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“Girls seemed to be blessed with a natural skill and aptitude for kissing. Where on earth did they learn this? My first introduction to this was at one class Christmas party. We had decided to play 'spin the bottle' and when my turn came I got to kiss a delightful, kind and pretty girl called Joyce. She planted a real good one on me.”
― What Has He Done Now?: Tales from a North West Childhood in the 60s and Early 70s
― What Has He Done Now?: Tales from a North West Childhood in the 60s and Early 70s
“Stand to attention, soldier"
My grandfather's gentle voice spoke.
I saluted him as I had been shown.
"At ease," he spoke again.
Then he pinned his medals to my shirt
One by one, those shining disks
Almost holy to me
The proof of what I knew
He was my hero”
― What Has He Done Now?: Tales from a North West Childhood in the 60s and Early 70s
My grandfather's gentle voice spoke.
I saluted him as I had been shown.
"At ease," he spoke again.
Then he pinned his medals to my shirt
One by one, those shining disks
Almost holy to me
The proof of what I knew
He was my hero”
― What Has He Done Now?: Tales from a North West Childhood in the 60s and Early 70s
“A Lancashire Weaver
This place might be haunted
the ghost hunter said
'Midst the dust and the grime
walk the feet of the dead.
The machines now stand idle
Looms clatter no more
There's a stack of old bobbins
piled up by the door.
I remember my Mam
she worked here, so she said
A Lancashire weaver
but now she is dead
Along with this mill
and along with the dreams
of working mill lasses
and their jobs, so it seems
We once wove the best
cotton cloth in the world
But now that's all gone
on the scrap heap been hurled
The clatter of clogs
on the old cobbled street
the humdrum staccato
from thousands of feet.
Tough work and much hardship
and many a care
Folks they got by
for brass, it was rare
but still we had pride
By Christ, did we ever!
Will it ever come back
The answer is NEVER
This place might be haunted
the ghost hunter said
'Midst the dust and the grime
walk the feet of the dead.
I'm glad that my Mam
never saw it this way
Out in all weathers
came here every day
When this closed down
she had already died
Perhaps just as well
She'd have bloody well cried.”
― Echoes From a Cobbled Street: Stories and Poems from the North West
This place might be haunted
the ghost hunter said
'Midst the dust and the grime
walk the feet of the dead.
The machines now stand idle
Looms clatter no more
There's a stack of old bobbins
piled up by the door.
I remember my Mam
she worked here, so she said
A Lancashire weaver
but now she is dead
Along with this mill
and along with the dreams
of working mill lasses
and their jobs, so it seems
We once wove the best
cotton cloth in the world
But now that's all gone
on the scrap heap been hurled
The clatter of clogs
on the old cobbled street
the humdrum staccato
from thousands of feet.
Tough work and much hardship
and many a care
Folks they got by
for brass, it was rare
but still we had pride
By Christ, did we ever!
Will it ever come back
The answer is NEVER
This place might be haunted
the ghost hunter said
'Midst the dust and the grime
walk the feet of the dead.
I'm glad that my Mam
never saw it this way
Out in all weathers
came here every day
When this closed down
she had already died
Perhaps just as well
She'd have bloody well cried.”
― Echoes From a Cobbled Street: Stories and Poems from the North West
