Peter B. Forster's Blog
July 15, 2015
Retirement speech. Thursday the 26th of March.
I remember my first working day. It was at the Associated Electrical Industries (AEI) This was a cable making factory, in Birtley, County Durham. The date? September the 7th 1964 and I had just turned 16. Apparently London was starting to swing but the only thing to swing that day was the hammer in the hands of the fitter to whom I was apprenticed.
He was a proper Geordie, His name, Roy Hess and his hands were roughly the size of a bunch of bananas and then some. Mr Bellshaw the foreman said that because of the noise created by the braiding and spinning machines I might not understand what he said. Roy was from Byker and spoke at machine gun speed, in a thick Geordie accent.
The foreman, said, if in doubt, I should just pass Roy a hammer. Nine times out of ten I would be right. He smiled when he added ‘...Just so long as it isn’t the odd one out of the ten...Are you quick on your feet bonny lad? ...You’ll need to be.’
He was right about one thing though, I couldn’t hear a word Roy said, let alone understand it, but somehow we muddled through and at the end of my first two 40 hour weeks... remember it was necessary to work a week in hand, I received my very first brown envelope.
The engineering section formed an orderly queue outside the foreman’s office and through a small cubby hole alongside his oil stained, glass panel door, I was given my first wage packet.
It was for the princely sum of three pounds twelve shilling and sixpence. Or in new money three pounds sixty two pence.
I remember being really pleased with myself and couldn’t wait to get home.
I gave the packet, un-opened, to my mum, feeling as proud as punch.
I was given ten shillings (fifty pence) as pocket money and felt like a king.
I was a working man, even if I was in a job I hadn’t really wanted in the first place.
I really wanted to go to Art College but my parents were dead set against the idea. ‘Boy’s from pit villages don’t go to art school.’ Was my dad’s refrain. ‘And there is no money in it...you’ll need a trade to get by in this world my lad.’
He marched down to the headmaster’s office, possibly the only time he ever visited my secondary school and instructed Mr Jackson to talk me out of it.
I knew the headmaster, very well, his son was a friend of mine and as I was also head boy he had a soft spot for me.
He said I should go along with my parents wishes, become an indentured apprentice and then when I was qualified I could do what I wanted. ‘And that way you’ll always have something to fall back on...’
I took his advice and when I reached the age of majority, which in those days of course was 21. I quit my job as a fitter and turner, with qualifications in production engineering and came way down south to London Town…
Where…in good time, I would become a rock star.
As is often the case, true rock star status eluded me and my trusty engineering qualifications allowed me the luxury of successfully falling back into the work place. I became just another muggle, all be it quite a well paid muggle, working as a design draughtsman in a small engineering plant in Leyton.
I eventually moved on to a bigger factory , designing gear boxes. I remember going in to work one morning, the old stagers, men who had sat at the same desk for over twenty years ,were designing garage extensions and attic conversions for a few quid on the side. When the chief draughtsman walked by they would hide their illicit drawings beneath their work projects. I was about 26 at the time, playing semi-professionally in a band and looking not unlike animal from the muppets. I could not envisage doing that kind of thing for the rest of my working life and within a few weeks I had quit and was training in hotel and catering.
I was ordered to have a haircut, my first in 8 years and overnight I was repatriated into the world of career progression and the possibility of responsibility.
So much water has passed under the bridge since then, a lot of it swollen by tears and heartache. My first marriage broke down and I found myself a single parent in 1980 when I was just 32.
Three years later, in early 1984, and after a 9 year career in various aspects of hospitality and retail, which saw me, at the tender age of 30, become a regional manager, I was made redundant.
I became just one of 4 million and no matter how hard I tried I found it impossible to get a good job. So I stopped trying and found work as a labourer on the buildings and in time became a painter and decorator.
I knew this would never be a long term solution. I was writing poetry and songs, still hoping for a break, being called ‘The professor’ by the other guys on the sites and more and more unwilling to settle for the fall back.
So... what could I do but re-invent myself…think of a different future for me and my family and for better or worse I decided to return to study.
I still had the words of the school careers advisor echoing through my head when in 1991 I was awarded my psychology degree, in 1994 my Counselling Psychology MSc and in 2000 my BPS Chartership.
‘You are not academically gifted Peter, you might achieve some success, with hard work but don’t set your sights too high...you will just set yourself up for a fall’
I proved him wrong then.
I was a single parent for 7 years and had all but given up on the idea of meeting somebody, until one evening in 1988 when I attended a school meeting organised for the parents of girls going on a water sports holiday in France.
My daughter, Layla, was going and so was her friend, Natalie.
Natalie had stayed with us a few times and I liked her, although she seemed to be a little too grown up for her age, wore make up for goodness sake, and even washed her hair before going to school, yes I was worried she would put ideas into my daughter’s head. After all I had only just bought her a first make up bag from Boots the Chemist, for her 14th birthday.
Well, to cut a long story short, Natalie introduced me to her mother, Kay and I was to all intent and purpose, struck by lightning.
Kay gave me and my daughter a lift home. She had an old Fiesta with a dodgy clutch and almost killed us when she got stuck across a junction, I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I was in love before getting out of the car, even though it still took a few months and a phone call from her to invite me out for a drink before we finally dated.
She is a talented artist in her own right and in spite of her own major health problems, has inspired me ever since. My writing is fuelled by my love for her and any insight I may have into my own failings, which are manifold comes from her.
Whatever happens with the rest of my life one thing is for sure, if I had not listened to my headmaster and remembered that there would come a time when any decision to be made would be my own, I might never have moved out of engineering, travelled south, got married, failed to be a rock star, had children, become a single-parent, gone back to study, met Kay, found happiness and a career. I may never have written a book or published poetry and I may never have found my way to where I am today.
Right where I want to be.
Of course many things have happened I would rather had not, as some of you know... and
the loss of a child is something I could never wish on anybody.
