One element of my life I haven’t yet mentioned, let alone discuss is the three years I spent in the Sea Cadets. As a teenager I had joined the Warlord Secret Agent Club, the Doctor Who International Fan Club and Doctor Who Appreciation Society, and the Young Ornithologists Club. My interest in joining one of the Scout organisations was slightly less than none. I had been camping once. A week at the Herts County Council site at Cuffley. It was where us poor kids who couldn’t afford to go to St Mary’s Bay in Kent went to. At least I believed this for years until I spoke to an old school friend on here and found out they went to both. Bloody elite!

Anyway, at some point I must have either come under pressure from my mum to ‘do something’ or watched an episode of Warship that sparked something in me. I suspect the latter because though my parents were encouraging they would never push me into anything I didn’t want to do. I actually think the final deciding factor may have been that my good friend Jamie had recently joined.

So anyway, whatever the reason, in that long hot summer of 1976, I went down to Cheshunt where, in a battleship grey prefab in the grounds of Riversmead school, I became a Sea Cadet. At this point I should rattle off my service number but that has long slipped my mind. I can tell you that the unit was no. 233 or T.S. Intrepid.

In due course I was issued a uniform. No problem getting something to fit in those days of svelteness and normality. Nowadays nothing interesting goes up to my girth and I end up wearing baggy plus-size habits and cardinal suits to every fancy dress I attend.

I really did enjoy my time in the cadets but I think my dad enjoyed it even more. He had been in the navy for seven years serving in Korea. Now he accompanied me at every opportunity driving me to weekend events all over the show. I swear he would come with me every Tuesday and Friday to the normal meetings if he was allowed. He certainly never missed a special parade.

The cadets allowed me to do things that I wouldn’t otherwise have thought about. I even had bugle lessons for a while from a certain Tony Dobra, whose wife to be has already featured in this blog. I learned to play a bosun’s call and to remonstrate harshly with anyone who called it a bosun’s whistle. I still have this and the ability to play it so if you ever want to be piped aboard somewhere, I’m your man.

Moreover I got to do some travelling too. Portsmouth was a regular where we stayed on HMS Ramehead on Whale Island and pulled, sailed, and motor-boated in the harbour. It was here that we nearly ended up with a very hefty bill when the motorised whaler we were out in went over to have a closer look at one of the submarines moored up by HMS Dolphin. I think Monty (Cadet Montgomery) was at the tiller and I recall there were no officers with us which was lucky. As we ran parallel with the boat at good six or seven knots (I’m loving how all the terminology is just slipping back) there was a tremendous crack and our bow suddenly rose four feet out of the water. We had not anticipated the stabilising fin just below the surface of the water. In reality there was little chance of us sinking a £30m submarine by ramming it but we were damned lucky not to hole the bloody motor boat.

I mentioned pulling in that last paragraph. Although this would soon become something I was spectacularly poor at in discos and at parties, in those days it was navy speak for rowing. I actually got quite good at that for a time and was in a lot of competitions. Most memorably we pulled on the King George V dock in London in 1977 at a time when Docklands was in its final decay before they rebuilt it all. Thankfully dad was in attendance that day as usual and we have some great photos.

Another holiday with the cadets was a week to RNAS Culdrose in Cornwall. It caused a small ruckus that made me see my mother in another light. Essentially the week long trip was in term-time and the man in control (Mr Instrall for fellow St Mary’s people) said I couldn’t go. My mum actually jumped on the bus and came straight to the school to see him. I don’t know what went on in that office but I do know when I got home that night she said I could go. That was a great week. I got to go up in a helicopter and then get winched into it as well as stroke a dolphin in Falmouth harbour. We also visited a kind of mini-theme park where a film crew were making an advert for it. Since we were all in uniform (Number 1s) they got us to play with the radio controlled boats and filmed us. It was my first TV appearance but I have never seen it.

The final trip I remember was a week to Jersey where we stayed with the Sea Cadets based up on Fort Regent. My abiding memory is that we were there for the Battle of the Flowers and provided crowd control dressed in our half whites. At one stage someone from the Young Generation float (Seaside Special was in Jersey that week) was crying out for a bottle opener. Being the well prepared Sea Cadet I was I was able to oblige and waggled my tool at them. A well-tanned young lady with legs that didn’t end jumped off the float with her bottle of beer and came over to me. I’m surprised I didn’t pass out there and then.

As well as guarding parades, we also took part in them. Silver Jubilee year was particularly busy. We always took our wooden cannon along with us. Personally I thought it looked rather naff, it was so obviously wooden but I guess the public liked it.

It wasn’t all fun and games though. There was a lot of work and I took it seriously. You joined the cadets as a Junior Seaman and could progress as far as Cadet Petty Officer. After that you would have to wait until you were 18 and train to be an instructor/officer. When I joined in 1976 there were others who had been there for a year or more and were Ordinary or perhaps Able Seaman. When I passed my Cadet Petty Officer exams in 1978 after about 2.5 years, those same people were still there as Able or perhaps Leading Seaman. I was told my ascendency was the fastest it had ever been done in the North London District. What it meant in reality was that a lot of people didn’t like it. Suddenly they were expected to take orders from someone who they had once been giving orders too. It certainly contributed to me leaving the following spring although exams and the lure of the pub were also having their pull on me.

At least my time in the cadets gave me an idea of what to do with my life and in April 1981 I passed the entrance exam to Dartmouth Royal Naval College to train as a Royal Naval Officer. Another time I’ll tell how eight months later I was working on the fringes of the rock’n’roll industry instead!

As regular readers will have read, my first trip to Belgium was in the summer of 1990. I have been going out ever since, sometimes as many as four times in one year. Last year, for a variety of reasons, I didn’t make it (Only the second or third year since 1990 I have not been I think) so I am very pleased to have just booked a trip for later this year.

However, it will always be those early trips with the youth club that are foremost in my memories. They were the trips of discovery when my memories of Flanders were first laid down. Today’s blog just looks at a number of memories from those early trips, in no particular chronological order.

