Loopback time.

As I said this part of my story was going to concentrate on my schooldays. I would then leap back to the age of twelve and comment on my non-school activities. I stayed at school until the age of 17, though I was in the sixth form. The reason for this was that my birthday fell in November. I was always one of the eldest in any class. I had taken my mock exams but was then ill with a chest infection for a few of them. I used to get chest infections about three times a year and they would kick me into touch for over 2 weeks at a time. I had many sick periods; this did not mean I was unhealthy. Looking back from today’s perspective I think I had a mild form of asthma. I have researched and there are certain families of fungal spore that become aggressive at peak times throughout the year. I feel now that I was sensitive to one of these strains. Since giving up smoking 14 years ago my health has improved and now I suffer less with chest problems.

I had little idea of what I wanted to do when I left school; I was good at many subjects but never brilliant. College and university were not an option. As far as my father was concerned I would stay on until 18 then get a job. This will all become apparent later. For now feel safe in the knowledge that I left school and had a job lined up for November. A job I would stay with for nearly 25 years. It was one of the best you could ever wish for if you share my outlook and attitude towards life. It will be a fantastic journey I can assure you.

Last day at school was nasty. Lots of sad farewells, hand shaking and threats. Many promises of keeping in touch and meeting up in years to come…...NOT!! The people that had bullied me in my early years had stopped as I grew to over six foot three inches in height. But my memory is like that of an Elephant. Being from a Sicilian household my father had taught me some very simple rules about life. One of the most important, which I adhere to even now, was that “Revenge is best served as a cold dish”

So there I was having my blazer ripped to shreds along with many other boys. There were lots of fake bundles taking place and no teachers in sight. This was the last time I would see many of these young men. I had chosen two targets in advance. Blonde, neat and pretty looking. They had been my main antagonists during my first few years in the school. My plan was a simple one. I walked up to each in turn and as their smiling faces turned towards my tap on their shoulder they met 182lbs of my fist in their face. They both fell like sacks of potatoes and I simply walked off into the crowd. To this day I bet they never knew who laid them out, but I did and it felt good. Please do not judge me as being aggressive. I have never been consistently aggressive in my life and neither do I have hate inside me. These incidents were the venting of poison and they helped firm up a foundation beneath one span of my life. My fist hurt for days though and I wonder if I broke a nose or loosened some teeth?

The end of your schooling is traumatic on the one hand and yet an exciting event on the other. It’s like turning to chapter 18 in the book of your life to find that from that point onwards the author has changed. In many ways another person will now be writing the book. Looking at the future ‘you’ from a different perspective. Writing with a very unsteady hand at first but just like the previous author he will gain confidence once he knows more about you. You now continue your journey on a deep and foggy ocean because it is springtime again. You have no idea where this ship that you sail will take you because you are not steering it yet. You have just come on board, packed away the baggage of your life so far and have concerns about the voyage ahead. Though no one has told you this. Not that you would have listened in any case. In your head you see adventure, exploration and freedom. The reality is you are entering the unknown. You do not know the rules and you feel immortal.

All this will be for much later in The Collector’s gathered pictures. We need to flick the book back a few chapters and read the parts written in Lemon juice. You will need a hot iron though!

A Ripping Time.

School went at a pace. I was never on course to be the cleverest of persons but all my reports said “Could do better…” I assume from this that my educators had sensed something within me of which I was unawares. Why make a comment like “Could…” without telling me that they felt I had dormant abilities and giving me the push I needed. It is all about pushing and this should not just be from the teachers. You need a little poke from your Mum and Dad as well (no pun intended). I think the same applies today. I do urge my children to be the best they can at school. The pressures on them are much more than in my day, I can see that. So not only do I push and encourage them I also warn them of their future quality of life if they do not apply themselves now. We cannot just rely on school to educate. We must lead by example and pass on our wisdom. Whether your siblings take note is another matter, at least you tried. It could have been a life changing experience for me if I had been pushed harder. I may have been a Vet or Doctor as I always had a keen interest in animals, not just the pickled variety! I could have become a Musician, Artist, Dramatist, and Writer. The list goes on and on. Only now when I look back can I see that I had a little of all those talents and more. There was very little discussion about further education in our house. My father was hard working and all he wanted was for me to stay at school until 18, pass exams and get a job. So groomed for further education I was not.

