Dog in a Suitcase

 About a year ago I recounted a true story about the pitfalls of owning a robotic floor cleaner in a house with a dog. It was only recently that I had occasion to meet up again with the person who had told me this story, my G.P. As I departed his surgery I happened to remark that if he had any more amusing dog stories he should let me know. Imagine my surprise when the next day, after my wife nipped into the surgery for a repeat prescription, the doctor called her in to recount the following rather sad doggy tale he’d been told.

A close friend of my GP had, after retiring as a doctor, been living abroad for several years in a small flat within an apartment building in Rumania. She was friends with a British couple in a village nearby whom she regularly visited. They owned an affectionate bulldog called Dexter, to whom she was equally devoted. Whenever her friends went abroad on holiday or came back to visit family in the UK she would dog-sit Dexter in their home. But as both Dexter and his minder got a little older and less agile Dexter started to spend the time when his owners were away staying in the lady doctor’s own flat.  Pets were not really permitted in the apartment block but as Dexter was docile, quite arthritic and not able to walk far, the doctor was able to accommodate Dexter without too much trouble and this arrangement suited both parties. As Dexter got frailer his owners were understandably more reluctant to leave him. Unfortunately, a family crisis one summer meant they needed to come over to the UK for several weeks and so arrangements were hastily made to leave Dexter with their friend. Sadly, whilst they were away, Dexter, aged 18, passed away peacefully. Dexter’s death was not only a sad event but left the doctor in something of a dilemma.  Being summer she urgently needed to dispose of the dog’s body in both a discrete and compassionate manner. There was no garden attached to her flat and she knew her friends had talked about their intention of having Dexter buried in their garden under an apple tree. She decided to break the news of Dexter’s death in a letter to her friends back in the UK but did not say anything else other that she was making arrangements to have Dexter buried in their garden. She went to their home and getting a spade from the toolshed attempted to dig a hole under the apple tree. Almost immediately she realized that this was not going to manage this chore on her own. Luckily Her friends employed a local man once a week to work In the garden and he who was able to pop round later that day to complete the digging of the hole.

She decided she would have to take Dexter there herself but as discretely as possible. In order to get him out of the flat she decided the only way she could do this was by putting his body in a large brown suitcase she kept on top of a wardrobe. As a doctor she coped with this chore with less difficulty than many others might have done. Getting the suitcase out of the apartment prooved more problematic as the lift in her apartment block was not working and she found herself having to lug the heavy suitcase down four flights of stairs.

She was quite relieved therefore, when a young man appeared in the stairwell and she decided to ask for his assistance. As he carried the suitcase for her, he remarked that it was very heavy and asked what she had inside. To avoid the embarrassment of explaining the true contents, she said that the suitcase contained an old computer and some software. At this the man suddenly gathered up the suitcase and ran off with it, out of the building  and down the road never to be seen again. The woman was left dumbfounded when she realized what had happened and wondered how she was she going to break the news to Dexter’s owners.  She decided, rightly or wrongly, that losing their beloved pet would be upsetting enough never mind having to explain that his body had been stolen. She decided that the best thing she could do was to find another old suitcase which she put in the bottom of the grave filled with some old magazines and books so that when the gardener popped back to fill in the hole he wouldnt inadvertently discover an empty suitcase where there should be a full one. Everything went to plan and not long after they returned from their trip all three friends gathered beneath the apple tree to say their farewells to Dexter. As far as my GP knew his old friend never let on what had really happened to Dexter. We can only imagine the shock that the suitcase thief got when he came to open the suitcase to examine his ill-gotten gains.

The Ballad of John Smith and Pocahontas

Some ‘ud say to be called Smith is rather boring

And what is more, to then be christened John

But a chap with such a name was destined for great fame

An explorer and a hero, all in one.

Just a farmer’s son from Willoughby near Alford

For many years he sailed the Spanish main

Amassed a fortune soldiering in Turkey

Then adventure beckoned westwards once again.

Plans to colonise Virginia for profit

Brought Captain Smith to land at Chesapeake

Soon settling in the spot we know as Jamestown

That grew along the shores beyond the creek.

Yet times were tough and many folks were starving

Apart from this they’d neighbour trouble too,

Some Indians of Powhatan were bruising for a fight

They  weren’t too fond of anybody new.

Now Captain Smith then tried his best to calm things

He went to have a parley with the chief.

But some redskin with a knife tried to finish off his life

And poor John lay there shaking like a leaf.

Yet one amongst the natives gathered round him

The daughter of the Chief, was most concerned.

She threw herself across his shakin’ body

As John Smith said, “I think me luck has turned.”

Now the maiden who had saved him, Pocahontas

Had kept him from a scalpin’ to be sure.

Soon the rumours started spreading that there soon could be a wedding

And together they would be for evermore.

But I tell you sommat now, that’s noat but rubbish

And Disney, they’re the folks we have to blame

For some other fella married Pocahontas

A tobacco planter, Thomas Wolfe 'is name.

So you cant believe the things you see at ‘pictures

Pocahontas  simply wasn’t  John Smith’s date

For starters when they met she was eleven

And Captain Smith, were pushing twenty-eight!

The Werewolf of Dogdyke

Ev you ‘eard o’ the Werewolf o’ Dogdyke?
It’ll be news to you, I’ve noa doubt.
A creature of legend you’re thinking
And noat to get fretted about.

Now many folk gab about werewolves.
‘It’s mere superstition,’ they say
But I knowed of an ode boy who seen one,
I’ll tell you his tale, if I may.