You can’t think of Flanders without thinking of food. An agricultural land, its flatness very evocative of Norfolk. Indeed, when Doggerland was in situ, you probably could have walked from Aylsham to Poperinge inside a week. This is reflected on the market which is stuffed to the gills with fresh fruit and veggies. So why is when you eat in a restaurant you rarely see a vegetable. Sure, there is a pile of tomato, cress, and other rabbit food at one end of the plate. They may even put a handful of sweetcorn in there to fool you into thinking you have vegetables but other than in the one or two classier establishments, vegetables are not on the menu.

And whilst Flemish food is quite delicious, it seems strange that the frituur is such a popular venue. Now I know we Brits have a bad reputation for our chip shop fare (Especially the more northern parts where Deep Fried Crème Eggs and Mars Bars are much maligned) but the Flemish have us beat. Yes these frituurs do the wonderful fries that Belgium is so famous for but they also have a startling array of unidentifiable breaded shapes on sticks which are deep-fried for your delight. According to the picture menus they are chicken balls, turkey strips etc. but instant indigestion would probably describe them better.

Of course, for those with a sweeter tooth, the Belgians have you covered. Waffles and pancakes galore (though order before 6pm or the batter will be tossed) and of course, chocolates and cakes. When we started going to Talbot House we were delighted to be introduced to Sansens. Just across the road not 5 meters from Talbot House’s front door was a little shop whose window was fair-busting with cakes and chocolates. They proudly displayed the Belgian equivalent of a Royal Warrant so to us they were always the King’s Chocolatiers. The shop was run by Frida whose English is limited, and the goodies were made my Marc, whose English is near perfect. Over the years they have become good friends and Hazel and I are always treated to feast at their flat when we are over. Sadly, due to Marc’s ill-health, they have had to retire but they still live above the shop. What I haven’t yet mentioned though is the thing central to their relationship with Talbot House. Since time immemorial, the Sansens – being closed on a Monday – have, each Sunday, brought all their perishable left-overs across to the house. Some weeks, if sales were poor, the kitchen table would groan under the weight of creamy, chocolatey, sweet and delightful cakes. Heavens, you might even find some of that elusive fruit in a tart or two.

A final word on Flemish food. I never persuaded my parents to accompany me out though if I had I know my mum would have joined me in some Hennepot. It’s the local equivalent of brawn though traditionally should be made with the three Ks (Kippen or chicken [Sometimes Kalkoen or Turkey], Konijn or rabbit, and Kalf or calf). Not to everyone’s taste but my mum would have loved it.

You will notice there some words in a strange language which I have almost certainly got wrong (Martine will be emailing me shortly). Language is quite a strange thing in Flanders. Once a French speaking region, a fit of nationalistic pride in the mid-20^th century caused them to move officially to Dutch. Road signs thus appeared in both languages but when I first started going out I was warned to be careful using French as some Flemish people could be offended. Thankfully this is no longer a problem (although since my French is every bit as feeble as my Dutch, it hardly matters).

Anyway, I said Dutch became the official language. The local language is actually Flemish which always was the peasants’ language (Which is why the official language changed from French; long story, Google Ijzertoren for a fascinating history). It is a coincidence but an interesting one that the words Flem and phlegm are homonyms. Someone speaking Flemish at speed does often sound like they are trying to clear their throat. What makes it all the more complex is that there are Flemish dialects and someone speaking the Flemish of the Westhoek may not understand the Flemish from the east of the region.

Of course, the language difficulties might have proved problematic when organising projects with our Belgian friends (Of course it doesn’t, they all speak faultless English) but that matters not. There is always Google translate. As Martine will testify, that never causes us any problems. Well, OK, we were once doing a party for children from a local children’s’ home. According to the Dutch document I was sent, it would culminate with the children taking a present from Snow White’s treasure chest. I knew this because I ran the document through Google translate. I also made some changes and additions to it before running it back through Google and returning it to the Belgies (As they are known to us). They were somewhat disappointed that I found it appropriate for a children’s party to finish with Snow White’s tits!

The language difficulties (For us illiterate Brits) extended to place names. Early on we were recommended a seaside resort about 40 minutes from Poperinge right on the French/Belgian border. It was called Du Panne (Apparently this translates The Breakdown!?!) but this was too hard for us limp-hearted linguistic losers, so it became known, as it still is, as Japan. When talking of visiting the beaches of Japan one either receives a withering stare or knowing wink. The winkers are doubtless former members of Cuffley Youth centre.

I shall stop in Japan. I want to tell you about the theme park dedicated to a gnome but once dedicated to honey. That though will have to wait a little.

Today is my uncle’s funeral, the last of my mum’s siblings and another of ‘that’ generation. I still have my dad’s last remaining sister and there are a couple of aunts and uncles by marriage surviving but the generation above me is all but exhausted. Inevitably this makes me reflect on when that generation and the one above it were both thriving. Most obvious at Christmas when they descended upon us in mass – usually on Boxing Day, and perhaps around August Bank Holiday when they would fill our garden. Again, the plethora of photographs from these events help keep the recollections strong but I think some powerful memories were laid down regardless.

Perhaps one of the greatest came one Christmas in the late sixties. As well as the usual London and local visitors, the great aunts were over from America. Most of the party were staying in our house. A three bedroom semi in Hertfordshire. And for three bedroom read two bedrooms and a box room. Said box room had a single bed crammed into which that Christmas slept my sister (whose bedroom it was), me and my cousin, somehow topped and tailed. The remaining two bedrooms slept my mum and dad, my nan (who lived with us anyway), my aunt from London, my aunt and uncle from Basildon (including Uncle Ray who we say goodbye to today), my nan’s sister and brother-in-law, my nan’s two sister-in-laws from America (with one husband), her sister-in-law from Great Yarmouth. I think that was it for sleepover. Then the rest of the family turned up for Christmas dinner. My mother didn’t deserve a medal, she deserved a bloody great statue in the front garden.