Also I suffer from one of those boring life skills that you just have. I am a classic jack of all trades yet master to none. I, and others around me, know that if any interest or hobby takes my fancy I will achieve a level of competence that many will struggle with. Then I get bored when I have to put a bit more effort into moving to the next level or I meander into another alley. Most that know me comment on the ease with which I adapt and achieve. Why? I do not know. I give you one example. A band wanted a songwriter but did not need another singer/guitarist. They were crying out for a keyboard player. So I went shopping, bought a keyboard and some books and dabbled. I quickly realised that playing by ear as I did was an advantage though using ones fingers was better…..I jest….lol!!. I found it so bloody easy to play because I simply looked at the keys and chords as patterns and shapes. I learn`t some songs and off we went gigging. Now I admit that if the rest of the band cocked up or went free style I was in trouble. I either picked up the pattern when I could or went for it vocally (Not in Latin though!) Amazing times and even today I doubt the band were aware of what a buzz I got from just being there and in some cases simply making a noise. That is another story though, for later. Back to school! I did warn you I would wander far from the subject at hand.

In metalwork I had a good time. It was hands on creative environment with just a hint of danger and a balcony seat on the industrial revolution. The teacher was brilliant and from Wales. Say hello to Mr Williams.

He was your archetypal blacksmith. He had really massive hands, white hair and an angry aggressive stance. He had a huge girth and was very strong. Just the stature needed to bash and meld metal around with large hammers, tongs and a forge. Yes….we actually had a forge with bellows and coke all a glory. I really did enjoy these lessons. We used to have to wear aprons and if given the task of working the hot coals you would wear an apron made from a thick brown leather hide, so cool and difficult to walk around in. In point of fact you would waddle in it.
I made an adjustable spanner which I still have somewhere in the shed. The sense of achievement I had making Whitworth bolts and threaded nuts to fit them. Though most of mine turned out wonky, it was the fact that until I performed my magic. They were just pieces of metal without function and now they had a job to do. We experimented in coating hot metal with plastic. The first machine of its type in the school. This was done in an air brick enclosure filled with powdered plastic and powered by a vacuum exhaust. I made some 1960’s style coat hangers, they had very brightly painted round wooden ends and very angular metal fixings. Learning about tempering metal and what the colours meant. Realising that a bastard file had nothing to do with Royalty. Making spike encrusted rings and knuckle dusters just because you could. This was as good as it could ever have been, until Mr William’s wife died unexpectedly and over the coming months he lost the will to live. I am not sure but I think he left the school and at some point committed suicide. I have a whiff of a memory and hope it is wrong.

Sitting here now I have an image of the workshop. It was at the back of the new building on the ground floor. It had a very high ceiling and lots of windows. This was one of the sunniest rooms in the school and had an odourous tang of metal swarf, coal and oil. We may have been young and naive in most other classes but here amongst the lathes, forges and machines we were the builders of ships, bridges and empires. I tell you now reader, there was never a fight in any of these classes and we all worked together as a team. A fantastic time.

The next door workshops were for wood working. You had a choice between the two classes but were not allowed to do both. I got round this by opting to do wood and stone carving as one of my art subjects. I was also a decent potter. My favorite method of making a pot was using slabs and coils. I would start off with a base and a mass of balled clay. Then working from the bottom up, similar to the wheel method, I would flatten the balls into slabs and mould them onto the base. Fixing, joining and smoothing them with slip and water. My pottery simply grew. I let it take me wherever the fancy wanted. I had very little if any preconceived design in mind. All I knew was it had to fit in the kiln. I made some memorable pieces. Like the exploded head.