Way back in the twenties it ‘appened
This scientist feller, called Jones
Was delvin’ in Langrick Fen peat bog
When he dug up some very queer bones.

He carried ‘em back to his kitchin
And scrubbed ‘em to see what he’d found.
The skeleton looked pretty human
But the ‘ead was the skull of an ‘ound!

It rattled t’ode chap for a moment
He thought that it must be a hoax.
P’raps travelling fair-foak had left it
To put the wind up local folks

He was supping the dregs of his Horlicks
Whilst sorting the bones on the floor.
Summats out on the causey was scratting
And lifting the sneck o’ the door.


The noise from the causey alarmed ‘im
What on earth could be maakin’ the din?
He decided to peer through the winder
To see who was trying to git in.

For there i’ the glow of the moonlight
A glimpse o’ a figure he caught
A creature i’ black and all crooked
‘Ahh, that’ll be parson,’ he thought.

Then a ‘ideous face manifested,
The face o’ some creature from hell.
Jones ran to the petty and bolted the door
I suspect ‘e was feeling unwell.

Whilst the snarling and clawing continued
He lay back far-weltered and frit.
He weren’t gonna argle wi’ werewolf
‘e’d leave him to cool down a bit.

When dawn came Jones felt a bit better
He listened for sound o’ the beast.
“Perhaps he’s calmed down and gone home now”
Though he wasn’t convinced in the least

Then he stopped and he started to think why
The beast was in such a bad mood.
P’raps werewolf was just a bit hungry
And all that he wanted was food.


He decided to make ‘im some breakfast
Some cheese and plum loaf  ‘ud be fine
If only he’d been there last Sunday
He might ev enjoyed stuffed chine

He unbolted the door of the lavvy
Wi’ his stick he approached kitchin door
Now what if the beast were still in there
If he was, he ‘ud give him what for.

With ‘is hand on the sneck he just waited
And then in he bu’st at a pace
But there wasn’t noa beast to be found there
Just glass, smithered all ower the place.

I can’t say ‘e felt disappointed
That the beast had returned whence ‘ed came
But his paintwork ‘ud need touching up now
And ‘e’d only got hissen to blame.

So straightway he gathered the bones up
And returnin’ ‘em back to the fen
He hoped that the beast ‘ud forgive him
And not damage his paintwork agen.

So if iver you’re passing through Dogdyke
And walking your dog on your own
Doan’t let ‘im run off in the peat bog
He might cum on back wi’ a bone!

The above is my attempt at Lincolnshire dialect to retell a tale told to me some forty years ago by Mrs Rudkin of Toynton.

Ethel H Rudkin (1893-1985)

Mrs Rudkin, was a respected local historian well known during the last century throughout the length and breadth of Lincolnshire. Born Ethel Hutchinson in Willoughton, she was a dedicated collector of Lincolnshire ephemera. She was active not only in the fields of local history but in archaeology, local traditions, music, folk-lore, and dialect. From the age of 12 she kept a detailed diary which she continued to write up until her death at the age of 92.

The first part of her diary to be published recounted her early life in Willoughton where she lived with her family.  There was a gap during the first world war when in 1915 she married George Rudkin of  Folkingham. Then sometime after he died in the influenza epidemic of 1918 she became housekeeper for his brother and helped to run the family farm. Her own house at Willoughton became a virtual museum, a place of pilgrimage for many researchers, packed with artefacts, farm implements, and memorabilia, as well as books and manuscripts. Several farm wagons and other agricultural vehicles that she had rescued, but which she had no room for, were stored in a variety of farm buildings belonging to different friends in nearby villages. Her main folklore collecting, in the 1920s and 1930s, was made directly from the people of the villages up and down the county and covered a broad range of topics. In 1927 she helped C.W. Phillips in revising the ancient monuments for the Ordnance Survey maps containing snippets of local information, conversations, historical facts and accounts of interesting journeys in her Bull-nosed Morris.

A string of articles published in the Folklore Society's journal included descriptions of many local customs which were celebrated at different times of the year in villages throughout  Lincolnshire. Much of her own research involved beliefs in witches and devils, stone-lore, and over a dozen ‘Black Dog’ stories one of which was that of the hound/werewolf of Dogdyke. She spent little of her long life away from her native Lincolnshire yet although she wrote many papers and contributed articles to a variety of magazines yet with little recognition or encouragement. She only wrote one book, Lincolnshire Folklore. This was published at her own expense in 1936.

She wrote in the second volume of her diary, which covered just one year, 1932 It contained tales of many Lincolnshire characters she’d encountered. One story is of her visit to the hamlet of Scredington where she met an old lady, Mrs Carter, who still dressed in traditional Lincolnshire Victorian style and could neither read nor write. She wrote an account of a visit to the deserted village of Gainsthorpe near Hibaldstow and retold the legend of Byard's Leap. She made several trips to healing wells and springs in north Lincolnshire, many of which in the years just before the Second World War still displayed rags and bandages on the bushes nearby as tokens from those who claimed to have been cured.

In later life Mrs Rudkin moved to a small cottage in Toynton All Saints where she continued her digging and archaeological studies for many years with the help of her friend and companion, Lucy Arliss. After building a larger bungalow to accommodate more relics she continued her researches, working on the site of the nearby manor of Eresby and the brickworks at East Keal. It must have been during in the early 1960s when I was introduced to her by my aunt and uncle (Fred and Jean Shaw) who at that time owned Brickfields Farm at East Keal and which had previously been my mother’s childhood home.