It is the single worst thing I have ever had to experience and it has changed me forever. Grief is a fluid concept and whilst we can learn to live with it, the work to reinvest in living is on-going. The hole such a thing leaves is bottomless. Rather than spending energy trying to fill it in, the best thing to do is to shore up the sides with the love of those around you.
The people who love you will provide you with a ladder...use it and make sure you don’t lose sight of their efforts; otherwise you might be left trying to climb out of the hole on your own.
An impossible task, especially if they take the ladder away with them when they leave.
In any event, here I am, right here, right now and about to leave what is still a great team of committed professionals.
Some of the best people I have had the privilege to know have worked for this team...many of them still do.
Even though times and priorities change, what remains the same is that the CLDS can still provide top class support to learning disabled people.
Hold on to the good things we/you do, be proud of your selves and remember
The days you are in now...are the best days of your lives.
And if you put off until tomorrow what can’t be done today
It’s not the end of the world
Just so long as you remember in which direction you are heading and finish the job you are doing, before moving on to the next.
Unfinished business is a weight you will continue to carry around. Too much becomes a burden.
Over time, the energy you lose dragging it everywhere will wear you down, and prevent you from enjoying the moment you are in...The only moment that really matters...the present. The now...today...don’t let it pass by unnoticed...mark it...grasp it...hold it close...it is unique and its like will never come again.
To end
I thought I might include this poem.
It was written yesterday morning , at my desk and before the working day started.
Daily missive for Wednesday the 25th of March.
Mile End Hospital.
It was an old workhouse,
In harder times.
So many ghosts
Swirl in the smoke
From the chimney
Above the kitchens.
A hospital now,
It has known pain.
And in its dotage,
Sidelined,
By new techno glass
Buildings, with high speed lifts,
Robotic arms,
And charitable wings,
It drifts gently,
Into the past,
Sinking down slowly,
Crumbling, back
Into the earth
From whence
It was raised,
In Victorian days.
It falls now,
Slipping between
The broken bones
Of an even older cemetery.
A long gone
Jewish settlement,
From before the East End
Arab spring.
Semi-covered,
Moss stained stones,
Once polished and glorious.
All that remain standing
Have seen
Death in their time.
In days
That really were
So very far from better
Then, than now.
But it is a quiet day,
Even the lone Magpie
Flies by in silence.
And the sky is a flat,
Empty shade of blue.
Seen through the window
The world seems
Peaceful,
Picture book London.
And yet,
Just out of sight,
Lest we forget,
Alzheimer's whispers its lies,
And sequesters memories,
As the forgotten ones
Shed lonely tears,
Looking for clues
In younger faces.
Waiting for a visit
From they never know who,
As everyone’s a stranger now.
And the madcap laughs
In a locked room,
On Globe ward.
An aeroplane
Flies overhead,
Going who knows where,
And you are forced
To remember
Other lost souls,
Everywhere.
As on this day
Like every other one,
Somewhere,
Just out of your sight,
Life will carry on,
Regardless.
He was a proper Geordie, His name, Roy Hess and his hands were roughly the size of a bunch of bananas and then some. Mr Bellshaw the foreman said that because of the noise created by the braiding and spinning machines I might not understand what he said. Roy was from Byker and spoke at machine gun speed, in a thick Geordie accent.
The foreman, said, if in doubt, I should just pass Roy a hammer. Nine times out of ten I would be right. He smiled when he added ‘...Just so long as it isn’t the odd one out of the ten...Are you quick on your feet bonny lad? ...You’ll need to be.’
He was right about one thing though, I couldn’t hear a word Roy said, let alone understand it, but somehow we muddled through and at the end of my first two 40 hour weeks... remember it was necessary to work a week in hand, I received my very first brown envelope.
The engineering section formed an orderly queue outside the foreman’s office and through a small cubby hole alongside his oil stained, glass panel door, I was given my first wage packet.
It was for the princely sum of three pounds twelve shilling and sixpence. Or in new money three pounds sixty two pence.
I remember being really pleased with myself and couldn’t wait to get home.
I gave the packet, un-opened, to my mum, feeling as proud as punch.
I was given ten shillings (fifty pence) as pocket money and felt like a king.
I was a working man, even if I was in a job I hadn’t really wanted in the first place.
I really wanted to go to Art College but my parents were dead set against the idea. ‘Boy’s from pit villages don’t go to art school.’ Was my dad’s refrain. ‘And there is no money in it...you’ll need a trade to get by in this world my lad.’
He marched down to the headmaster’s office, possibly the only time he ever visited my secondary school and instructed Mr Jackson to talk me out of it.
I knew the headmaster, very well, his son was a friend of mine and as I was also head boy he had a soft spot for me.
He said I should go along with my parents wishes, become an indentured apprentice and then when I was qualified I could do what I wanted. ‘And that way you’ll always have something to fall back on...’
I took his advice and when I reached the age of majority, which in those days of course was 21. I quit my job as a fitter and turner, with qualifications in production engineering and came way down south to London Town…
Where…in good time, I would become a rock star.
As is often the case, true rock star status eluded me and my trusty engineering qualifications allowed me the luxury of successfully falling back into the work place. I became just another muggle, all be it quite a well paid muggle, working as a design draughtsman in a small engineering plant in Leyton.
I eventually moved on to a bigger factory , designing gear boxes. I remember going in to work one morning, the old stagers, men who had sat at the same desk for over twenty years ,were designing garage extensions and attic conversions for a few quid on the side. When the chief draughtsman walked by they would hide their illicit drawings beneath their work projects. I was about 26 at the time, playing semi-professionally in a band and looking not unlike animal from the muppets. I could not envisage doing that kind of thing for the rest of my working life and within a few weeks I had quit and was training in hotel and catering.
I was ordered to have a haircut, my first in 8 years and overnight I was repatriated into the world of career progression and the possibility of responsibility.
So much water has passed under the bridge since then, a lot of it swollen by tears and heartache. My first marriage broke down and I found myself a single parent in 1980 when I was just 32.