This was a hollow head, eyes, nose, lips and ears. I would make it complete then imagine a bullet entering the clay somewhere and I would rip and tear the clay to show an exit wound. It was pottery in action. My teacher loved it and after it was fired it was on display for many months until someone complained they thought it grotesque. So I packed it off home where my mate Dino liked it so much I was given my first commission. I made another but it turned out a lot better so good I kept them both. I still have some of my pottery in the garage and may take some pictures and post them here later.

In stone carving we were tasked to produce some pieces that had a mathematical theme. Very odd now I look back. The teacher is a vague memory but I see a small stringy man with glasses. I cannot remember his name and he only took an interest in my work once. As I said maths was the theme, how the hell do you represent maths in stone? Well I chose the triangle. After all the shape had a lot to do with maths and could also be represented as a solid. I drew up the design, etched it into the block of white sandstone with a B2 pencil and started to chip away with chisel. At some point I remember calling the teacher across because I had found a mark in the stone at some depth. He wet the stone, took out a magnifying glass and said that I had found a fossil. He was quite excited about this and tasked me to attempt to chisel it out complete. My stone piece was about to change. I ended up getting the fossil out and giving it to the teacher. I also ended up with a hole dug deep into the stone. So I modified it, smoothed it and turned it into a hollow shape that went completely through the block.

The teacher spent many days cleaning up the fossil. It turned out to be a complete conical shell and he displayed it a glass cabinet along side his stone samples. At some point I gave up stone carving to concentrate on my pottery. However many years later during an open day visit I saw my lump of stone in pride of place on the windowsill outside the head masters office. Someone had fixed it to a piece of polished wood. It did look good but no one believed I had carved it. Still I know I did and I also knew why the hole was there. I wonder if it is still in the school. I have never been back to visit as an adult though I do have an entry on Friends United. Maybe one day an ex pupil will organise a meet! Though I admit I did not have many friends in school the two I remember best were Jim and Iqubal.

Jim was of Greek origin, Iqubal was from Pakistan and my roots were Sicilian. What a mixture. Jim was very strong and looked a little like a short George Michael. Iqubal was the opposite and looked nothing like GM apart from maybe the tan. We had some bloody good times and did lots of things together outside of school. That will be for later though when I jump back to my 12th year. The strongest memories I have of us three in school was when Iqubal bought an Mk1 1600 GT Cortina. It was dark green a little tatty, went like a bat out of hell and he used it as a minicab in the evenings.

Jim was very hairy and decided to shave off his chest hair. On a Monday he showed us his smooth skin and said he would have a better chance of pulling a bird. On Thursday the hair was growing back fast and he came to school with bristles poking through his white shirt. We nicknamed him The Hedgehog. This did not help his pulling skills. They were my best mates and I often think of them.

I have just cooked dinner for the family, fillet steak, mash and mushies. We are going out for a small birthday get together and I need to have a shower of suffer the wrath of “Her indoors” I will sign off now, be good.

The Flobby....ha ha ha !!

School is the best time of your life we are told. In a sense it is but I think it is because you are growing as a person, learning and interacting more than at any other time. You are under pressure not just from hormones but you have standards to attain, goals to reach and a definite timescale for the first time in your life. This is when the foundations of your future are laid. Be they deep and firm or shallow and prone to shifting you can never return to this rooting time. You gather within you a collection of experiences and emotions that are you. There are other stages for you to play on but this is the most diverse in cause and effect.

So let us get on with my senior school collected memories. We all have pet names for teachers. Some reflect the outer person, others the habits or traits they have but most are passed on through your peers. In many cases you never really know how the nick names came about only that they apply. There was, for example, in our English class structure a senior teacher more at home in the office than in front of the chalkboard. When called upon he would take class for an indisposed colleague. We called him The General. We all knew how to play him and no matter what stage of the curriculum we were supposed to be attending to all that was needed was for someone in class to ask, “What did you do in the war sir?” That was it! he was off down memory lane spouting stories whilst sitting back in his seat with his feet on the desk. Staring out the window at some foggy battlefield in France or Holland. Swishing his ruler as if was a sword and brandishing the board wiper as a hand grenade. Most of the class dozed but a few like me were fascinated. The General. Proper name for a proper gent. I also remember him having the biggest horn-rimmed glasses ever and always wearing tweed.