 

 

The Paints bright-the future's orange

 During to the Paralympics, one of the students at the special school where I work, a keen table tennis player with hemiplegia, asked me which was my Paralympic sport. I explained that the Paralympics were for people who had some form of disability and I wouldn’t be able to take part as I didn’t have a disability. He looked puzzled and then said, “You have sir, you’re colour blind.” Although I laughed at the idea he was evidently quite serious and thought such a condition was a definite disability. We then discussed what sort of sporting event people with colour blindness might compete in; striking matching coloured bulbs flashing on a light-wall perhaps. I suggested stepping on a predefined sequence of colour-coded floor-tiles that light up like those you found in some discotheques in the 70s; he had no idea what I was talking about.

Over the years it has amused numerous students when I have coloured leaves brown or the sea-water purple. Some imagine I see things only in black and white or ask me such questions as what colour is the grass? When I say, “Green of course” the response I get is usually, “Well you’re not colour blind then.” It’s as if I was trying to stir up some compassion by posing as a victim of colour blindness. Describing colour blindness to someone who isn’t is pretty difficult. It was only after I picked up a copy of “Ishihara’s Tests for Colour Blindness” in a second hand book shop that my own kids finally realised the extent of my disability. It’s all a question of shading and context. In certain lights certain shades of brown, red, green, blue and purple prove hard to distinguish. My wife still likes to tease me about some trousers I once bought, before we were married, which I thought were a subtle beige cheque but which she tells me were mustard and made me look like Rupert Bear. I cannot say it is a handicap but it does raise problems. Electrical wiring can be tricky and clothes remain a bit of a dodgy area in relation to any attempt at coordination. My own children have remarked on occasions, “Did you put those things on together or has mum had to sort you out.” Choosing and matching items in the décor around the home has never been easy for me which brings me to the subject of DIY. Leaving colour blindness to one side I have never been adept at DIY. Drilling holes normally results in a series of test bores before one is achieved that is of the right size and diameter to fit the screw and raw-plug. Shelves usually have a habit of sloping at a jaunty angle. Even furniture from a well-known Swedish superstore that’s all about clean, straight lines in my hands ends up looking rather less than chique when I have constructed them. Once I managed to mank pieces together in such a way that empty screw holes remained visible on the exterior when none should have been showing; and my Billy bookcase looked more like a Kevin. My wife and I do share painting tasks; she doing everything up to a height of 5ft 2 and me using all of my 6ft 4inches to finish off everything above her height. This normally gets us over any difficulty with colour matching. However recently I came unstuck.

  We own a small chalet about 4 miles in from the Norfolk coast. Our family refer to it as the ‘shack’ so you may infer it is nothing grand, more like a garden shed really. It stands with others on a small holiday park out in the marshes surrounded by willow trees. About fifty years old it is constructed of what I believe is called shiplap; lengths of planed, overlapping timber strips. Waterproofing is essential in any location so near the North Sea and this is achieved using a paint treatment which also stains the timber. There is understanding on the site that the chalets are painted every 5-8 years using one of a range of 5 natural colours. These come with such names as rustic oak, forest green, autumn brown and red cedar. Having discovered an old can in the chalet labelled ‘red cedar’ we assumed that this was the colour used by the previous owners.



So after nearly ten years without painting we were obliged to visit our local hardware store to buy a new supply of preservative. It wasn’t an easy task as there were dozens of products to choose from. After some close scrutiny of the colour chart my wife plumped for a can of ‘Rich cedar’ as the one she thought resembled closest that used previously.

 

Chalet Before 'Orange' upgrade


I was a little nervous at being sent to carry out the repainting mission on my own.  I was doubly unsure after opening the tin and observing the bright orange liquid within. I then thought, ‘No its your colour blindness it must be brown.’ I painted a panel about two feet wide on the rear wall of the chalet and then paused. It still looked orange. I was losing confidence so I decided I needed a second opinion. I went and knocked at the open door of a chalet nearby. An old boy of around seventy emerged and I asked him if he could spare a moment to help me out of a dilemma.  I asked him to glance over my handiwork and reassure me that what I was using was the right colour of wood preserver. He followed me to the rear of our chalet during which time he informed me that he was a retired painter and decorator; I knew I had the right chap for the job. Around the back of our chalet the professional took a sharp intake of breath before saying, “Oo-yer that’s a bit orangey.” My heart sank. I showed him the tin and even fetched the empty can from out of the rubbish bin. He agreed that although the names of the shades were similar my paint was distinctly more orange than that which had gone on before. He then launched into a lecture about burnt sienna and ferric oxides which lost me. We decided that I might do better taking a sliver of painted wood showing the original colour down to the local ironmongers’ to see if they had any alternative timber stain. I was pretty peeved having already splashed out on one expensive tin of stain but decided it was the only option. My visit to the ironmongers’ proved a little confusing as they had another range of fancy-named products; American walnut, harvest brown etc. Using the wood sliver I’d taken we found one that seemed to match. Fortunately the shopkeeper told me I could return the product unopened if I decided it wasn’t right.

Returning to the chalet I was confused. The patch of timber wall I had painted two hours earlier was now darkening. My expert from the chalet next door was equally puzzled how the orange seemed to be ‘fading back.’ What was I to do? I decided to plough on with the original treatment. But things did not get easier. I continued painting whilst sensing the perplexed glances of the odd passer-by. This was all right as no one commented until a precocious child came around the corner holding a football, he looked up at me and without hesitation said, “Why are you doing it orange?”

I retorted, “It’s rich cedar, but it’s not dry yet.”