Three years later, in early 1984, and after a 9 year career in various aspects of hospitality and retail, which saw me, at the tender age of 30, become a regional manager, I was made redundant.
I became just one of 4 million and no matter how hard I tried I found it impossible to get a good job. So I stopped trying and found work as a labourer on the buildings and in time became a painter and decorator.
I knew this would never be a long term solution. I was writing poetry and songs, still hoping for a break, being called ‘The professor’ by the other guys on the sites and more and more unwilling to settle for the fall back.
So... what could I do but re-invent myself…think of a different future for me and my family and for better or worse I decided to return to study.
I still had the words of the school careers advisor echoing through my head when in 1991 I was awarded my psychology degree, in 1994 my Counselling Psychology MSc and in 2000 my BPS Chartership.
‘You are not academically gifted Peter, you might achieve some success, with hard work but don’t set your sights too high...you will just set yourself up for a fall’
I proved him wrong then.
I was a single parent for 7 years and had all but given up on the idea of meeting somebody, until one evening in 1988 when I attended a school meeting organised for the parents of girls going on a water sports holiday in France.
My daughter, Layla, was going and so was her friend, Natalie.
Natalie had stayed with us a few times and I liked her, although she seemed to be a little too grown up for her age, wore make up for goodness sake, and even washed her hair before going to school, yes I was worried she would put ideas into my daughter’s head. After all I had only just bought her a first make up bag from Boots the Chemist, for her 14th birthday.
Well, to cut a long story short, Natalie introduced me to her mother, Kay and I was to all intent and purpose, struck by lightning.
Kay gave me and my daughter a lift home. She had an old Fiesta with a dodgy clutch and almost killed us when she got stuck across a junction, I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I was in love before getting out of the car, even though it still took a few months and a phone call from her to invite me out for a drink before we finally dated.
She is a talented artist in her own right and in spite of her own major health problems, has inspired me ever since. My writing is fuelled by my love for her and any insight I may have into my own failings, which are manifold comes from her.
Whatever happens with the rest of my life one thing is for sure, if I had not listened to my headmaster and remembered that there would come a time when any decision to be made would be my own, I might never have moved out of engineering, travelled south, got married, failed to be a rock star, had children, become a single-parent, gone back to study, met Kay, found happiness and a career. I may never have written a book or published poetry and I may never have found my way to where I am today.
Right where I want to be.
Of course many things have happened I would rather had not, as some of you know... and
the loss of a child is something I could never wish on anybody.
It is the single worst thing I have ever had to experience and it has changed me forever. Grief is a fluid concept and whilst we can learn to live with it, the work to reinvest in living is on-going. The hole such a thing leaves is bottomless. Rather than spending energy trying to fill it in, the best thing to do is to shore up the sides with the love of those around you.
The people who love you will provide you with a ladder...use it and make sure you don’t lose sight of their efforts; otherwise you might be left trying to climb out of the hole on your own.
An impossible task, especially if they take the ladder away with them when they leave.
In any event, here I am, right here, right now and about to leave what is still a great team of committed professionals.
Some of the best people I have had the privilege to know have worked for this team...many of them still do.
Even though times and priorities change, what remains the same is that the CLDS can still provide top class support to learning disabled people.
Hold on to the good things we/you do, be proud of your selves and remember
The days you are in now...are the best days of your lives.
And if you put off until tomorrow what can’t be done today
It’s not the end of the world
Just so long as you remember in which direction you are heading and finish the job you are doing, before moving on to the next.
Unfinished business is a weight you will continue to carry around. Too much becomes a burden.
Over time, the energy you lose dragging it everywhere will wear you down, and prevent you from enjoying the moment you are in...The only moment that really matters...the present. The now...today...don’t let it pass by unnoticed...mark it...grasp it...hold it close...it is unique and its like will never come again.
To end
I thought I might include this poem.
It was written yesterday morning , at my desk and before the working day started.
Daily missive for Wednesday the 25th of March.
Mile End Hospital.
It was an old workhouse,
In harder times.
So many ghosts
Swirl in the smoke
From the chimney
Above the kitchens.
A hospital now,
It has known pain.
And in its dotage,
Sidelined,
By new techno glass
Buildings, with high speed lifts,
Robotic arms,
And charitable wings,
It drifts gently,
Into the past,
Sinking down slowly,
Crumbling, back
Into the earth
From whence
It was raised,
In Victorian days.
It falls now,
Slipping between
The broken bones
Of an even older cemetery.
A long gone
Jewish settlement,
From before the East End
Arab spring.
Semi-covered,
Moss stained stones,
Once polished and glorious.
All that remain standing
Have seen
Death in their time.
In days
That really were
So very far from better
Then, than now.
But it is a quiet day,
Even the lone Magpie
Flies by in silence.
And the sky is a flat,
Empty shade of blue.
Seen through the window
The world seems
Peaceful,
Picture book London.
And yet,
Just out of sight,
Lest we forget,
Alzheimer's whispers its lies,
And sequesters memories,
As the forgotten ones
Shed lonely tears,
Looking for clues
In younger faces.
Waiting for a visit
From they never know who,
As everyone’s a stranger now.
And the madcap laughs
In a locked room,
On Globe ward.
An aeroplane
Flies overhead,
Going who knows where,
And you are forced
To remember
Other lost souls,
Everywhere.
As on this day
Like every other one,
Somewhere,
Just out of your sight,
Life will carry on,
Regardless.
February 7, 2015
Why so long?
Yes I know. What is it you say? Where the…have I been? Well yes…and I guess you are right. I have promised in the past I wouldn’t leave it so long and yet, here we are, months gone by without a word. It reminds me of being a young man, newly left home and my mother always complaining that I wasn’t keeping in regular contact.
