British Stuff . Covid Times . Music . My Father . Nostalgia
Radio, Radio
On January 17, 2021 by Speranza
In a never-ending attempt to escape the scourge that is known as The News, I convinced The General to join me in a random sampling of radio stations from around the world this week. We were looking for different. And, unapologetically cheering.
This led to reminiscing about my teen years spent on the Isle of Man (sandwiched handily between England and Ireland) and specifically, Christmas 1974 when I received my first transistor radio.
My father watched the unwrapping solemnly, telling me that this was a special radio with only a very few stations and since he had already set it to the best one, he strongly hinted that it was not to be changed. This Very Special Station was currently airing the Queen’s speech. Afterwards, I learned that I could rock out to the BBC World report and maybe even catch a few overviews of the Middle East later on. My dad seemed unusually pleased with himself.
My Father . My Mother . Nostalgia
The Importance of Being Idle
On September 20, 2018 by Speranza
I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept.
Being A Girl . My Mother . Nostalgia . Poetry
Piano – D.H.Lawrence
On April 10, 2016 by Speranza
As the snows swirls sideways across my window, I re-read this poem and fall in love with D.H.Lawrence all over again. I feel as though his poetry is not celebrated as much as his so-called “dirty books” but to me, the poems are heady scraps of wisdom and depth, showing what a sensitive, insightful and thoughtful person he really was.
This poem is especially poignant to me because as a very young child, I remember crouching at the top of the stairs, hours after I had been sent to bed and straining my ears to catch what my parents and their friends (probably slightly tipsy) were singing as my mother played our stylin’, state-of-the-art Sixties organ and everyone sang along.
Childhood . My Fiction . Writing
Hounds-Tooth
On November 1, 2015 by Speranza
A tiny slit of light creaks through the ill-fitting wardrobe door even after it clicks shut behind me. Under different circumstances to these I might feel self conscious, or perhaps unbalanced. But the pain of loss has driven me here, and I care nothing for such thoughts. The coat hangers move quickly under my touch whining the screech of steel on steel, till at last I find what I want. It slips around my shoulders easily, enveloping me in its scent and at once I breathe in a thousand memories. The smell of spearmint gum still lingers in the pocket, and the faint tang of old-fashioned shaving soap comes up to me from the warmth. This coat is a traditional hounds’ tooth tweed, but worn soft and the lining still glows cheerfully, a dull vermilion red like the inside of a magicians’ cloak.