“Cedar’s a tree isn’t it, is it an orange tree?”

“No, It’s not orange it’s got a magic ingredient in it that makes it go brown when it dries.”

“Oh” said the brat and vanished.  In response to a, “How are things going with the painting?” text message from the wife I sent a reply to say all was fine and I’d finished one side of the chalet. I decided against sending a photograph.

After a night’s sleep I rose early to see if the colour had subsided. It wasn’t as bright anymore but there was still a definite glow to the newly painted rear wall. I proceeded to paint the front wall but had only been at it twenty minutes when the first group of local critics hove into view. Comments included, “Gosh that’s bright you’ve been tangoed….well that should make it stand out among the rest …isn’t that the colour they use on the Happisburgh lighthouse?” I simply smiled. I was anxious to finish so that the sun could do its work drying out the timbers thereby allowing the orange paint to ‘fade back’ to a warm brown. I returned the unopened can of timber paint to the local ironmongers, they were very understanding and nipped into a local café to have an all-day breakfast as my reward for a job well done. Who should come into the café but the decorating expert neighbour from the other chalet plus wife. “See you stuck with the orangey stuff then.” I smiled and explained that I thought it would probably be all right when it dried. Whilst he went off to the counter to place his order his wife turned to me and made her first and only contribution to the conversation. “It looks fine, me duck, I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he says anyway, he’s a bit coloured blind!

The Princess, the Railway and the Donkey

Recently I heard a most curious tale about a polish princess, a railway crossing and a donkey. No, it’s not a joke but a true story dating back some 50 years. By the banks of the river Stour in the hamlet of Rodbridge there stood a railway crossing. In the early sixties the small white cottage nearby was occupied by a crossing keeper with a pretty unique history. She was a middle-aged polish émigré but what was unusual was that she was descended from royalty. Her name was Her Royal Highness Princess Madelein von Dembinska. Since the end of the First World War her family had been exiled but her mother had continued to fight to try and reclaim property in their homeland of Poland. Unfortunately they had not succeeded in their fight and when their mother died the the princess and her brother (Prince Eric) and sister had fallen on hard times and had been forced to take up employment in order to live. The princess was a well known local character in the villages around the railway crossing and she got on well with her neighbours.

Until that is the day that a local farmer called at her cottage to say that one of the shafts on his donkey cart had broken and he needed to leave the donkey in the meadow adjacent to the level crossing whilst he took the cart to the local blacksmith to be mended. He wanted to know if the princess minded just keeping the donkey’s water topped up whilst he was gone. The princess agreed. A couple of days later the farmer returned to collect the donkey. He called in the crossing cottage to thank the princess. He found her in a bit of a tizzy and asked what was the matter. She told him that she had not slept well for two nights. She explained that at four the previous morning she had rushed down to open the crossing gates, her alarm had not gone off, in fact she was only alerted to the fact that the express mail train was approaching because she had been woken by the strident two tone warning siren of the train. But when the train didn’t arrive she realised she had risen an hour and a half too early. After returning to bed she went back to sleep until her alarm went at the correct time and she opened the gates. She said for the 5:30 train. The same thing had happened that morning aswell. She had been woken by the train siren in the early hours. Again she had rushed down to open the gates. The farmer commented that she was very diligent to react in such a quick and conscientious manner. But the princess explained that this time she soon realised that it was not the siren of the train that had been waking her but the donkey heehawing in a similar fashion. Consequently she was insisting the farmer removed his donkey as quickly as possible.

Paws for Thought

Over the years I have come across numerous stories from pupils that have made me chortle and not always for the right reason. A few years back I thought I ought start recording some of the real gems. Searching through them I selected a few that relate to the keeping of pets, and which I thought warranted sharing with a wider audience:

‘ My granddad has a dog called Bruce, he is very old and sometimes he has to wear a lampshade… he smells but you can’t hear it.

‘We have five dogs, two cats, two budgies, two russian hamsters, a rabbit, a lizard, a rat, three goldfish and four mice.  I want to have a stick-insect but Dad says we haven’t got the space.’

‘ Our dog is Russian she is called Olga she came from Skegness.’

‘Polo is a Jack Russell he has three legs because one of them at the back fell off when he ran into a car. He doesn’t mind now.’

 ‘Greta is our greyhound when she lies down she runs in her sleep because she thinks she is chasing rabbits.’

On occasions I have asked my students to tell me why they would like to have a dog and what sort of dog would they would prefer to own. Amongst their answers have been the following:

‘ I would like a pet with short legs because we like in a bungalow.’

I would like a dog that can play football with me when my friend can’t go out because he has lost points at school for fighting again. If he could be in goal that is best.


Topliss Family Dog Church Gresley c.1920



We had a big dog to stop bad men robbing our house….but she had a bad eye and then she died.

I would like a little dog but not one that bites me.

I like those german dogs that sound like rotten they would guard my house.

I would like a pink cat

I like the cats with squashed faces.

I like big hairy dogs that have fur that can be cut off to make brushes to paint walls. (Old English Sheepdog?)

On another occasion I asked the kids, if they were pets what would life be like for them. These are just a few ideas:

 I would like to run and chase birds but I would not kill them because I do not like eating bird.

I think it would be good to be a pet in a big house if I could sleep on a proper bed and not in the utility room with the washing machine on at night.

If it was cold and wet or snowed I would not want to go outside to do a wee and poo.

I once asked my class, why is your dog the best dog in the world? These were some of the more humorous responses.

He isn’t.

My dog is the best dog in the world because he is the best in the world.