Breath!! Now this was a nasty piece of work. Not only did the name fit but this old teacher had sadistic tendencies. His favorite method of punishing naughty boys was with a long metal ruler. It was either crashed onto your desk as he walked between aisles, stalking us. Or he used to rap you across the knuckles. A serious offense like passing a not so secret note between desks would start with a very close face to face talking too, followed by the ruler. I think he was a smoker and most probably ate lots of baked beans at the same time. He reeked of the odorous compound of stale tobacco, halitosis, sweat and unclean suits. A classic case of his bark being worse than his bite.

Boo Boo was one of my favorites. He was the head of French and I suspect a part-time werewolf. He was short, stocky and dark skinned. He didnt just have a 7 o’clock shadow. He had one at midday and another at going home time. Rumours from the staff room of him having shaves in between classes were well founded. Though we never saw him disrobed you only had to witness the dark hair poking through the shirt buttons, out the collar and from below his cuffs. To know Boo Boo (named after Yogi bears mate) was very hairy. I suspect he would have had to be combed instead of dried after showering. He was also one of the house masters.

There were four houses in the school. My house was Red and called Newton Macaulay. All the houses were named after famous scientists. Each house had a notice board. Our notice board was most popular during the start of day. The house master, Mr Wallis, would beam with pride from his office. To this day I firmly believe that no teacher knew the reason for the boards appeal. It had nothing to do with what was on it but what was above it! As I said earlier the new building was a product of 1960`s design. The staircases were open and slatted. If you stood beneath and looked up you could see shoes, socks, trousers, skirts, stockings, legs and on a good day……. underwear. The main staff room was at the top of the stairs where Red house had their notice board. Fights always broke out when Miss Wright, one of Boo Boos staff would ascend.

Miss Wright. Wow! She was called “Legs” Do I need to expand further. Picture the era, the fashion, the fact she taught French and was fresh out of teacher training. Her lesson was the only one I remember where we would rush to get in the front row. She was quite short and whenever she reached up to write the date at the top of the blackboard in unison the front row would all fumble their pencils. One of the main bartering points at smokers corner was what colour her knickers were going to be the next day.

I am sitting here glass in hand as usual and something just popped into my head…..FLOBBIES. Now I bet most of you readers do not know what a Flobby is. Allow me to educate and imaginate. A classroom…the students studying hard all a scribble and a scratch of head. The teacher …….strutting like a prize cockerel…..hands folded to the rear……black board wiper grasped in dusty fist. The swish of jacket and trouser as he passes….the silent FLOBBY assault form those seated. Unawares the teacher grunts our smirks into silence. Even today I praise the young pupil who invented THE FLOBBY. I warn you now do not allow your minors to view what I am about to reveal for fear of a FLOBBY resurgence. For one I do not think todays clothes could adsorb a FLOBBY barrage. Ok first your target must be moving away from you facing front. You suck up some spit and force it through your teeth a few times to aireate. Using your index finger you run it across your lips depositing a FLOBBY onto it, you are now primed. As the target passes you simply raise your finger then quickly point at the targets back. The FLOBBY flies through the air and lightly adheres to the cloth. Success!! Sniggering applause from your classmates, which surges like a wave as the teacher passes them and they see your finger-work. But the beauty of a Flobby is that as it dries it fades to an outline of its former white foamy appearance. Only close inspection by Mrs Teacher or fellow staff would advance a cause for concern.

The GROGGY is a different kettle of fish though. This beast does leave a mark…..a green one perchance……very obvious….so best used near to the end of the day and rarely. Usually the best GROGGIES come from pupils with a slight cold or sinus problem. Do I need to illuminate. Yecch!! What a subject.