Just as a quick aside about the American relatives. Joan and Marjorie were two Great Yarmouth girls, sister to my grandad Ray. Joan used to sing at one of the hotels on the front during the war and ended up being a GI Bride. Every Christmas when we were kids a cardboard box would arrive at our house stuffed with fabulous toys. Nothing expensive but mostly stuff that wasn’t available in the country. We were playing Yahtzee way back in the sixties before it became trendy; we had yo-yos that lit up when you yoed them. We also had (Still have I think) a great card game that was a cross between Bingo and Newmarket called Pok-i-no that I have never seen in this country.

Enough asides and back to the matter in hand, although mentioning cards is a nice segue! Although in that year we had crowds for both Christmas Day, Boxing Day and several days after, it was normally just Boxing Day that we took the hoard. I loved the cold lunch spread that filled not only the main dining table but a groaning wallpaper table too. But best of all were the afternoons. Mum and various aunts would be in the kitchen ostensibly doing the washing up but really chatting and doing some damage to several bottles of wine. My nan, her sister and at least one other lady on the far side of 60 (Possibly May, our families dear wartime friend and neighbour from Tottenham) would be sat on the sofa. They would drift between chatting, knitting and sleeping – sometimes I swear they could do all three at once.

Younger me would be laying on the carpet in the middle of the room possibly with my sister and cousin watching the film (Probably The Great Escape); later on teenage me would be out in the hall. Ah yes the hall! Here, strung out along the narrow room twixt living room and front door would be up to 10 people. Led by my nan number two (Little Nan for dedicated blog followers) there would be a card school of some seriousness. Most likely the crib board would be in play although some form of Rummy was also a strong possibility. If my mum and other ‘less serious’ players joined us then New market or the aforementioned Pok-i-no might be the order of the day.

And the others.

Even in the depths of December in the days when we had proper winters, one or two would be in the garden with their drinks and sucking on a cigarette or even cigar (Not that smoking was banned in the house, there’d be three or four burning away in ashtrays at the card school for certain). Another rellie or two may have surreptitiously slipped upstairs for a nap.

I’ll tell you where they weren’t though! They weren’t on their tablets, phones or the PC; they weren’t in another room watching one of the other TVs we didn’t have; and they weren’t at the shops! Of course at some point in the afternoon a posse might be rounded up to take the dogs for a walk!

Then time intervened. In the early eighties those huge parties were still intact. Only the dogs had departed us and they had been replaced. Then one by one the family left us. Some had reached the proper age, others sadly didn’t. Eventually we reached the point where we didn’t need the wallpaper table out at Christmas. Now we don’t even need both flaps out on the dining table.

It is the nature of things but it is sad nonetheless. The passing of my life marked not in birthdays but in the decline and fall of the family party.

Trigger Warning: Just don’t look at the photos Claire

I so loved my family holidays when I was growing up, that it’s incredible to think they were matched by those first few holidays away without them. In 1979 I spent a week in Southwold and another in Waldringfield with mum, dad and my sister but in 1980, I decided it was time to leave my childhood behind. Some of my friends were of a similar mind and Helen F., Sue, Tony and I booked a chalet at Caister Camp for the summer of 1980. Others wanted to join us but since we only had a 4-berth chalet Dave and Helen M. decided to pitch a tent nearby whilst Laura and Andrew stayed in the Newcombe holiday home at nearby Scratby.

And so the time arrived. I believe Sue’s father very kindly drove us door to door – even Tony hadn’t started driving yet and our spirit of adventure didn’t stretch as far as the inconvenience of trains or coaches. Surprisingly my memory of this holiday is not as sharp as if often is. I know we sometimes went to the entertainment on camp and at other times we travelled into Yarmouth for the day or evening. I suppose we used the famous blue buses of Yarmouth though I don’t completely recall.

One strong memory is of sitting on the veranda of what is now the Grosvenor Casino but back then was Shadingfield Lodge. The girls were drinking Snowballs, I don’t recall what anyone else’s tipple was although Lowenbrau was one of my early favourites before I got a taste for bitter. At 52p a pint it was an expensive drink which was known to us as Laughing Brew. The veranda was packed with other young people either holidaying or perhaps locals. It was one of those points in my life when I – at just 17 – felt considerably grown up.

Other highlights of that first holiday include our beach barbecue at the foot of the cliffs in Scratby, later immortalised in poetry. What I also remember about that barbecue is that after shopping in a well-known supermarket for our steaks etc. we purloined the basket we had shopped with and converted it into our barbecue. Sorry Sainsbury!

I was reminded by Helen of her and Laura hanging teabags on the washing line to dry. I doubt I was involved in this sacrilege because I more than likely had a can of beer on the go.

Oh, before I leave 1980, that poem!

Remember the night at Scratby
When we had the barbecue
The moon was shining brightly
With no clouds to block its view
The sea was lapping gently
And a gentle wind did blow
The drink was flowing freely
As the coals began to glow
We had lamb chops and mushrooms
Pork steaks and burgers too
We washed them down with beer and wine
had slow tapes, old and new
And then just after midnight
We all looked up quite quick
A sound! the cry of seagulls?
No, Helen being sick.

So, that was our first successful ‘mates’ holiday. The following year we were back in Norfolk but at Hemsby, this time filling two chalets with around twelve of us. This was an even more grown up affair for we had recently left school (16^th June for me – you never forget that date).

Incidents of that holiday include Andi careening around the chalet site in Tony’s car leaving us knocking on doors apologising for a stuck throttle cable. Andi and I (I am calling my dear, old friend Andi in this blog but he was actually known to one and all as Mags in those days. The reasons why are a bit complex. One day I will unravel it. Meantime, I’ll stick to Andi), so where was I? Yes, Andi and I were sharing a room and we were also sharing a bottle of rum and a bottle of blackcurrant. We were quite partial to a rum and black in those days and would have one or two before setting out for the evenings drinking. I think we had killed the rum by Tuesday actually. Incidentally, there is a memorial to our love of rum and black on the back of a house in Goffs Oak. Twas where Andi used to live and happened after he leaned out of his bedroom window after a night of rum and blacks. The purple streak remained in situ for many years and may well still be there today.