Robbie can bite his tail and roll over hundred of times. He watches TV …and when the Simpsons is on he howls. He sometimes pukes up on the rug which is bad.

Our dog Sheba is the best dog in the world because she is part of our family and is just the same age as my brother. She is better than my brother because she doesn’t argue or break my things and is never mean.

When I spoke to my wife about collecting together these doggy tales she sought out one of her own school books in which she had recorded some of her memories of her own pet dog, Tina.

We went to see a man about buying a dog. My mum said to the man we want a dog that doesn’t smell, doesn’t shed hairs, doesn’t bark and doesn’t bite. The man said we would be best getting a goldfish. But we didn’t. We got Tina and she is a dachshund.

She is very clever and when Aunt Jane comes to see us Tina starts barking before the bus comes round the corner. She doesn’t like when the letters come in the postbox but she likes spaghetti hoops. We have to give her cat food because she makes smells when she eats dogfood.

Amdram: More Ham than Dram

For many years I have been involved in amateur dramatics and theatre in its broadest sense. Whether it is teaching school kids through role play or trying to bring characters to life by introducing them to familiar stories in practical drama lessons. I have always enjoyed writing short sketches for church services to illustrate a message and taken an active part in many local am-dram productions both as actor and occasionally as director. In recent years I have enjoyed writing sketches and a couple of full length plays: hoping one day, perhaps, to see something of mine performed to a paying audience. Consequently I am able to recall several humorous incidents over the years that I feel deserve another airing

I recall one leading lady, of considerable stature, both as an actor and woman, who once asked me to help her identify someone in the Panto chorus; whose name she had recognised in the programme listing but couldn’t put a face to. I tried to describe the lady in question but I wasn’t concentrating very well and started by saying, “Oh she is the tall one who stands at the back.  I knew there were a couple of taller ladies so I went on, “Not the thin one but the broad-shouldered one, rather large up top.” It was then I faltered and added, “A little like you.” Realising what I said I tried to wiggle out of it by continuing, “She has a very dominating presence on the stage …with so many slimmer ladies around her in the rest of the chorus.”

  In the early days I used to find it easier to learn words. In fact I used to know most of the scripts pretty much off by heart: which can be dangerous if you then start delivering other people’s lines aswell as your own. Then I discovered that in comedy, and pantomime in particular, if other people, especially children, don’t remember their lines (or worse skip to a line that would omit an important section of the plot ) I was usually able to step in. I could often improvise a few lines in order to get us back on track without many of the audience noticing anything going awry.  
A few years back I was playing Abanazar in Aladdin. The girl who played the title role was not only a good singer but from the first full rehearsal it was clear she had learnt not only most of her words but other bits of the script off by heart aswell. On the Saturday evening, the last performance, her parents were in the audience and quite unexpectedly she started saying my line, “I am your Uncle Abanazar and have I surprise for you.” She stopped abruptly realising her mistake and I luckily I managed to jump in with, “ I have many talents as a ventriloquist as you see but that is not the only surprise I have for you tonight.”

In recent years I must admit I have been reluctant to take on large parts as my ability to learn lines seems to have diminished with age. I recall in ‘Outside Edge’ I played the oily, young solicitor who was the proud owner of an MG but didn’t like his girlfriend meddling with “his switches.” As I recall things had gone pretty smoothly each night as far as my scenes were concerned until the ‘accursed Friday’ evening when my character and Miriam (leading lady) were supposed to be having a protracted discussion about releasing my girlfriend from the cricket pavilion toilet into which she had accidentally locked herself. Suddenly Miriam (leading lady in the play, yes Sally you know it was you) said “Right oh then, I’ll leave you to sort it all out” and went off stage. None of these were words that appeared in the script and I was left alone for several seconds before I too decided i must escape with a similarly improvised line, “Very well,  if you won't help I better go and see if someone else can give me a hand.” I left by the opposite door to the surprise of the prompt and my fellow actors, who were suddenly pitched into the next scene half a page earlier than they expected.

In the last few years, in an attempt to disguise my failing memory, I have favoured playing what may best be described as character parts or what my fellow thespians prefer to call weirdoes and perverts. In ‘Ghost Train’ I was the sneering and sycophantic doctor of Psychiatry who floated in and out with glaring eyes like Cpl. Frazer from Dad’s Army whilst pawing most of the women on stage in a leering manner-that bit wasn’t in the script but it seemed to enhance the nature of my character.  I’m hoping to revive that style of performance should we ever do ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ it should suit loony, Brother Jonathan’s character equally well. 

   At other times I have played an amorous jogger (Two and Two Together) an accident- prone policeman (Murdered to Death), a nutty inventor (Murder by Love) and a wheelchair-bound, psychiatric patient with a soda siphon who thinks he’s a Pirate (It Runs in the Family).

Periodically we have taken a foray into the world of Pantomime. Apart from the part of Abanazar in Aladdin I have played an ugly sister in Cinderella (twice) and the Big Bad Wolf in Red Riding Hood.    I really suffered for my art as the wolf having been nearly knocked out on the first night when they attempted to cram a galvanised bucket over my head rather than the plastic one we’d used in rehearsals.

 Also I tripped over a brick when trying to circumnavigate the village hall between scenes. I nevertheless had my revenge when at the Saturday matinee, as I made my first entrance with a snarl from the wings, at least five children were seen to leap back from the front row into the arms of their doting parents; leaving no doubt damp patches on their vacated seats. Now that’s what I call a result!