What was I supposed to do? Send her my diary. She wouldn’t have liked the truth. ‘…Hi mum…we haven’t made it big yet…sleeping on somebody’s floor. He’s a junky…but don’t worry I don’t like needles myself. I haven’t had any real food for over a week. No money. We rescued a couple of loaves of bread from the back of a bakery and are making toast and beans on an upturned electric fire.
We have no access to hot water, so washing with cold water from a bucket whilst standing in the sink.
We have been given a cool name by the neighbours and are known collectively as ‘those bloody hippies.’ Apparently they like our music as they congregate outside, the front gate, every night, a whole bunch of them. Occasionally they knock on the door and walls, in time to the music and shout encouragement. We can’t really hear them as the amps are too loud.
But it is a nice thought, don’t you think? Sorry I have to go now…the landlord has just turned off the electricity and I have to find some candles. We will have to go acoustic….’
The last few weeks have been a blur of inactivity what with Christmas and my decision to retire from the National Health Service at the end of March. I will have been a psychologist in learning disabilities based in Tower Hamlets for close to 20 years and my time is done here.
What with austerity measures, the Social Care Act and competitive tendering, long term psychotherapeutic interventions in a community setting will get harder to justify. Before I become totally disillusioned it is time to move on. I will still do some consultation and private work but the hope is I will have more time to spend on my three greatest loves, my wife, family and writing. I would like to think that is the right order but kind of believe that Kay would say otherwise.
I still write a missive everyday and my third novel is about to be released. See details of that below.
Hopefully I will have another collection of missives coming out soon and this one will be called ‘The Second Wave’.
Kay keeps saying I spend too much time glued to the laptop, I resemble a teenage gamer or a play-station geek, tip-tapping away. I am either writing, thinking about writing, or answering notifications about my writing. I wish all the effort I put into producing my work would be rewarded by an increase in sales, but public apathy to my creative endeavours’ remains high.
Hang on how can apathy be high
It must be low.
So low it barely reaches above gutter height.
But maybe not quite as low as this shamelessly unabashed attempt to illicit your support for my new book ‘The One Soul; Into the Grey’. All contributions gratefully received Oh! and PS. A review would be fabulous.
Best wishes Peter.
What was I supposed to do? Send her my diary. She wouldn’t have liked the truth. ‘…Hi mum…we haven’t made it big yet…sleeping on somebody’s floor. He’s a junky…but don’t worry I don’t like needles myself. I haven’t had any real food for over a week. No money. We rescued a couple of loaves of bread from the back of a bakery and are making toast and beans on an upturned electric fire.
We have no access to hot water, so washing with cold water from a bucket whilst standing in the sink.
We have been given a cool name by the neighbours and are known collectively as ‘those bloody hippies.’ Apparently they like our music as they congregate outside, the front gate, every night, a whole bunch of them. Occasionally they knock on the door and walls, in time to the music and shout encouragement. We can’t really hear them as the amps are too loud.
But it is a nice thought, don’t you think? Sorry I have to go now…the landlord has just turned off the electricity and I have to find some candles. We will have to go acoustic….’
The last few weeks have been a blur of inactivity what with Christmas and my decision to retire from the National Health Service at the end of March. I will have been a psychologist in learning disabilities based in Tower Hamlets for close to 20 years and my time is done here.
What with austerity measures, the Social Care Act and competitive tendering, long term psychotherapeutic interventions in a community setting will get harder to justify. Before I become totally disillusioned it is time to move on. I will still do some consultation and private work but the hope is I will have more time to spend on my three greatest loves, my wife, family and writing. I would like to think that is the right order but kind of believe that Kay would say otherwise.
I still write a missive everyday and my third novel is about to be released. See details of that below.
Hopefully I will have another collection of missives coming out soon and this one will be called ‘The Second Wave’.
Kay keeps saying I spend too much time glued to the laptop, I resemble a teenage gamer or a play-station geek, tip-tapping away. I am either writing, thinking about writing, or answering notifications about my writing. I wish all the effort I put into producing my work would be rewarded by an increase in sales, but public apathy to my creative endeavours’ remains high.
Hang on how can apathy be high
It must be low.
So low it barely reaches above gutter height.
But maybe not quite as low as this shamelessly unabashed attempt to illicit your support for my new book ‘The One Soul; Into the Grey’. All contributions gratefully received Oh! and PS. A review would be fabulous.
Best wishes Peter.
Free One Soul Series Trilogy - This Week Only!
September 14, 2014
August companions.
Hi all, gosh I have been so remiss. The whole point of hosting a website and blog is to write it. I have been nothing short of negligent in keeping to that rather simple brief. In mitigation I have written a missive practically every single day this year, should you follow my posts, and at long last I do have a fourth novel coming along.
I hope to publish the 3rd book in the ‘One Soul’ trilogy...‘The One Soul-Into the Grey’ in the next couple of months.
Much could be made of my blogging absence or nothing, depending on your point of view. Face it, if you are reading this then at the very least you are showing interest. Of course it could be argued you have distinct and possibly questionable taste. Maybe you are serving a penance for indiscriminate reading. Who knows?
Perhaps you are even a fan. Now don’t laugh. It is rude to mock the afflicted.
But some of you will have made a choice, exercised free will (If indeed it exists at all-but that is an altogether different story- for another time...maybe) and found your own way here.
Not just a chance encounter then? An element of premeditation...Oh dear....
Is there no hope for you?
One consolation you have in your favour is the knowledge that even a stopped clock is right twice a day. On average a better strike rate than mine.
Never the less, I would prefer to believe you have invested some of your valuable reading time catching up with me and for that I will thank you.
So...what now...okay, at the very least we can agree you are still here and I would like it if you hung around for a while, if for no other reason but I like talking to you,
So... I think it would be fair to assume it is my job to keep you here.
Well...How do I go about doing it?
What will catch your eye and pluck at your chuckle muscle?
How can I tickle your imagination and keep you enthralled?
Do I need to entertain you or inform?
Should I be the BBC or ITV?