In 1982 we decided to head to the West Country and the village of Kilkhampton. It was when we discovered if you wanted anything you would “Have to go t’ Bodmin for that” This was very nearly going to be the title of this blog. It was a busy holiday and I think there is mileage in it for another blog. There were some sixteen of us in two chalets plus another couple camping nearby. It was also World Cup year back in the days when I still cared. Yes, we’ll come back to that one and the follow up in Hayle in 1983.

One of the reasons I am able to explore my past in such detail is the plethora of photographs we have to illustrate it. This is because my dad was a keen and talented amateur photographer for much of his life. I don’t know for certain when it started; possibly he picked up a camera in Hong Kong when he was there in the navy in the late 40s. Certainly, from as early as I can remember he always had his cameras with him. Usually his Rolleicord (What an amazing sci-fi worthy piece of kit that was) for black and white and another for colour slides. It was only much later that he moved to colour prints and then, for the last few years of his life, digital.

Whilst the colour slides are a great insight into an era that was important to us as a family but also to the world – sixties photos seem to have a unique quality, it was his black and white output that dominated his work. And the great thing about them was that they were his creation from start to finish because every Monday evening when his photography club were not meeting, our bathroom became his darkroom.

Even that was amazing to me in a Thunderbirds like way. A talented carpenter as well as photographer he had built this unit that sat over the bath and unfolded to create a sturdy surface. Into this slotted his enlarger and three white trays in a row. A red safety lamp was clipped to the door. On the landing just outside the bathroom was a huge wooden cabinet (I assume also built by dad). Normally it stood with a lace runner, a vase of fresh flowers, and a small pile of books but on darkroom Mondays it was stripped of these and opened up. Inside a veritable pharmacy of huge brown bottles and packs of paper.

Combining all these elements dad could take a roll of film from his camera and pop in a plastic pot with a slurp of this and a slosh of that. A vigorous shake then he started the Smith timer running with the silver bar on its side. After the prescribed time the film was removed, unrolled and squeezed between spongy tongs. Then the action moved to the enlarger where under the red glow of the safety lamp each negative was shone onto a piece of photographic paper and sized to suit the purpose; a number of small proofs on one sheet or an A3 sized enlargement to enter in competition. Exposure for the correct time and a bath on three liquids before the final print emerged. This was alchemy to 10 year old me. I stood and watched him on many occasions, although it wasn’t all the time as Monday was Star Trek night.

It didn’t end with standard prints. In the days when Photoshop was a place on the High Street, it seemed the camera still could lie. By exposing different images on to the same paper, dad could create pictures in the darkroom. My favourite, sadly lost, was when he photographed me sitting on a log outside then photographed a page from my Magic Roundabout Annual. Later there was a photo of me sitting on Dougal’s golf bag whilst he played his shot. Magic!

I said that darkroom Mondays only took place when the camera club was not meeting. Dad was a long-term member of the Lea Valley Photographic Society and even got me to join one season. The club met at Cheshunt Library every Monday from September to June/July then broke up for the summer. In the course of the year they held several competitions and a big annual exhibition in Waltham Abbey Town Hall. Dad won trophies on many occasions and merits dozens of time. I even got a mention in dispatches myself for a slide of Stonehenge.

Every now and again, quite probably also on a Monday and often when our dear friends May and Fred were visiting from Tottenham, the curtains would be closed, a screen raised, and the projector warmed up. I have to be honest here – I think my mum hated it. I think she would much prefer to sit and bury her nose in a book or magazine after a day’s work, cooking. Cleaning and ironing. We kids loved it though. What a simple way to bring back happy memories.

And 40 years later, the magic is still there. Only now, thanks to scanners and the internet, we can share dad’s photos and slides much further. As well as holiday slides from Norfolk, we visited London many times and there are a lot of shots of London in the 60s and 70s. They go down well in certain facebook groups.

The saddest part is my dad was too self-critical. About 20 years ago after he had retired, he started to sort his photos out. He put the best – in his view into albums – and without telling us, threw out loads more, negatives and all. Anything he considered substandard went. He was on the about the third clearance when I found out and rescued them from the bin. It was too late for lots though and frequently my sister will say to me, “Do you remember that picture where I…” but a search through all the surviving pictures turns up nothing and we have to guess it went out under my dad’s self-critical eye. My dad rarely made me angry but throwing out a large chunk of our past was one time he did. Thankfully lots also remains.

One of his photos hangs on the wall by my bed. It’s an A3 sized black and white enlargement of a frozen padlock on a wooden gate post; one of his arty pieces. Clearly blown up from an exhibition, I think it may have a Certificate of Merit sticker on the back. I certainly love it, don’t tell Hazel, but given I start off sleeping on my right hand side it is normally the last thing I see at night before I drop off to sleep. A wonderful reminder of a lovely man, a fabulous father, and a talented photographer.

I was born in Goffs Oak. Literally! Not at Chase Farm or Barnet General but in an upstairs bedroom in The Drive, in a semi-detached Airey house in a quiet cul-de-sac in Goffs Oak. It was 10.30pm at night on the 1st July 1963. About 15 hours earlier my great uncle Sid had been killed whilst on holiday in Paignton when the jib of a crane fell on him. They hadn’t even told my mum for fear that she would have produced me instantly, on the spot. Anyway, I’m distracted already. This blog is meant to be about Goffs Oak. The first of many posts about this wondrous place.