There I must leave you kind reader. I have left a trail of apostrophe errors for those of you with and editors eye… ;) Later I will continue with my collected senior school memories. My mind is awash with images and I am smiling as I just saw Breath copping a barrage of FLOBBIES whilst wearing a dark jacket, I think a few GROGGIES may have gone in as well. By the way please!! leave a comment if you wish me to expand any sections. I am shortening them for fear of boring you. I will not publish a comment if asked.

The return.

London again, back to the streets that were the fodder of my growing years. Back to roads, alleys and railway embankments where we playing knock down Ginger. Back to Clapham Junction and running to pop our heads over the parapets of the bridges as the steam trains thundered under us, getting the odd ember in our eye and returning home smelling like a coal fire. I returned to discover my old school mates had become petty criminals. I wonder today if it was not for the fact of our moving, if I would have followed the same path. The sad thing is that later on three of my acquaintances would die of drug related causes.

There was no opening for me at the local Grammar school so I attended the comprehensive. Once again I was in for a rough time. My middle England accent did not help. Factions and friendships were in place already. A hard time once more but what the hell. The school was divided into two areas. The lower school, which was housed in an ancient Gothic towered building with a massive Saint George slaying the Dragon statue above the main entrance, was like something from a Dracula novel. It was surrounded by a common and a new high rise estate. The upper school was all very 1960`s. Glass, metal, bold colours and very square. To get this section out of the way I will now précis 6 years of life and then hop back for the non school bit. A collection of memories that goes as follows.

I began to learn to play the Cello, the teacher was a snuff addict he reeked of it. All down his waistcoat and all in his beard. I then went on to do classical percussion; snare and timpani were my forte. I once got slippered for practicing, as I had been told to, in a room next to the lower school head masters office. We had two head masters. I joined the choir and sang the descant to “Oh come all yea faithful” in Latin. I can still remember a snippet today. I was very good at art and pottery. There used to be a tuck shop and smokers corner was around the back of the pottery sheds. Because I was from a Catholic family I was excused RE and took extra art instead. I was good potter and stone carver. The pottery teacher was a communist; he used to go on marches and would throw copper pennies that he had sharpened on a grindstone at the police. He and a few coloured friends of mine would smoke joints in the kiln room. Of course I was unaware of the odour of marijuana at that time and thought them to be French or Russian cigarettes.

The entire gym class was slippered by the teacher because someone had a crap in the showers and didn’t own up. He was a short stringy little imp and lined us all up against a wall. He told us where he was going to start the punishment. So as you can guess all the big bully boy cowards pushed themselves to the furthest end, he knew this and once the line had form and we had all assumed the position he announced that the slipper was going to move faster and harder as he moved down the line. I was near the start; I can still hear the whacks echoing around the gym and the odd whimper. We all knew had done the dirty and luckily he was very late in the slippering order.

My mother joined the school as a dinner lady. I had bigger portions and had to eat all my greens. I did enjoy the food in those days. At home we ate a lot of Italian dishes so it was a change. I really used to love semolina or “Frogspawn” as it was called. With a big dollop of strawberry jam in the middle it was gluttonous. Mum left after a while as her illness was worsening and I returned to the tuck shop queue and Wagon Wheel lunches. Do you remember how big they used to be compared to nowadays? You could have used them on a wagon!!
I joined the film society and made a film called “Silver Toe” it was a spy film and I played the part of the jailor. I remember the first screening of it in the main hall and the entire school cheering as I was beaten up on camera. I don’t think it was personal, more a reaction to the story line, my superb acting and the fact that the tray I was using as a prop just happened to have “Frogspawn” as the main dish and this was rubbed into my face. The strawberry jam mixture made it appear as though my brains had been forced through my nose. The best zoom shot ever. My film making went and we made a cartoon using a stop gap camera. This was a fun time because we experimented with colour film and did all the processing and printing ourselves. We had an exhibition that went down a storm.