Surely a good blog should be a bit of both. If we accept that as fact ...just for the sake of argument... can we also start from the standpoint that this is a good blog...not too difficult an assumption I hope.
Taking into account international diplomacy and the concern some people may have that we might only be a couple of mistakes to one side of a catastrophe so complete it would make the term ‘dystopian future’ seem appealing, the past summer months have, for the most part been bright and full of good cheer.
The Scottish referendum has come to dominate much of the national...Oh!...sorry, if you are reading this after a ‘yes’ vote I should have said ‘International news’ Gosh! This is so complicated...Keeping a balanced position, whilst straddling a wobbly fence is not easy but equanimity has, so far, prevailed. And thank goodness, with an absence of blood-letting... which in itself (pun intended) is so typically British... and the result will soon be known.
Whatever happens I doubt the UK will ever be the same...and that might be no bad thing. Too much centralisation and the abominable presence of a Burlington Club Oxbridge elite in Westminster has hardened attitudes against the status quo. Something needs to change and as so many voters have developed a jaundiced view about the veracity of political morals a good kick up the behind can only make things better.
Well that probably frightened a few people off. A minority in the swing seats might have even nodded off, whilst one or two of you others might have chewed your own bloomin’ fingers off.
Moving on.
This August was famous for another reason. It was a time of celebration. It was my Silver wedding 25 years married to my wonderful and thankfully patient and relatively short-sighted wife...Kay.
Wow!
Yes...I know...And they said it would never last...No seriously...they did.
An ex-girlfriend met my ex-mother-in-law in a Tesco express...which was about to close so as they walked through the exit, ex pulled ex to one side and excitedly expressed the opinion that she knew what was what. She said any relationship her ex...meaning me...may have...was doomed to fail ‘It would be extraordinary for such a union to be successful.’ She concluded.
It is with much excitement that I have to declare the ex...wrong in the extreme. Ex...most definitely does not mark the spot.
In any event we had a marvellous day. All of our family and many good friends...all together. My daughter came from Australia and our three grandchildren were all under our roof for the first time.
We had a rather successful barbeque with me as MC. It was the first time I have presided over such a gathering since the death of my son...so it was a big deal. Thankfully all went well, with only one short and rather splendid speech from my wonderful daughter.
Oh and I read a poem I wrote for Kay.
Silver Wedding day. The 1st of August 2014.
A glance to remember.
A turn of the head
Was all it took,
The image imprinted
On my heart.
Over laid, as it has been
By the passage of time,
With its share of good and bad fortune.
Complications of life
With implications
That can destroy the best of intentions
If you let them.
Never the less,
Whenever the strain
Of living threatened
To tear at the bonds
That tied us,
And the cut and thrust
Of life
Became an unequal fight,
The love we share
Has proved too strong
To be broken.
Through all
Life has thrown at us
We have prevailed.
On days such as this,
My mind turns back
To that day
Twenty Five years ago,
When I saw you
Walking toward me
Down the aisle,
My heart thumping
So loudly
The sound filling my ears,
My eyes clouding over
With un-shed tears,
I am right back there,
Ready to do it all again,
With you,
My darling wife.
Lover and partner,
For life.
Thank you for your indulgence my friends. See you soon. Peter.
I hope to publish the 3rd book in the ‘One Soul’ trilogy...‘The One Soul-Into the Grey’ in the next couple of months.
Much could be made of my blogging absence or nothing, depending on your point of view. Face it, if you are reading this then at the very least you are showing interest. Of course it could be argued you have distinct and possibly questionable taste. Maybe you are serving a penance for indiscriminate reading. Who knows?
Perhaps you are even a fan. Now don’t laugh. It is rude to mock the afflicted.
But some of you will have made a choice, exercised free will (If indeed it exists at all-but that is an altogether different story- for another time...maybe) and found your own way here.
Not just a chance encounter then? An element of premeditation...Oh dear....
Is there no hope for you?
One consolation you have in your favour is the knowledge that even a stopped clock is right twice a day. On average a better strike rate than mine.
Never the less, I would prefer to believe you have invested some of your valuable reading time catching up with me and for that I will thank you.
So...what now...okay, at the very least we can agree you are still here and I would like it if you hung around for a while, if for no other reason but I like talking to you,
So... I think it would be fair to assume it is my job to keep you here.
Well...How do I go about doing it?
What will catch your eye and pluck at your chuckle muscle?
How can I tickle your imagination and keep you enthralled?
Do I need to entertain you or inform?
Should I be the BBC or ITV?
Surely a good blog should be a bit of both. If we accept that as fact ...just for the sake of argument... can we also start from the standpoint that this is a good blog...not too difficult an assumption I hope.
Taking into account international diplomacy and the concern some people may have that we might only be a couple of mistakes to one side of a catastrophe so complete it would make the term ‘dystopian future’ seem appealing, the past summer months have, for the most part been bright and full of good cheer.
The Scottish referendum has come to dominate much of the national...Oh!...sorry, if you are reading this after a ‘yes’ vote I should have said ‘International news’ Gosh! This is so complicated...Keeping a balanced position, whilst straddling a wobbly fence is not easy but equanimity has, so far, prevailed. And thank goodness, with an absence of blood-letting... which in itself (pun intended) is so typically British... and the result will soon be known.
Whatever happens I doubt the UK will ever be the same...and that might be no bad thing. Too much centralisation and the abominable presence of a Burlington Club Oxbridge elite in Westminster has hardened attitudes against the status quo. Something needs to change and as so many voters have developed a jaundiced view about the veracity of political morals a good kick up the behind can only make things better.
Well that probably frightened a few people off. A minority in the swing seats might have even nodded off, whilst one or two of you others might have chewed your own bloomin’ fingers off.
Moving on.
This August was famous for another reason. It was a time of celebration. It was my Silver wedding 25 years married to my wonderful and thankfully patient and relatively short-sighted wife...Kay.
Wow!