I’m not going to give you its history. Borrow one of Jack Edwards’ books from the library if it hasn’t been shut down yet. Of course when I was a kid stocking up on Thomas the Tank Engine and Dr Seuss, the library was in that little wooden building by the alley on Cuffley Hill opposite Jones Road. Originally the estate office when they built Robinson Avenue, The Chase and The Drive I believe. Looking on Google Earth that building has now gone but the alleyway is still there. Heavens, I must have walked that alley a thousand times.
So, no history but how about a quick secret. It came from my mum so it’s kosher. You’ll read that the original oak was planted way back in the wake of the Norman Invasion when the village was given to the Goff family. It survived for centuries but by the middle of the 20th century it was dead and decaying. So as part of the Coronation celebrations in 1953 they planted another oak. This tree, they said, survived until later in the century when it was damaged in the great storm of 1987 (or at some other time). I really should check the full facts but it doesn’t matter because the secret concerns the 1953 oak. Planted with great ceremony at a pageant which brought the whole village out, that little sapling went and died. The council, fearful that something might happen to the Queen if word got out the Goffs Oak had expired (Actually I have no idea what the council’s thought process was) sent men out in the dark of night to replace the dead tree with another sapling. So the Oak that dominated the little village green throughout my childhood was not the one planted in the 1953 pageant but a secret substitute. Ssssshhhhh!

So what was Goffs Oak to me? A land of houses; some made of brick, some made of glass. But even in my youth many of the glasshouses were broken and decaying. We played on them at our peril because – well broken glass obviously. We had plenty of playgrounds to choose from. From the grassy areas just outside our houses, now mostly surrendered to car parking spots, to the council playing fields tended by Alf in his CUDC Donkey Jacket. I remember when they were building the new Scout Hut me and my neighbour Russ went exploring. We weren’t doing any harm, just climbing on piles of bricks and peeping under sheets of tarpaulin. We got caught though. Some bloke from the council I think. He asked for our names and addresses. I cacked myself. Wait, I thought. I don’t have to give him my real name and address. I can give him a false one. So I told the man I was Russell Tredgett of 44 The Drive, Goffs Oak. Russ, my dear friend and neighbour gave me the most toxic stare you have ever seen and did what was really the only thing possible and told the man he was Steve Smith of 46 The Drive , Goffs Oak. We never did hear any more about thankfully.
In summer holidays we could go further afield. Down Crouch Lane to the corner then over the footpath onto Twenty Acres. Down to bottom of the next field where the stream ran through the trees. A delightful spot to play. If were feeling energetic we could keep going to Hammond Street and even up Bread and Cheese Lane eating the hawthorn flowers that gave it its name. We could do all this and still be home for lunch.

And when we didn’t feel like roaming all over the district where did we go. We didn’t have to go far. Our back garden; Russ’ back garden; Steph’s back garden; Jeremy’s back garden (later Dennis’ back garden); my nan’s; Russ nan’s – lots of choices in just a few houses. And The Square. Measuring it now on Google Earth I am devastated to find it is actually a rectangle, 50 feet by 30 feet. Simple paving stones around a grassy square that used to have a tree in the middle, right outside my house. It was our HQ, our base. From there we started every game of 1-2-3 Block Home or simple Hide and Seek; of King-He, Queenie, and It! We hid amongst the garages at the end of the street until they pulled them down and built some old people’s bungalows; or ran down one of the labyrinth of alleyways that joined The Drive to Goffs Oak Avenue or Newgate Street Road or Cuffley Hill. That was some playground but then it was some childhood.

I don’t remember what my parents wanted for me. I know the ‘system’ wanted me to go to Goffs but I was only ever interested in going to St Mary’s where my big sister had been for the past four years. I don’t recall any issues from my mum – my dad would have totally left the decision making to her – but I suppose having both of us at the same school made a lot of sense.

I recall my first day. Arriving in that new and pristine uniform and sitting on the dusty assembly hall floor. Teaming up with the others who had come from Goffs Oak JMI. Andi, Simon, Phil, Peter et al. Some I knew well (Simon and I had been friends for a while) others like Andi were from a different class and we just knew them from playtime and the sports field.

Then, like a dull and lifeless sorting hat, strange teachers split us into classes and soon, quite magically new friends are made. And what friends. When I review my current friendship circle it can be simply divided into three almost equal parts. Friends I have made in recent years since moving to Norfolk, Toc H friends, and school friends. Loads of them. We don’t see that much of each other these days but the bonds are strong and when we do catch up it’s as if we haven’t been apart.

If you look back on the poetry I wrote between 1974 and 1981 you might think I hated my school days. Certainly I went through a long and probing questioning of life, the universe and everything. However, despite the angst and stress, those really were some of the best days of my life. This post is just a fleeting glimpse at some of the highlights of my time at St Mary’s. Some will be revisited I’m sure; other memories, currently suppressed, will doubtless be suddenly restored and shared.

And it seems I’ll skip year one, our time as 1T in the science block with Mr Tait as our form master. I suppose that was our bedding in year. It was year two, under the newly arrived Miss Britton, that my memories come to life. We were in a room on the second floor of the old block – Lordship wasn’t it – above the library. The desks were those classic wooden ones with a lifting lid, a ridge for pens, and a little ink-well. Here Alphaball was born. We were 2 Alpha (They changed the system from teacher’s initial to Alpha/A, Beta/B, Gamma/C that year) hence the name of this new sport. I think Richard Davies, also newly arrived at the school, was central to its creation, and perhaps Paul Webb? In simple terms you sat with two of these wooden desks back to back. One player let a marble roll down his lifted lid, the opposing player allowed it to roll along his before lifting his own lid and returning it. Points were scored by getting the marble to settle in your opponent’s pen ridge, or even better to fall into their ink well. However, the fun came from the ability to maximise your score by using your lid to fire the marble at your opponent or over his head. Spectators and Passers-by were thus drawn into the game through being struck by a glass marble moving at 40mph. Did anyone lose an eye? I think not.

That same year – and how it haunts me today – we debated whether the UK should remain in the EEC which it had joined just a few years earlier. I’m pretty sure I debated the same when then as I do today but my memory is cloudy on the details. I’m sure Tony was one of the strong voices though I don’t remember which way then.