I cried when one of my art teachers left the school, Mr Beecroft. He looked a little like Salvador Dali and was very into surrealism. I blame him for warping my artistic talents. He was a good teacher and I think it was because he encouraged my art that I thought of him as a friend. I still feel sadness as I write this; it is one of those collected memories that hold a trauma and even to this day I wonder what became of him? Did he have a good life? I hope so.

During one open day I was in the biology labs to present some experiments to visitors. This was so funny I hope you can grasp the imagery from what I am about to write. Imagine if you will an old wooden paneled room with shelf upon shelf of jars full of specimens that we had opened up to reveal inner workings. One group of jars held the remains of a dog. The head of this Labrador was floating skinless in preservative alongside some paws and feet. One visitor, a lady, stared at the head for a long time. She went away and came back with the caretaker and one of the teachers. There was some tearful discussion and it turns out that she was a friend of the part time caretaker and during a visit to the school her dog had gone missing. They never found it and assumed it lost. It had in fact drowned in the open air swimming pool and the full time caretaker, totally unawares, had taken it to the biology section where the teacher and some sixth formers had carried out a dissection. The headmaster had to apologise. It was the look in the eyes of the specimen that she had recognised, a look that she remembered from when her pet had wanted to go walkies. I promise you we didn't laugh until she had left.

I will stop there for now only because it is late and I have a long day tomorrow. Sitting here in my air conditioned room with an empty bottle of wine and reminiscing is very hard on the soul. All the emotions I carried through those growing years are but a veil away from reality. Thinking of them now and running the film fast forward is very tiring. My head aches and for obvious reasons I feel sad. Must be the thought of me singing all those high notes in chapel dressed in a long frock with frilly collar.

Later XXX

Chapter Three. Upheaved.

Welcome once again. I do hope you are enjoying this as much as I am. The previous chapter two took me to the age of about 9. School was not going to well; my acquaintances were the seediest of characters. Together we decided on a competition to see who could get caned the most in one week. I mean of course corporal punishment not drinking to excess, falling in the gutter and getting puked over by your mates. Guess who won? When I am challenged and I apply myself you had better give me space. Sixteen times, sixteen thwacks across the hand, it is still a record. Mr Harris the headmaster asked for a meeting with my parents. My Nan went along with me as Mum was unwell and Dad was at work. I can still see Mr Harris’s red face when I informed him that it had all been a youthful competition.

Not amused I was on report and for a while I applied myself to schoolwork and received many reward cards. I still have them somewhere in the loft. One in particular I liked. It was for art, I was good at art. The card depicts a pre-historic hunter carrying a massive stag across his hairy shoulders. He is walking down a fern covered hill towards a smoky settlement and looking back at me. His face shows a serene contentment.

Not long after this the family moved to Oldbury near Birmingham. My grandparents were moving here from Sicily. Also my father’s sisters lived there. Two new build houses were bought and I was uprooted. An odd sensation and one you have no option but to come to terms with. This was a difficult time for me. I was the alien in the community, the unknown entity. The southerner with a foreign name. I remember some good times but most were hard. I had many fights. I immersed myself in my schoolwork.

Most notable memories are as follows. Opposite us was a row of redbrick terraced houses. One of the occupants, a man of about 20 years of age had a massive cupboard full of comics. Batman, Superboy, Superman, The Green Hornet, Fantastic Four and many others. I would read them in my bedroom under the covers with a torch for light. This was the very beginning of a hunger that I still have today. I loved reading. I loved it that the writers imagination was released in all its glory in the story lines, the artwork and the characters. What a marvelous time that was. I felt cosy and safe reading these adventurers escapades from the comfort and safety of my bed. Food for my imagination. I sit here and wonder where those comics are now? If my father had his way they would be soot. I can smell the paper and see the coloured covers. The stories however are simply ghosts.