Yes...I know...And they said it would never last...No seriously...they did.
An ex-girlfriend met my ex-mother-in-law in a Tesco express...which was about to close so as they walked through the exit, ex pulled ex to one side and excitedly expressed the opinion that she knew what was what. She said any relationship her ex...meaning me...may have...was doomed to fail ‘It would be extraordinary for such a union to be successful.’ She concluded.
It is with much excitement that I have to declare the ex...wrong in the extreme. Ex...most definitely does not mark the spot.
In any event we had a marvellous day. All of our family and many good friends...all together. My daughter came from Australia and our three grandchildren were all under our roof for the first time.
We had a rather successful barbeque with me as MC. It was the first time I have presided over such a gathering since the death of my son...so it was a big deal. Thankfully all went well, with only one short and rather splendid speech from my wonderful daughter.
Oh and I read a poem I wrote for Kay.
Silver Wedding day. The 1st of August 2014.
A glance to remember.
A turn of the head
Was all it took,
The image imprinted
On my heart.
Over laid, as it has been
By the passage of time,
With its share of good and bad fortune.
Complications of life
With implications
That can destroy the best of intentions
If you let them.
Never the less,
Whenever the strain
Of living threatened
To tear at the bonds
That tied us,
And the cut and thrust
Of life
Became an unequal fight,
The love we share
Has proved too strong
To be broken.
Through all
Life has thrown at us
We have prevailed.
On days such as this,
My mind turns back
To that day
Twenty Five years ago,
When I saw you
Walking toward me
Down the aisle,
My heart thumping
So loudly
The sound filling my ears,
My eyes clouding over
With un-shed tears,
I am right back there,
Ready to do it all again,
With you,
My darling wife.
Lover and partner,
For life.
Thank you for your indulgence my friends. See you soon. Peter.
May 25, 2014
Have you ever felt like a fraud?
I have.
In truth, every single day.
Take now for example.
My daughter said I should write something for the blog. It seems I have focused too much on the daily missive and not enough effort has been directed into pulling something useful together for the website.
So what do I do? I can’t for the life of me think of anything that will add to any great canon of knowledge, offer any great wisdom, insight, or even mildly entertain, for more than the briefest moment in time (See what I mean? Already I have stooped so low as to steal part of the title of a great, if largely undecipherable book for the lay person, just for the sake of making a mildly amusing point.).
Fraudulent, don’t you think?
Disposable?
Maybe.
I have gone through life with the general belief that whatever I did, whether scraping a barrel or sitting on top of the world, I was doing it under false pretenses. Somehow I had managed to stumble over an undeserved opportunity, or gate-crash somebody else’s party.
Of course that could just be seen as a deeply disingenuous comment and a cynical attempt to illicit sympathy. Believe me there is still a part of me that remains undecided on that score.
Am I that shallow, callous and indifferent?
It is a truth to say I enjoy praise. Who doesn't? But really, I ask myself, praise for what?
Generally things I have set my mind on have come quite easily. Should that bring praise?
Or should praise come only to those who beat the odds, overcome great obstacles and succeed in spades in spite of these.
A truth I am most familiar with is the one perpetuated by an internal, continually nagging, openly hostile voice that plugs away, deep in my psyche. It fights for house room with free flowing anxiety and a generic guilt, about what I still don’t know, that has accompanied most of my waking days, for as long as I can remember.
No matter what I do, or what, if anything, I may have achieved the voice chips away at my confidence. It belittles my efforts and undermines any sense of satisfaction I may feel about a job that on balance, may be well done.
I criticise my efforts and constantly downplay any skill I may possess. This might be seen as humble, or keep me firmly rooted in reality. But the voice also punches me with the belief that what I really want by being so self deprecating, is for somebody else to bolster my ego by refuting these claims and praising me on high.
However, even as I conduct my own internal deconstruction of any comparative success another voice vies for attention. This voice, still not one I wholly trust and not nearly as loud as the openly self critical voice, insists I have worked hard for what I have, things have not come as easily as I pretend and when I say ‘...If I can do it, anybody can...’ I am doing myself a disservice.
I am in a pickle. What can I believe?
Part of this can be explained by the fact that as a child I was an early reader, before five years old and primary school was so boring I misbehaved. School did not interest me at all, football did, climbing trees did, reading James Bond novels, rather than ‘The Famous Five’ did.
I was in trouble quite a lot, not big trouble, nothing illegal, although I was accused of stealing a school ruler once and was so affronted I brought a young teacher, probably in her early twenties, although at aged ten, she seemed aged, to tears, with the rough edge of, my too clever by half, tongue and walked out.
My dad was called to the headmaster’s office and he was incandescent, even more so when he was told they had caught the culprit, somebody else, not me. I was still grounded for a month, for the walking out.
Anyway, this lack of school enthusiasm resulted in a flunking of the 11 plus exam and on transitioning straight across the schoolyard and into the Secondary school (my brother had gone to Grammar school) I was placed in the remedial class.
This came as a shock. In this class, fifteen year old boys were still on Janet and John books and could barely count. I was mortified.
The educators thought I was in need of ‘special’ education, meaning no education.
It certainly sparked my dander and moulded my conscience. There was nothing for it. I had no choice but to prove them wrong. Within the year, after finishing top of the form, by a record margin, not too difficult under the circumstances, I was transferred to the ‘A’ stream. Within a year I was top of this class and in my final two years was head boy.
You might think this experience would leave me with a feeling of pride and self-belief, but the shame of being placed in the ‘B’ stream, written off and thought to be beyond hope, lingers and continues to beg my attention. It sits alongside the voice that whispers its destructive doubts and means I never feel I comfortably belong, anywhere.
Something will go wrong. I will be found out, wanting and cast down, back into the abyss and shadow land of failure.
So what can I usefully write about? Not a lot. Sorry.
But there you have what came to mind, for good or ill. I hope you like it.
In truth, every single day.
Take now for example.