Speaking of new arrivals at the school, at some point (Perhaps when we were in the fourth year?), a new physics teacher arrived in the shape of Mr Samuels. Our relationship with him was struck at our first meeting when – having been introduced by Mr Tait – he set us some work and then announced he was going into the staff room behind the physics lab to “have a ferret in the cupboard”. He was never allowed to forget that poor choice of phrase. A couple of years later he very nearly made me the first sixth former to ever be put in detention. Having nipped over the Green Dragon on a snowy winter lunchtime, Tony and I were coming into the physics class with a couple of concealed snowballs. Tony sent his flying towards Mr Samuel and it smashed against the blackboard startling the teacher so he started to turn meaning my lobbed ball of squeezed mush caught him right on his earole. I was instantly thrown in detention and had to beg for most of the lesson to prevent it happening.

Physics clearly features heavily in my memories because I am reminded of trip to the Science Museum when we were in the 4^th, 5^th and 6^th form. I think we must have gone several times because it became a progressive event. The first trips were quite standard where we trooped off the coach out front of the museum and respectably paraded around the exhibits, usually the basement where all the active, participatory displays were. Later, I recall we trooped off the coach through the front door of the museum and immediately decanted through a side door to the Toy and Hoop where we played pool for a couple of hours before we reversed our path and climbed back on the coach cramming our mouths with Polo mints.

Another trip, not physics but basketball, organised by the delightful Kim, a games teacher fresh out of college and not much older than us. Having helped us establish or develop basketball in the school (It still wasn’t that common back in 1979/80) took us to see the Harlem Globetrotters at Wembley Arena. Her boyfriend Dave – a policeman I believe – came along to help and bless his heart, took us directly to the bar on arrival at the Arena. l I don’t think Kim was too happy with him that night!

Basketball was also at the heart of some fab memories a couple of years running when Helen Morgan and I started the 24 hour basketball marathons at St Mary’s to raise money for charity. We got loads of help from the usual suspects and raised a fair old whack but had a lot of fun doing it too. What pleased me most is that those marathons carried on for years afterwards.

So there you go, a few fleeting memories of seven years of my life amongst some of the loveliest people in the world. If you are reading this and you are one of those people, I love you loads!

As you may have read elsewhere in this blog, my mum’s father left Norfolk for London to join the police. Though she was born in North London, my mum spent much of her childhood back in Norfolk as an evacuee and when my nan was in the sanatorium. I too spent some considerable part of my childhood in Norfolk – well only 22 weeks to be honest but it seemed like half a lifetime.

The reason was that we spent our annual family holiday staying with my Great Aunt in Gorleston. Two weeks every August – no choice of dates because although my dad was office based both the firms he worked for in those days revolved around factories and they shut down, so everyone had to take their holidays.

Gorleston, for those that don’t know it, is the gentle, older sister of Great Yarmouth on the south side of the Yare. Once in Suffolk until the Victorians reordered everything, it is much less gaudy than glittering Yarmouth but a jewel in Norfolk’s crown. Don’t tell everyone but Gorleston beach is one of the best in the country.

I was born in the summer of 1963 and we didn’t go away that year so my first trip to Gorleston would have been the summer of 1964. In those early days my dad didn’t drive – he cycled to work at Websters in Waltham Cross or got the bus in the worst of winter. So to go to Gorleston we went by train.

Once upon time Great Yarmouth had no less than three railway terminus but the first, Beach Station, closed in 1959. We started out taking the train to Southtown Station but Saturday traffic along the Southtown Road was so heavy we later went into Lowestoft and were picked up by a family friend. At one point you could get a train right into Gorleston but they shut that line too. Whichever route we took, I was as excited as you could be. I loved travelling on trains in those days. Nowadays I avoid public transport with all my might. I had four years of commuting into London daily (I know, I know, some of you have probably commuted for 30 years) and that was more than enough for me. If I do ever catch the train from Norwich to London now, that last half mile as you approach Liverpool Street, though much has changed, still evokes a very happy memory in me.

And those holidays were such happy times. My Aunt Flo was a lovely lady. Widowed in 1957, her late husband Tom Styles was a local councillor with a special interest in education from whom the Styles School was named shortly after his death. She always had a dog. I remember Fly, a black and white mongrel, Gay the Mexican Chihuahua, and Heidi a miniature schnauzer who came to live with us when my aunt died. Gay went everywhere with aunt Flo. When we were up and out and about at stately homes and other amusements aunt Flo would be with us and Gay would be hidden in her shopping bag. I don’t ever remember her being caught and evicted.

We obviously spent a considerable amount of time on the beach. We walked there of course. We might hire a windbreak and a couple of deckchairs but more than likely we would just lay out a few towels. More often than not we would be sat there in our plastic macs too. Do you remember those semi-translucent coloured macs so popular in the sixties.

If not on the beach we might go off somewhere but it would have to be on a bus route. Kessingland Wildlife Park is now the full-grown Africa Alive but then it was a small, almost shoddy, little zoo. I remember a mynah bird in the car park that said “Ave you got a loight boy?” No-one else I speak to does. Who knows?

And of course we would go across the river to Yarmouth. I think this was mostly in the evenings. Gorleston had amusement arcades, the fabulous outdoor swimming pool, the best ice cream in the world at Della Spinna, so met our daytime needs quite well. Yarmouth though had the theatres. We used to walk there too. Set out early evening and walk alongside the river on the Gorleston side until you got to one the ferries. I think it was the lower ferry aka the Birds Eye ferry as in the daytime it took dozens of workers across from Gorleston to the Birds Eye factory on the South Denes. I may be getting my ferries in a muddle. I remember it being a motor boat maybe 20 feet long. Took 20 odd people at a time including a few bikes. I think the fare was 2 old pence. I could Google this but it doesn’t really matter.

Then we would walk along the river on the Yarmouth side before cutting in to the town or the sea front. There was a theatre on Britannia Pier, the Aquarium at the end of the Golden Mile and others along the promenade itself but it is the ABC I remember most. A beautiful building (It reminded me of a giant old-fashioned wireless or a jukebox) long since ripped asunder. We saw Freddie and the Dreamers there one year. I remember them doing this sketch with them sitting in a car on stage using back projection to look as if they were moving. The following year R!lf H#rr@s did essentially the same gag but he was in a wheelchair with one leg in plaster.