Yet again the Friday night curse struck when I found myself at a loss for a line whilst lying abed dressed as Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. I couldn’t hear the prompt so I picked up the ear trumpet and complained that she needed to speak up a bit because I hadn’t the foggiest idea what my next line was supposed to be. 
props can enhance a performance but beware they can also trip you up. As the wolf I remember taking on a dimembered arm which i had been 'snacking on' in act one before realising I was now disguised as a lolly-pop man trying to entice kiddies away from the dame. I was supposed to be speaking all my lines in rhyme but all I could manage was, "And here's one I ate earlier." 

Tattershall Castle - Stand Clear of the Battlements

I realize that I seem to be making a habit of using my blog site to make confessions but this revelation has a lot to do with one of the historic gems of our county, the magnificence that is Tattershall Castle.

From my childhood home in Coningsby, a couple of miles away, I could catch a glimpse of the massive keep from the window of our living room. As a small child I had occasionally visited the castle with the family and I recall charging around the dungeons with my brother before ascending the tower, counting all the steps on the spiral stairs. We had several images of the castle around the house on postcards and a couple of mounted prints. I remember reading up about the builders of the castle and the fact that unlike many of the earlier castles built from stone at Tattershall they decided to follow the Flemish trend using over 700,000 bricks, probably made on site, to build the entire structure. It is thought that the building we see today had its origins in a smaller stone castle or fortified manor house built around 1230 by Robert de Tateshale.

However, it was the 3^rd Lord Cromwell, Ralph who was responsible for expanding the castle between 1430 and 1450 when he was Treasurer of England. Ralph Cromwell died in 1456 when the castle was inherited by his niece, Joan Bouchier, but it was later confiscated by the Crown after her husband's death. In 1560 Tattershall castle was given over to Sir Henry Sidney, one of Edward VI courtiers. Subsequently he sold it to the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Clinton. The castle then passed on to the Fortesque family in 1693 but over the centuries it gradually fell into a state of neglect until it was purchased by Lord Curzon of Kedleston in 1911. It was Lord Curzon who undertook a series of major restorations to the keep between 1911 and 1914. The castle was bequeathed to the National Trust on his death in 1925 and today it is recognised as one of the three most important surviving brick castles of the mid-fifteenth century.
Although the guardhouse and the 130 foot keep are the only structures that remain largely intact the moats were originally encased by curtain walls accessed by a series of smaller towers of which there is no trace. Only foundations remain of the stables in the outer ward, between the outer moat and inner moat, and the range of kitchen buildings which were close to the great tower in the inner ward.  When I was young we used to run along these and then race up and down the steep banks of the dry moats. Today the two moats are filled with water and look much as they would have done in bygone days when they were stocked up with fish reared for the kitchens to serve up to the lord of the manor and his guests.

What we used to call the dungeons the National Trust (rather boringly) refers to as the Basement. Although it is possible that it was used as a prison during the civil war it was probably more likely to have been used a place for storing spices and other items for the nearby kitchens. The large ground floor room was the Parlour and it was here that local tenants would regularly come to pay their rent. Today it is used to host civil ceremonies like weddings and private functions accommodating up to a hundred guests. A separate door leads up the spiral stairs to three great upper rooms which formed an independent private suite for the lord and his family. The design is very simple, with four floors, slightly increasing in size at each level by reductions in wall thickness. The first floor of the private suite was the Hall, which would have been used to entertain and wine and dine guests. The middle floor was the Audience Chamber, and only the really important guests would have been admitted here. A brick vaulted corridor leads to a small waiting room, before the great hall of the Audience Chamber, in which are displayed some of the Flemish tapestries bought by Lord Curzon. The top floor would have been the Private Chamber, where the Lord and his lady would have retired for the night. As a child I must admit that I was somewhat disappointed that most of the rooms were rather devoid of furnishings: I supposed I expected them to be crammed with armour, weapons, ornaments and furniture like the majority of other stately homes and castles like Belvoir. I remember that my aunt and uncle, who were in the antique trade at the time, had helped at some point in the 1970s, to source some early pieces of 16^th century furniture to help recreate a small domestic scene in one of the tower chambers. I do remember however the impressive fireplaces situated in the main rooms on each floor. Their size indicated that the rooms were never intended to be subdivided, but kept as one great room at each level. We had great fun as kids standing inside these fireplaces and looking up to see whether we could see the sky-light. I remember the story that these fireplaces had been removed from the castle, prior to its sale to Lord Curzon in 1911, and sold to a rich American collector. They were only rescued at the eleventh hour waiting to be shipped to the states on the dockside by Lord Curzon himself.  He arranged for them to be brought back to Tattershall by horse and cart to be reinstated in their rightful place.  Above the three floors of rooms are the roof gallery and battlements, which offer tremendous views across the Lincolnshire landscape, from Boston to the south, to Lincoln in the north.  It is not possible to access the turrets today but it was when I was a youngster-which brings me back to the subject of my confession.

My mother was, from sometime in the mid 1960s up until the early1980s, a district nurse in the area. She frequently made visits to one of her nursing colleagues, Nurse Taylor, who lived in one of the pair of cottages adjacent to the peacock pens to the south side of the keep. On this occasion a friend and I accompanied her and getting rather bored after a few minutes sat in the car we decided to explore the ruins around the peacock enclosure. We were able to cross the waterless moat into the inner ward before creeping up to the walls of the keep. Sometimes there were volunteers on duty checking tickets but this day we were lucky.
We didn’t risk being spotted by going into the parlour room but headed straight for the stairs. The stairs were carefully designed for defence. As most soldiers held their swords with their right hands the staircase spiralled in a clockwise direction going upward so the defending soldiers would be able to stab around the twist but the attacking soldiers would not. We met a group of Japanese tourists all with their cameras snapping away, taking photos of each other, and posing inside the fireplaces whilst we hastily explored all the anterooms, garderobes and corridors.. From the vantage point of the battlements I recall seeing over to the lakes amidst the adjacent gravel-pits where my Dad once worked and in the opposite direction we could see planes taking off from the aerodrome at Coningsby. But we knew we might be able to get a slightly better view from the top of one of the corner turrets. Indeed the view was fantastic. We soon spotted some of the Japanese tourists we’d encountered earlier emerging from the keep walking towards the kitchen ruins.