My daughter said I should write something for the blog. It seems I have focused too much on the daily missive and not enough effort has been directed into pulling something useful together for the website.
So what do I do? I can’t for the life of me think of anything that will add to any great canon of knowledge, offer any great wisdom, insight, or even mildly entertain, for more than the briefest moment in time (See what I mean? Already I have stooped so low as to steal part of the title of a great, if largely undecipherable book for the lay person, just for the sake of making a mildly amusing point.).
Fraudulent, don’t you think?
Disposable?
Maybe.
I have gone through life with the general belief that whatever I did, whether scraping a barrel or sitting on top of the world, I was doing it under false pretenses. Somehow I had managed to stumble over an undeserved opportunity, or gate-crash somebody else’s party.
Of course that could just be seen as a deeply disingenuous comment and a cynical attempt to illicit sympathy. Believe me there is still a part of me that remains undecided on that score.
Am I that shallow, callous and indifferent?
It is a truth to say I enjoy praise. Who doesn't? But really, I ask myself, praise for what?
Generally things I have set my mind on have come quite easily. Should that bring praise?
Or should praise come only to those who beat the odds, overcome great obstacles and succeed in spades in spite of these.
A truth I am most familiar with is the one perpetuated by an internal, continually nagging, openly hostile voice that plugs away, deep in my psyche. It fights for house room with free flowing anxiety and a generic guilt, about what I still don’t know, that has accompanied most of my waking days, for as long as I can remember.
No matter what I do, or what, if anything, I may have achieved the voice chips away at my confidence. It belittles my efforts and undermines any sense of satisfaction I may feel about a job that on balance, may be well done.
I criticise my efforts and constantly downplay any skill I may possess. This might be seen as humble, or keep me firmly rooted in reality. But the voice also punches me with the belief that what I really want by being so self deprecating, is for somebody else to bolster my ego by refuting these claims and praising me on high.
However, even as I conduct my own internal deconstruction of any comparative success another voice vies for attention. This voice, still not one I wholly trust and not nearly as loud as the openly self critical voice, insists I have worked hard for what I have, things have not come as easily as I pretend and when I say ‘...If I can do it, anybody can...’ I am doing myself a disservice.
I am in a pickle. What can I believe?
Part of this can be explained by the fact that as a child I was an early reader, before five years old and primary school was so boring I misbehaved. School did not interest me at all, football did, climbing trees did, reading James Bond novels, rather than ‘The Famous Five’ did.
I was in trouble quite a lot, not big trouble, nothing illegal, although I was accused of stealing a school ruler once and was so affronted I brought a young teacher, probably in her early twenties, although at aged ten, she seemed aged, to tears, with the rough edge of, my too clever by half, tongue and walked out.
My dad was called to the headmaster’s office and he was incandescent, even more so when he was told they had caught the culprit, somebody else, not me. I was still grounded for a month, for the walking out.
Anyway, this lack of school enthusiasm resulted in a flunking of the 11 plus exam and on transitioning straight across the schoolyard and into the Secondary school (my brother had gone to Grammar school) I was placed in the remedial class.
This came as a shock. In this class, fifteen year old boys were still on Janet and John books and could barely count. I was mortified.
The educators thought I was in need of ‘special’ education, meaning no education.
It certainly sparked my dander and moulded my conscience. There was nothing for it. I had no choice but to prove them wrong. Within the year, after finishing top of the form, by a record margin, not too difficult under the circumstances, I was transferred to the ‘A’ stream. Within a year I was top of this class and in my final two years was head boy.
You might think this experience would leave me with a feeling of pride and self-belief, but the shame of being placed in the ‘B’ stream, written off and thought to be beyond hope, lingers and continues to beg my attention. It sits alongside the voice that whispers its destructive doubts and means I never feel I comfortably belong, anywhere.
Something will go wrong. I will be found out, wanting and cast down, back into the abyss and shadow land of failure.
So what can I usefully write about? Not a lot. Sorry.
But there you have what came to mind, for good or ill. I hope you like it.
April 7, 2014
The Old Soldier
My father never discussed his war. But it invaded his every day.
He served in Burma, Singapore and lived a nightmare for five years.
How do I know it hurt him when he never really spoke about it?
Well I guess it was in the manner of his avoidance.
He never attended any veteran’s events, even though he had a dress uniform and a whole chest full of medals packed away in a box and buried at the back of his wardrobe, hidden beneath the piles of sketches and cartoons he drew and sent to my mum over those long years of separation.
As far as I knew he never wore those medals. But I do know he was proud of them and got very upset when he thought they had been stolen, only for them to turn up again, years later. When I was growing up through the fifties and sixties he could be the life and soul, but had one heck of a temper and mum would often say he had not been like that before.
However, the real give away was his refusal to fly.
Well I say refusal but that is not entirely true. He did fly a couple of times when ordered to by his boss, some work related junkets he could not avoid. But the only way he managed to do it was to get absolutely plastered beforehand, brandy and lime being a particular favourite, so much so he was almost carried onto the plane and slept the whole way.
He said he was completely terrified, which was a big admission for a tough man like him and was adamant he would never fly again.
He was as good as his word when several years later he was top salesman in some kind of regional sales drive and was awarded a holiday for two in Canada, Niagara Falls and the whole enchilada. He turned the prize down, straight away, without talking it through with mum and it was awarded to the next guy. As you can imagine, when she found out, my mother was more than a tad disappointed.
Under pressure to give some kind of explanation for letting mum down, Dad, for maybe the only time I can remember, opened up a little and told us why he would never fly.
It had been his job to visit crash sites and facilitate in the identification of the dead.
It scarred him, damaged him I guess. It didn’t excuse his temper or mean we could accept his stubborn refusal to step out of his comfort zone, but it made him more human and illustrated the fragility of the psyche.
Nobody should underestimate the damage we can cause ourselves when we are unable, unwilling, to share.