After the show we would go to the market. Even at that hour (10pm) the chip stalls were still open and doing great business. We had our portion of Great Yarmouth chips. They were – and still are – the best chips in the world. Sorry veggie friends but it’s because they are fried in beef dripping.

After that it was to the bus stop to get a number 8 blue bus back to Gorleston. In those days all the buses carried the name of a character from David Copperfield (which Dickens set in the area) and we had great fun guessing which bus we might get.

My aunt died in the spring of 1975, quite suddenly. I was devastated (As was my mum). It is the first time I remember feeling grief even though I had lost close relatives before. That year we booked a caravan in Dorset. It was OK! The following year we went away with other family to Pontins at Camber Sands. It was OK! The following year we booked a chalet in Norfolk. We were happy again!

22 weeks isn’t long in the scheme of things but it was long enough to lay down some incredibly happy, indelible memories. Much as I am nostalgic I can usually keep the past and present in their correct places but, oh, what I would sacrifice to just go back to those glorious summers in Gorleston for a few more hours.

I wanted to write something pertaining to International Women’s Day and after a few failed attempts I realised that I had already written a tribute to the most influential woman in my life. So today I have decided to publish the eulogy I wrote and delivered at my mum’s funeral in April 2017.

Eulogy

Our mother was the very heart of our family. A loving wife to dad for 50 years; a caring daughter who saw her father die aged just 52 and then looked after her mother who lived to 94; and of course a mum to me and Julie until just recently.

At first glance she didn’t seem to have any hobbies or interests but when you look more closely you see that we – her family – were her passion. Us and the garden and pets. Oh, and Guinness of course. So, whilst dad had his photography; his stamp collecting; his woodwork; and his pals at the Royal Naval Association, mum was content being the rock around which the rest of us were anchored.

Despite our Norfolk connections, mum was a Tottenham girl. Born there in 1935 because her father had joined the police in London. He had  wanted to join the police in Yarmouth where he lived but since his parents ran a pub there it would have been seen as a conflict of interest. There he met my nan – her own roots in West Norfolk – married and gave birth to Jean, mum, and then Ray, the little brother here with us today.

And then the Luftwaffe intervened and started raining bombs down on North London so the three kids were dispatched to a great Aunt and Uncle in Terrington St Clement. After mum unchained their dog as she didn’t think it fair to keep him in a kennel, they were pretty much dispatched straight back to the air-raid sirens and gas-masks of London.

Later mum went back to Norfolk and stayed in Yarmouth – until the Germans started bombing there too – and then spent much of the war as a bomb-dodger in a riverside bungalow at Repps living with her grandfather. She would have been a carer even then as Henry was afflicted by rheumatoid arthritis and moved about the wooden bungalow on wooden chair with wheels fitted to it. Mum vividly remembered breaking the ice of the Thurne in order to get a bucket of water to flush the toilet with.

Other hobbies whilst she lived in rural Norfolk were jumping out of windmills and falling in dykes – that’s what they call a ditch round here.

Even when the Nazi’s had been dealt with, mum still spent a lot of time in Yarmouth whilst nan recovered from TB at the sanatorium in Ware but eventually she settled in Goffs Oak, where granddad had been posted as a ‘reward’ for his wartime policing in Tottenham. Living at the police station by the Co-op, mum would meet a young sailor at the bus stop when he was home on leave and eventually, after he was discharged in 1954, they began walking out.

Hilda and Reg married in 1958 and since dad was a Smith too, mum didn’t have to change her name. Growing up with two nans both called Edith Smith was perfectly natural to Julie and me. However, the circumstances did cause mum some problems as she was frequently told in a condescending tone “no dear, your maiden name is your name before you were married”! That same marriage also caused mum to have to leave Barclays Bank where she had been working as married women couldn’t maintain a career too. Mum had been based at Finsbury Park branch where Arsenal banked their takings….in cash….after a game. Mum hated the Saturday afternoon shift.

Julie arrived in 1959 whilst mum and dad were living in Bury Green. Then when grandad died in 1961, they moved in with my nan in The Drive where they would live for the next 40 odd years. Dad’s mum lived a few doors away and we were fortunate to be surrounded by family but also good friends and neighbours. One of those childhood friends, Steph, wrote to my sister recently and said “I often think how lucky I was growing up in The Drive, spending our time around ‘the block’ or ‘the square’. What a lovely simple existence it was”

And it was a simple existence but one that mum and dad had to work so hard at to get right for us. We are truly grateful for all the sacrifices they made when we were growing up. Though I’m still fairly bitter about not getting an ‘Eagle-Eye’ Action Man at Christmas 1971!

Mum worked for most of her life. Something she was able to do because having family all around us meant there was no shortage of baby-sitters or lunch providers. For a while she was a kind of home-help for ‘the old lady’ in Cuffley. I cannot tell you her name because she was just ‘the old lady’ to us. I accompanied mum on her visits from time to time and would often give ‘the old lady’ a full check-up with my Palitoy First Aid kit whilst mum cleaned and cooked. Soon after that mum became a clerk for Tesco’s fruit and veg buyers in Soper’s Road, Cuffley: a job she stayed in for 17 years.

One thing that mum did enjoy were our family holidays. For years they were spend at Aunt Flo’s in Gorleston. Two weeks every year though it seemed to me I spent half my childhood in Norfolk. Thankfully dad’s passion for photography means we are left with a detailed record of these times and the sheer joy is recorded for posterity but perhaps most of all in mum’s carefree smiles. Family was always important to mum and my abiding memories of those holidays are things like sitting in Great Yarmouth churchyard eating a peach off the market on the way to see Aunt Lucy and Uncle Jimmy.

In 1975 Aunt Flo died and so for the first time ever we holidayed outside of Norfolk – Dorset as it happens – but by 1977 we were booked into a chalet in Mundesley. Mum was never happier then when she was here.

As I said earlier mum also loved animals even adopting a squirrel after the kids next door threw stones at it and injured it. It didn’t go down well with nanny when it ran up and down the curtains shredding them with its sharp claws. She also took in a retired ferret but it was dogs she loved most of all. There were many over the years but I think Honey – the pedigree cocker spaniel – and Fennel – the English Setter – were the most special.