It was whilst we were there that it happened! I suddenly realised that I had, how shall I put this delicately, I needed the little boys room and if you gotta go … I recall dancing a bit of a jig agitated about what could do. My friend asked me what was the matter and I told him that I needed to go, desperately. I knew the toilets were located behind the guardhouse and, even if I ran, they were a good five minutes away and I knew I wouldn’t make it in time. We looked around and seeing that there were other visitors gathering for photo-shoots on the roof gallery below we realised we had few options open to us. “You’ll just have to do it in the drain,” advised my friend. I looked and indeed in a corner of the turret roof was an open drain hole. So surreptitiously, looking casually over the battlements, I went. What I didn’t know at the time was that the drain ran into a lead-lined channel that emerged through a spout overhanging the battlements (it can be seen in both pictures). A few seconds after I had relieved myself a stream of golden liquid emerged descending like an April shower close to the heads of the unsuspecting tourists below as they clicked merrily away with their cameras. What they thought I never knew all I can say is we moved a lot quicker down those spiral steps than we came up and we never stopped running until we arrived back at my mother’s car behind the peacock pens.
I therefore not only apologise to the National Trust for entering their premises without paying the required entrance fee but also to those Japanese Tourists who witnessed, first hand, the unpredictable nature of the British weather.

Oasis Man: Confessions of a Closet Flower Arranger

  The Methodist church has strong links with Lincolnshire. Of course its founder, John Wesley, was born at Epworth, in the north of the county. Not surprising then that there were probably more Methodist chapels in the villages around Lincolnshire than in any other county. In some places chapels for both the Wesleyans and the Primitives could be found on the same street. Many have disappeared, been sold off and converted into stylish dwellings but several remain calling the faithful to their devotions week after week. The large Methodist Church at Coningsby where I grew up is at present in a state of limbo, no longer being used for worship but standing empty and rather forlorn waiting for the future to decide its fate. The congregation have a new place to meet now; the former doctor’s surgery in the centre of the village converted a few years back.  The old chapel stands proud on Dogdyke Road between the large Victorian manse and my parents’ humble cottage. It was in part because of this close proximity that much of my early life was bound up in the chapel. I must confess on one occasion I felt we were perhaps too close when, demonstrating my magnificent tennis serve to a friend in my back garden; I smashed a leaded window pane in the church porch. My father was for many years in charge of the coke boiler that provided heating for the building and my mother was caretaker and key-holder. I remember the bunch of keys attached to a wooden cotton reel, hanging on a nail just inside our kitchen door, there for collection by anyone wishing to access the premises. My brother and I spent several years in the Sunday school attending ‘Sunshine Corner,’ carol services, harvest festivals and Sunday school anniversaries. Every June wooden trestles would be retrieved from the stoke-hole and erected to support a large platform in front of the pulpit. This was to accommodate the twenty or thirty children who made up the Sunday school roll.  The church would be full to bursting for anniversary services. Visiting preachers were expected to host not only the usual morning and evening services but an afternoon performance as well, when all the children were expected to deliver their recitations off by heart, each one chosen because of its inspiring spiritual or moral message. Most were a little twee by today’s standards. I can still remember the verse I recited back in 1965:

“The best thing when you’re playing is to play the game right well

Drive the ball upon the green or shoot to ring the bell

Get your service o’er the net, or ride to clear the gate

But when it’s life you’re playing at, just play it clear and straight.”

 The other big event on the church calendar was the biennial flower festival. Coningsby had a fine reputation for spectacular flower festivals. All the ladies of the church really came to the fore when preparing for and supervising these events. They usually took a whole year in the planning and everything was organised down to the smallest detail and last sprig of Ulster Mary. A theme would be debated, for several months sometimes, before it would be agreed and the elements started coming together. Those trestles used for the Sunday school anniversary were unpacked and positioned at intervals across the tops of the pews down both sides of the church. Two or three more would be aligned across the rear of the church along the treacly-oak panels of the vestibule. Members of the local flower club, were usually awarded a trestle-table each whilst nervous amateurs and latecomers were allocated a window sill which, positioned in the gaps between the tables, were used for slightly smaller arrangements. At the front of the church between the pulpit and altar rail was a large area often given over, in courtesy, to (Mrs Cammack and) the ladies who ran the local florists; the church knew on which side their bread was buttered. The curved mahogany pediment above the door to the preachers’ vestry was a challenge normally allocated to a younger member of the flower club as she (for many years farmer’s wife, Lorna Curtis ) needed to be agile enough to balance precariously on a step ladder whilst completing her arrangement, some 8-9ft above the ground. The large vestibule with its leaded lights was where all visitors arrived before entering the main building. It too was adorned with flowers in both pedestals and vases. Everything lush and colourful; minimalism and ikebana hadn’t reached Coningsby yet. The theme of the festival was introduced by way of a simple printed guide. I still have a couple of these pamphlets from the mid-1960s, from the era of typewriters and Roneo copiers, when stencils were made on waxed mulberry paper to enable foolscap sheets to be reproduced in abundance. One year literary quotes were selected as a basis for all the arrangements. So Mrs Walker interpreted a verse from Luke 12 inviting us to "Consider the lilies of the field how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Mrs Cade opted for rather the more obscure, "I saw horses in the vision: those who sat on them had breastplates of fiery red, hyacinth blue, and sulfur yellow” from Revelations 9. Then there was my mother’s choice clearly prompted by the fact the author was a fellow yellowbelly, Alfred Lord Tennyson,