There was a canal, I used to walk there and watch the anglers. There was a sweet factory where we used to get bags of damaged éclairs really cheap. There was an old cinema where they held Saturday morning pictures. Flash Gordon, Rocketeer and Abbot & Costello a feast of black and white escapism. I went to my first ever football match. I made a papier-mâché Donald Duck puppet for a school project. I was made a prefect. It lasted two days. I was caught kicking a boy outside the Headmaster’s office and lost my badge. I never told Mum and Dad they just didn’t notice I was not wearing it. I passed my 11 plus with the highest mark in the school. One of my Aunties died from a botched abortion, my Grandfather died of a brain haemorrhage on his way to his allotment. I was bitten on the leg and pulled to the ground by an Alsatian. The owners were shitting themselves thinking we would push to have the dog shot. I began to sound like a local. I was offered a place at Oldbury technical college. More fights but I was tall and strong and I always went for the biggest in the group. In the end they could only get the better of me by ganging up. I did not have many friends, it was a hard time. I was the only new boy who did not get de-bagged and tied to the tree. I wonder why? even today. It was odd that most of the trouble makers were small and blonde haired. I attended the college for six months when it was decided that we would move back to Battersea. Mum missed the neighbours. Dad missed his mates. I missed out on a good school. I was enjoying the classes and lessons because I had not distractions. All that would change when Battersea once again entered my life.

The collection is not just physical. It is not necessarily made up of artefact's or things. It can be just memories, snippets of life that never leave you. They well up from time to time wafting on the odour from a new mown field, cooked bacon or a bakery. Drifting in like storms when the mood takes them, gathering like rooks when some action or occurrence throws the cinematic imagery that is mind into recall. A sound, a look, a picture, a book. A dream, a taste, a loss, a face. Some comment, a friend, a film, or an end. All things conspire to bring you back to the person you were, just then. When something mattered enough for it to be tagged. Or some trauma attached itself to an event. Your first kiss, the day you broke an arm, the loss of a pet, Father Christmas leaving that big sack at the bottom of your bed and in the morning you find the three tone plastic trumpet that was your first ever musical instrument. In fact up in the loft I still have a picture of me making a racket with it.

More to follow soon I am now 12 years old.

The Collector Chapter two.

Once again welcome. You are entering an area that, as stated previously, will wander through many aspects of my life. This next phase will be a collection of memories that kicked in when I read my first post. What a wonderful thing the human mind is.

My father is a Sicilian and is still alive, my mother passed away after a very long illness. We lived in a massive townhouse in Battersea. I remember going to the corner shop for paraffin, visiting Jays the sweetshop for a weekly Bonanza bag (1d….old money} boy oh boy did I love those sherbet flying saucers. My father had three jobs to keep us afloat and took in a lodger. My sister and I would run up the stairs pulling at the lodger’s long coat. Every Friday he would buy us a Walls vanilla tub. The staircase was the old fashioned type with brass rods holding the carpet in place; they were a pig to clean.

I was lucky enough to have the largest room in the house for a bedroom. It was big enough for me to enact many battles with my Airfix troops. The ocean was the carpet and my blankets and sheets became the folds and flowing mounds of vegetation. I would line the forces up atop the cliffs, hide them in the forests and mass them on the plains of my imagination. Then the battle would begin. I used marbles as artillery and flicked matchsticks into the massed troops whenever gunfire was called for. You will be pleased to know I did not go as far as to throw ketchup around, set fire to their plastic bodies or sacrifice them in a needless greed motivated fashion. They lived to fight many wars and a few became heroes, though for some odd reason it was always the Japanese that lost. I think they were made of a lighter plastic and fell over a lot easier.

This area of collecting was very soon overshadowed by the arrival of the next door neighbour’s armada of aircraft. He must have been making models for years. Then one day he just up an offered them to me. At the time I was informed that as he was much older than me he had possible discovered GIRLS. Though later on I found out he preferred MEN!! OOeerrr!! I hear you say, well when I was a YOOF, the word GAY was a girls name.

Still I digress, so this flight of fancy aircraft now hung from the ceiling supported not by engines but fishing line. My friends were most impressed. They had never realised what a talent I had for making things. I told a few white lies. For my birthday that year I received many plastic model kits. Despite my best efforts you could always recognise the craft that I had put together. They did not look as detailed as the ones from next door. In fact I think I had the only B52 Bomber in the world with Japanese insignia.