Honey was possible because around 1970 dad changed jobs and got what was a substantial pay rise for him. A pedigree dog became affordable at last but we also got a car, a freezer, and a colour television too. The TV was demanded by mum when she discovered that the Wizard of Oz was to be shown at Christmas for the first time; another rare insight into mum’s likes and loves.

In later years, as Nan’s health deteriorated, life became a bit more of a drudge. Mum’s own health was far from perfect at times but she soldiered on because that’s what she always did. Eventually she was persuaded to let nan go into a care home. However, she visited several times a week and was not going to go far away. It seemed her pipedream of retiring back to Norfolk was not going to come to pass. When nan died in 2003 even I thought it was too late to make such a significant lifestyle change at that stage of her life. I was wrong. Mum and dad came up to Norfolk; put a deposit on their bungalow off plan and within weeks were living in a rented property in Briston whilst the bungalow was built.

They managed to enjoy 5 precious years in Norfolk and we celebrated my dad’s 80^th and their Golden Wedding Anniversary in a party at the Blakeney Hotel just a few weeks before cancer took our dad from us. And I suppose if I’m honest, that was the end of true happiness for mum. They may not have been the most demonstrative couple ever but the love was implicit.

A little while after dad died it was clear that mum was finding it harder to look after herself so Julie took an opportunity for early retirement and became mum’s full-time carer. They filled some of the time by taking drives; nostalgic ones to Yarmouth and Gorleston; outings to mum’s favourite Blakeney; or visits to the few relatives remaining like Joyce down near Beccles. They even discovered the bakery at Bircham Windmill in these later years which mum referred to as the doughnut place which became a regular trip out.

Mum’s care was supplemented by a lovely group of Community nurses who came in regularly to change her dressings and generally keep an eye on her. We are very grateful for their attentions and happy to see some of them here today.

Then in 2012 as the arthritis really took hold mum broke her leg. It was an accident from which she never properly recovered and her health declined to the point where her passing was really a blessing for her and for us.

We shall miss her of course but just as we spent so much happy time talking to mum about her past, Julie and I will spend many future hours talking about mum and flicking through the countless family photos we have. We will remember the love she gave our family; the happiness she brought to so many; the importance she put on the simple things in life. If we are lucky, we will be half as strong as she was.

Hazel and I weren’t going to get married nor celebrate our coming together in any way. We simply didn’t feel it necessary. I don’t remember when we changed our mind but I think what changed our minds was that some people seemed sceptical about Hazel’s expanded sexuality. They seemed cynical that our relationship would last. So we decided to do something to show them we were serious. Also, we wanted a party!

We didn’t need to get legally married and decided on a Commitment Ceremony. I had always wanted to get married by the water so we started looking at venues that would suit. At this stage we were still living in the flat in Roydon, Essex and we looked at places by the river in Ware and at a water garden in Bedfordshire. Eventually we considered Norfolk and the Broads and settled on a small hotel by Sutton Staithe near Stalham. That gave us the perfect excuse to have our honeymoon in Norfolk as by then Hazel’s illness had got bad enough that we had given up travelling by air. I had my eye on a lovely little riverside property on the Bure at Horning. It was a sixties property called Deerfoot that I had passed many times and was in love with. I’m glad we stayed there because within a couple of years they had pulled it down and replaced with it a far less interesting property.

What we didn’t know at the time was that come the summer I would have walked away from my job at Fitzpatrick and Hazel and I had upped sticks and moved to Norfolk. So in the end we lived, got married, and had our honeymoon within a five mile radius.

The planning began. We didn’t want a traditional wedding in any way, shape or form. It wasn’t our thing. So no blancmange dress, no bridesmaids, no speeches, and certainly no religion. Instead we looked into Humanist ceremonies. It was an interesting exploration into Humanism itself. I had long considered myself a Humanist without actually looking into what it meant. Of course, ultimately it is nothing more than a philosophy and we don’t belong to any Humanist organisation – we don’t feel the need. Besides, I have long followed the Groucho Marx view that I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member!

The next thing on our check list was music. We wanted something different. Hazel and I both scoured the internet looking for something a little different. We rejected find after find until we chanced upon the Cosmic Sausages. We managed to book them though they were a bit reluctant to commit as they were touring Italy just beforehand and hoped to extend their tour. Finally they agreed.

And that was it. All planning done and the day came around. It was delightful to see all our friends together. Very few invited were absent. The ceremony at noon and wedding breakfast straight-after made up the entire ceremony. There was no separate evening reception so all our family and friends were there for the whole event.

The day began with rain and it looked set to stay. We had a back-up plan to have the ceremony indoors but I was disappointed. I really wanted to get married on the Staithe close to the water. And at about three minutes to 12 as we were assembling people in the lounge, the rain stopped and the sun came out. We dashed to the Staithe – well some dashed, some whizzed on their mobility scooters and some just brought up the rear but we held the ceremony on the grass with barely a spot of rain. It resumed later when we got back inside but we made our aspirations and commitments in the dry.

And so the food and the music. As things got underway the Cosmic Sausages assembled just by my dad’s table. Playing a light jazz they were still quite loud in his ear and I think he was a bit pissed off that I had placed them right there. Of course, after a couple of numbers they started to do their thing and moved off circulating the room. To try and describe their act is difficult. How do you accurately describe a band dressed in Hawaiian shirts and plastic snorkels, carrying the double bass like a coffin, whilst playing the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang theme? One of the enduring memories I have of that afternoon was watching my dad, now quite pacified, playing spoons with the band. Thankfully it was captured on camera.

It was a wonderful day. Not only were Hazel and I able to show our commitment to each other we were able to do it in front of our friends and family. I think we rather shot ourselves in the foot with the Cosmic Sausages though as they were the major talking point after the event.

And so, at the heady hour of 5pm, Hazel and I shot off to Deerfoot, a 10 minute drive by road and left our guests to it. I hope they enjoyed themselves as much as we did.