 "In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

‘Local luminaries’ were the subject of another year’s celebrations. That’s ‘Celebrities’ to you and me. I think the title was chosen for its alliterative qualities. The obvious ones were represented; Isaac Newton, John Franklin, Joseph Banks, the Wesleys and Tennyson of course. But also allowed their fifteen minutes of fame were other notable Lincolnshire figures; Captain John Smith (friend of Pocahontas), poetess Jean Ingelow, conductor Sir Malcolm Sargent,  golfer Tony Jacklin, Billy Butlin and the founding father of computing, George Boole, the brilliant mathematician noted for his work on Boolean Algebra.

It is at this point that I feel another confession coming on. It was at one of these festivals on the Friday evening when they were downing secateurs for the day, that I said to a couple of the ‘ladies’ why don’t you put some flowers on the ends of the pews. We had seen this done when my mother had dragged me round a similar event at Hawthorn Hill, Holland Fen or some such place where they hadn’t got the window sills to accommodate any arrangements. Coningsby’s centre pews were all around 15 feet long, chocolaty brown and quite dull, being devoid of flowers and foliage whilst the sides of the church were a mass of floral colour. My mother found me half dozen or so brass tobacco tins, already crammed with rectangles of oasis, secured by a criss-cross of green tape and elastic bands. I scavenged for a few flowers and managed to glean quite a lot of foliage which the others had already discarded onto the bed-sheets strewn in all directions around the chapel floor. I had to move quick in case they changed their minds but I had soon amassed enough cuttings to complete my task. With a little guidance from my mother on the first I created the remaining five, small arrangements which were duly attached onto the narrow, yet flat, ledges of alternate pews. Now they weren’t that great I’m know so I wasn’t sure of the reaction my efforts would get when Mrs Cammack, the floral stylistic equivalent of Gok Wan, turned up the next morning. She arrived to finish her own masterpieces and help my Mum make table decorations for the school-room where teas were due to be served. Arriving about 9:30 within minutes Mrs Cammack had asked my mother who had done the pew-ends. My mother sprinted through the wrought-iron gate that linked the properties, round to our back porch, and I was summoned.

“You didn’t do all these did you?” was her accusation.

“No,” I answered, “Only five of them, mum did the other one.”

I was a very literal child; anyway I wasn’t going take the whole blame. But she didn’t censure me, instead she turned to my mum and said, “He’s got an eye for it, let him have a go at some of those table decorations in the schoolroom and I’ll finish the pedestals.” And indeed that’s what happened.

So you see, I could have been a contender, Oasis Man, up there with Llewelyn-Bowen, Alan Titchmarsh and the like. But I never did pursue a career in floristry. However, even though thirty years later it is my wife’s name that appears at regular two-monthly intervals on our chapel’s flower rota, but guess who really ends up doing the job!

Bach in the Subway...does beauty transcend?

Having recently heard this amazing story at our local church I felt it was one that merited sharing with a wider audience. It concerns a shabbily dressed man who, stood in a metro station in Washington DC started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about three quarters of an hour. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that three to four thousands of people were passing through the station during this time, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by. One middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the open case but without stopping. Another commuter paused to lean against the wall to listen to the music for a few seconds, but then looking at his watch started to walk on. Clearly he was late for work.
The person who paid the most attention was probably a 3 year old boy. His mother tried to urge him along, but the child clearly wanted to stop and look at the violinist.  Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk on though not without turning his head several times. This action was repeated by several other children. Yet all the parents, without exception, forced them to move on after a few seconds.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the top musicians in the world. He had played some of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth a fortune. Only one person had recognised the maestro playing incognito.
Two days before his playing in the subway, the same musician had sold out in a theatre in Boston and the seats averaging $100.

This is a true story. At the suggestion of a journalist from the Washington post, Gene Weingarten, the virtuoso violinist, Joshua Bell had been playing in disguise at the metro station.
It was all part of a social experiment about perception, taste and the priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour do we perceive extraordinary gifts and beauty? Would people stop to appreciate magnificence? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience Weingarten suggested was that if we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing every day of our lives?

This story regarding the complete lack of reaction by the people who witnessed the impromptu concert surprised many commentators and many suspected that it was surely a hoax. However, the story was true as Bell himself explained later in various television interviews. In January 2007 he had indeed performed incognito in the metro-station in an experiment organized by the Washington Post.According to the article in April 2007 Bell had used his own violin, an instrument handcrafted by Antonio Stradivari in 1713 - that he bought several years ago for a reported price of $3.5 million.
Journalist Gene Weingarten was awarded a Pulitzer Prize for Feature Writing for his outstanding and thought provoking analysis of the experiment. Weingarten discussed the ramifications of Bell's subway experience concluding that context clearly does play a role in our artistic perceptions. Our perception of beauty is obviously influenced by our mindset at the particular time we perceive it. If we catch the merest glimpse of genius we should acknowledge it or risk losing it forever.