One day when I came in from school they were all gone. My father had decided to decorate the room and had taken them all down and put them into boxes. They would never be the same. My father has no finesse. He destroyed more aircraft in a minute than were lost during the battle of Britain. Too many were damaged and I did not have the skills to repair them. They never went back up. Later they became the very smoky part of the bi-monthly bonfire when my father had a clear out. My dad liked burning rubbish.

Well that’s all for now I just had the wink from a Neuf De Pape and that can never be ignored.

The Start

Welcome to my first ever foray into bloggerland. I would like to point out that I have no political affiliations, no hidden agenda, no axes to grind and no hate.

I am as normal a person as you could ever meet, though some that know me would argue the fact. I have many interests and have always been a man of action. I only comment from personal expierience and rarely speculate. I have always had hobbies and interests. Some were of the type that did not require sharing, they could be energised from the bedroom floor or shed. I began collecting at primary school in Battersea, I used to collect bugs. My desk used to have old tobacco tins full of caterpillers. I would gather them from bushes outside the school along with some leaves, punch holes in the tops of the tins and keep them in the classroom. Observing their life cycle and finally returning the crystali to their native environment.

On one occasion I found a massive 3 inch long stag beatle that had been emptied by ants, all that remained was the glistening black exoskeleton. This was my pride and joy for many weeks until it was stolen from the display tank in class.

I then found a very large toad near to the railway embankment at Wandsworth common. I carried it to school in my cap. It lived in a leaky tank for many weeks. We used to feed it worms until the teacher decided it had served its purpose of education and should be returned to the wild, somewhat fatter.

Next I took a hedgehog home in my blazer. I never realised until then just how many bugs lived on a HH. My mother threw a tantrum and my father threw the HH into the alley at the back of the house.

Collecting is a funny business it goes through many stages. I sense that in the new millenium young people have little concept of the hobby. Though I suspect Pokemon cards could have helped generate a new generation of collectors. It is an odd urge that initially you feed without the slightest thought of COMPETITION. Then when others begin to collect similar things the male ego kicks in and it becomes competative.

Who has the biggest number of airfix soldiers? how many stamps are in your folders? Then there were cigarette cards. The only place I could get these was from smokers in the Plough. I used to hang around outside the pub asking all the men (and it was almost exclusively men in those days) for the cards from their packets. On good weekend I would end up with a good few swapsies. Odd word but they were the dealing part of collections. You possess two of something your fellow is missing one. You begin to barter and in the end do a deal.

I joined the cubs then the boy scouts, we used to have first pick of the jumble we collected. That was a fantastic time for me and looking back now the items that passed through my hands would be worth a small fortune now. I am not sure how much information on the past you, The reader, would want. Suffice to say I could spout on for paragraph after paragraph as I have been gifted with a partial photograhic memory. As I write these opening comments a film is running within my head. Not just images but odours, textures and emotional shadows. Quite a weird experience.

In fact as I write this it has just dawned on me that we all collect memories. Every single one of us has them, keeps them and if lucky we can retrieve them. My daughter just commented that her biggest memory jolter is smells and songs. I wonder what yours is?

I am not sure as to how to run a blog so I will simply allow it to run its course. Whatever pops into my head I will type so be prepared for a bouncy trip. I will however give you a start and finish point.

This was the start. The end will be where I am at this point in time with my collection. I now collect edged weapons mainly from the ww11 period and primarily of German origin.

My other interest is songwriting and playing the guitar and in a sense I collect my thoughts, my life and my experiences in the words of my songs. Looking back chronologically at the lyrics I see a map of my life and a map of all the people I knew and their lives. The best writing is from these sources and is in fact a melodic diary. I may even try and post some snippets of song once I work out the medium.

Thank you for popping in. I will now sit back drink some brandy and see what happens. Us old gits need to be pushed a little.