggested I should, occasionally, tell stories of my life. So...

This first episode is longer than most others in future are likely to be, because in a few days' time it'll be

11 November, Remembrance Day - a date when Britain remembers those lost in two horrendous World Wars. This first part of my story relates to one of those wars.

IN THE BEGINNING....

January 27 1939 – Adolf Hitler orders Plan Z, a 5-year naval expansion programme intended to provide for a huge German fleet capable of crushing the Royal Navy by 1944.

January 27 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt approved the sale of U.S. war planes to France.

January 27, 1939 First flight of the Lockheed P-38 Lightning fighter aircraft.

AND...January 27 1939 some time around 3 pm or just before or maybe just after, in a house in a Yorkshire city on the East coast in the North of England, I struggled into this world of ours, almost killing my mother in the process, so much so that she was unable to bear more children.

I couldn't be aware of it at the time, of course, but I made my entrance as the world was gearing up for one of mankind's most horrendous wars: World War II; by September, when I was barely 9 months old, it had begun.

To live in a world totally without war is a dream most people cherish. I've hoped and dreamed to experience this for as long as I can remember, from a very young childhood in wartime England. I may not have appreciated fully what awful risks we faced in Hull, a city port on the northern East coast, where we then lived. In later years I came to understand, and to realise how lucky we had been to survive. Hull had suffered the most significant bomb damage of any city outside London during World War II. The city had spent more than 1,000 hours under air raid alerts, had been the target of the first German daylight raid of the war and the last piloted air raid on Britain. More than 5,000 houses were destroyed along with half of the city centre. Until mid-way through the second world war more women and children in Britain had been killed than soldiers. Over three-quarters of the total housing stock in our city was either destroyed or damaged. Some families were "bombed out" of their homes two or even three times. Like many others of my generation (John Lennon from another port, Liverpool, is a famous example), I grew up hating the very word "war".

We lived in a house attached to a bakery shop. My father was bakery foreman, and later manager of a local bakery chain in the city; my mother managed this particular store, located next to a lovely big park with a boating lake, gardens, fishing ponds, swings, slides, etc and grassy areas. The big boating lake was a mixed blessing during the war. To German pilots entering the area at night the large expanse of water was sometimes mistaken for their target, the city's docks and port area, a mile or two away. Consequently, streets around us were bombed. Miraculously we weren't among the afflicted. The worst we suffered, on one occasion was when I lay asleep in my pram in the living room, a bomb dropped nearby, without the usual warning of an air raid siren. The blast sent soot billowing down our chimney (which had probably not been cleaned for years), covering me and the pram. Later on it seemed funny - a wee me covered in black soot. It wasn't unusual, though, to venture outside in the mornings and find half the houses in one's street had disappeared overnight.

My father, being a craftsman baker was in a "reserved occupation", so wasn't drafted into the forces. He did try to join early on, but was rejected on some health ground. He also tried to obtain a catering or bakery position in the NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes) - cafes for the forces, but was unsuccessful (he blamed the owner of the bakery chain where he was employed for that). So, while my mother was thankful Dad didn't have to leave us, he was recruited into the Home Guard. Several nights a week he donned the army uniform and headed off to a place, not far away, where anti-aircraft guns were located, and did whatever had to be done by the Home Guard there. Another part of the war effort my parents engaged in was taking in "lodgers", men and women who were temporarily seconded to the area for some war-connected reason: engineers, technicians, government workers. My memories on this must come from the last years of the war. I recall several "lodgers" billeted with us for short periods, and one, a young customs and excise officer seconded from Northern Ireland to the city's docks, who stayed for a much longer time, became fast friends with my parents. His own parents were so thankful that their son had found a kindly home-away-from-home that they sent us a ready-dressed goose from their farm every Christmas from then on for many years, until their deaths.

 

We had an air raid shelter in our back yard, similar to the one in the photograph - small, brick built, heavy concrete block for roof, some bunks inside. I'm not sure how much protection such shelters would have afforded. I remember several times being rushed into the shelter with the air raid siren blaring out eerily into the night (the sound still haunts me, even now, when they test the tornado warning siren here in Oklahoma!) On occasions when there was no time to rush to the shelter, we'd hide in the little space under our staircase until the all-clear warning sounded. All family members were provided also with gas masks. Thankfully, those were never needed.

Rationing of all food items, including sweets (candy), and clothing, was severe. Ration books and "clothing coupons" were part of life for many years. Fresh fruit, unless grown in one's own garden, was non-existent. I didn't see my first orange or banana until well after the war had ended.

Horrendous stories were reported, stories of which I was unaware until much later on. One in particular I recall was that an air raid had happened one evening, just after dark, when some 20 or more people were waiting in line to buy tickets outside a city centre cinema, the Dorchester. A bomb dropped nearby, the blast from it killed that queue of people - as they stood - and they remained standing, all dead, but just as they were before.

My Dad's younger brothers were all in the forces, one in the Royal Air Force, one in the Army, one in the Royal Navy, one in the Merchant Navy. My Merchant Navy uncle visited us in Hull during the war a couple of times when on leave or in port. I was very young then, but Mum and Dad told me that he said he'd far rather be on his ship than staying in our city, which had proved to be a more scary experience for him! My mother's younger sister, my Aunt Lil, ran away to join the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service - women's branch of the British Army), much to her mother's horror!

War continued for 5 years. I was evacuated, at some point, to live with my maternal grandparents for a while, out of danger, in a small country village some 22 miles away from the city. No air raid sirens there, though we often heard our own planes taking off and landing from a nearby RAF station. We sometimes saw the sky glowing red in the distance where the city lay, being bombed again. There was a prisoner of war camp in the vicinity of Grandparents' home. It mainly housed Italian prisoners who made wicker baskets to sell to locals. I was bought a small basket made by the prisoners, beautifully made too it was, in very pale wicker, I remember it well.

 Around age 5, I think.

Children of the village could often seen watching the small amount of traffic driving through on the main road to York. They could well have been collecting registration numbers - I tried to do that too, when I could read and write sufficiently, after attending the tiny one-room village school when barely aged 4. Once in a while a "Yankie" troop truck would drive through the village, we children watching knew to call out to the American lads, "Got any gum chum?" On a good day we'd be treated to packs of chewing gum thrown from the back of the truck. On a bad day, maybe just a wave and a "Hi there!"

The war ended at last, at least in Europe. My clearest memory of that exact time is of not having to feel frightened any more. We young schoolchildren were given small Union Jack flags, and for the girls, red white and blue striped hair ribbons.

To be continued.....