I know that in some circumstances it can seem we are all just expected to carry on regardless, to endure and cope with the most extreme hardship. To grin and bear it, or run the risk of being labelled a winger, or worse. But the truth is we all need to talk, to share and seek support. Otherwise we can lose the trust, love and understanding, of those very people for whom we care.
Children don’t understand why we shout, or cry. It just confuses them. It confused me. For years, it still does I guess.
I thought this might be suitable written as one of my regular daily missives.
Daily missive for Tuesday the 5th of November 2013.
The old soldier.
The cough left him breathless.
His chest hurt
and he spat blood into the dirt.
Nothing about this morning
was romantic.
His life was on the slide.
Even his lungs were failing.
Just like his hopes.
Old bones turned to rust
He was nothing more
than a blurred photograph
in an old shoe box
that his grandchildren
might find one day.
A footnote in their lives.
He could never return,
too much to re-learn.
Drink and madness.
He forgot which came first
but knew what was worse.
It was a gradual loss.
A stripping away.
Layer by layer.
And it made him
invisible to the world
his life gone, somehow.
It belonged to somebody else
Locked in the past.
And the retching,
wretchedness
was all he was now.
He served in Burma, Singapore and lived a nightmare for five years.
How do I know it hurt him when he never really spoke about it?
Well I guess it was in the manner of his avoidance.
He never attended any veteran’s events, even though he had a dress uniform and a whole chest full of medals packed away in a box and buried at the back of his wardrobe, hidden beneath the piles of sketches and cartoons he drew and sent to my mum over those long years of separation.
As far as I knew he never wore those medals. But I do know he was proud of them and got very upset when he thought they had been stolen, only for them to turn up again, years later. When I was growing up through the fifties and sixties he could be the life and soul, but had one heck of a temper and mum would often say he had not been like that before.
However, the real give away was his refusal to fly.
Well I say refusal but that is not entirely true. He did fly a couple of times when ordered to by his boss, some work related junkets he could not avoid. But the only way he managed to do it was to get absolutely plastered beforehand, brandy and lime being a particular favourite, so much so he was almost carried onto the plane and slept the whole way.
He said he was completely terrified, which was a big admission for a tough man like him and was adamant he would never fly again.
He was as good as his word when several years later he was top salesman in some kind of regional sales drive and was awarded a holiday for two in Canada, Niagara Falls and the whole enchilada. He turned the prize down, straight away, without talking it through with mum and it was awarded to the next guy. As you can imagine, when she found out, my mother was more than a tad disappointed.
Under pressure to give some kind of explanation for letting mum down, Dad, for maybe the only time I can remember, opened up a little and told us why he would never fly.
It had been his job to visit crash sites and facilitate in the identification of the dead.
It scarred him, damaged him I guess. It didn’t excuse his temper or mean we could accept his stubborn refusal to step out of his comfort zone, but it made him more human and illustrated the fragility of the psyche.
Nobody should underestimate the damage we can cause ourselves when we are unable, unwilling, to share.
I know that in some circumstances it can seem we are all just expected to carry on regardless, to endure and cope with the most extreme hardship. To grin and bear it, or run the risk of being labelled a winger, or worse. But the truth is we all need to talk, to share and seek support. Otherwise we can lose the trust, love and understanding, of those very people for whom we care.
Children don’t understand why we shout, or cry. It just confuses them. It confused me. For years, it still does I guess.
I thought this might be suitable written as one of my regular daily missives.
Daily missive for Tuesday the 5th of November 2013.
The old soldier.
The cough left him breathless.
His chest hurt
and he spat blood into the dirt.
Nothing about this morning
was romantic.
His life was on the slide.
Even his lungs were failing.
Just like his hopes.
Old bones turned to rust
He was nothing more
than a blurred photograph
in an old shoe box
that his grandchildren
might find one day.
A footnote in their lives.
He could never return,
too much to re-learn.
Drink and madness.
He forgot which came first
but knew what was worse.
It was a gradual loss.
A stripping away.
Layer by layer.
And it made him
invisible to the world
his life gone, somehow.
It belonged to somebody else
Locked in the past.
And the retching,
wretchedness
was all he was now.
April 3, 2014
The First Wave now on Kobo
You can now download all three books from the Kobo store.
http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/Sear...
Get them whilst they're fresh!
http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/Sear...
Get them whilst they're fresh!
April 1, 2014
The First Wave: A Collection of Daily Missives now available on Amazon
Thanks to the encouragement of my friends and especially Debbie for her help in proofing the book, I have finally developed a collection of missives.Introducing, The First Wave.
From the Introduction
Love is my drug. But then so is writing. It always has been. For a while I tried to deny it and life got in the way. But the truth was the log-jam of ignored words was just waiting to tumble out. I am hardly unique. We all have words. They hide in our unconscious process and float into our stream of consciousness. It is an endless flow that washes through us all to a greater or lesser degree. The trick is to catch hold of each word as it rushes past and splash around in the order a little.
Available Now
Amazon US Paperback $5.99
Amazon US Kindle $2.03
Amazon UK Paperback £3.47GBP
Amazon UK Kindle £3.47GBP
October 24, 2013
Mr Charalambus Free until 26th October
Get your copy of Mr Charalambus on Kindle for free, limited time only here:
Mr Charalambus and the One Soul
Please let me know what you think and don't forget, Volume 2 in the series is now available.
Peter
Mr Charalambus and the One Soul
Please let me know what you think and don't forget, Volume 2 in the series is now available.
Peter
October 6, 2013
When a Tear Falls $2.99 on Kindle
I'm pleased to announce that Volume 2 of The One Soul series: When a Tear Falls is now available on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FIJCYVG for just $2.99.
I hope you enjoy the book and if you would be so lovely as to leave a review, I'd be honoured.
Paperback version coming soon!
Peter.
I hope you enjoy the book and if you would be so lovely as to leave a review, I'd be honoured.
Paperback version coming soon!
Peter.
