Climate

I find it difficult to get used to the idea that after this planet has existed for I don't know how many million years this generation is responsible for the change in the climate. I know much cleverer people than my humble self have put forth theories so I will be written off as a foolish old woman but nevertheless I do not see it as a clear-cut case.
When I was young we didn't have "climate". That was a word we learned in our geography lessons. We just had peculiarly variable weather. The seasons sometimes got a bit mixed up. Some Christmases were mild and sometimes we had snow in May. In one's memory summer holidays were always sunny whereas if the truth were told there were a good many August days when I would spend my time looking out of the window at the rain and wishing I could go on the swings in the Rec.
I think the weather is better in many respects. We have made great strides in reducing pollution. Think of the fogs in Victorian days. The Russians, great readers of Dickens, think we still have them. I can vividly remember thick yellow fog in the thirties when it was quite dangerous to cross the road even in daylight.
I quite agree that we must look after our world for our own and future generations by cutting down waste etc. but let's not go overboard. In this lovely country we have weather. Whatever else would we talk about?

The Theatre (contd)

My first experience of the theatre was being taken by my big brother to the Pantomime at the South London Theatre near the Borough Market. We all queued at the Gallery door, having first bought a bag of peanuts (in their shells) to sustain us. When the doors opened it was a mad rush to the Box Office and then up what seemed like hundreds of stone steps to get a front seat.
Each Panto had a villain, a Fairy Godmother and a man dressed as an old woman, a Princess and a Principal Boy - a female bouncing around in tights. There was always a magnificent Transformation Scene with fairies and goblins appearing to fly across the stage. Once a black figure with a silver skeleton painted on his costume came on a wire right up to the front row of the Gallery. That was scary. We hissed the villain and cheered the hero and joined in the songs- the words of which were painted on a huge sheet hanging from the flies. What fun it all was! We left the floor knee deep in peanut shells and orange peel.

The Theatre

I no longer go to the theatre since I have become so deaf. Is it me or does everybody mumble these days? In the 60s a regular afternoon treat was to go to the Leas Pavilion Theatre in Folkestone. This repertory theatre was started by Arthur Brough in 1927. He was later to find fame in the TV series "Are you being served?"
My mother and I went to matinees. In the interval trays of tea were brought round. The second act started to chatter and the rattle of teacups. Rather disconcerting for the actors. On one occasion the leading man stepped forward and shouted "Shut up!". There was instant silence and he walked back and went on with his speech.
Being a repertory theatre the same actors appeared each week in different roles. One old lady, a regular in the front row, said to the actress who was playing the maid and had just answered the telephone at the side of the stage "Not a very big part this week, dear." Once during a thriller the heroine shot the villain who fell theatrically to the floor and, in his death throes, rolled right off the stage into the audience. He then had to pick himself up and get back on the stage and lie down dead. There was some excitement in going to the play in those days. You never knew what might happen. At the end of that particular performance the manager came out to announce next week's play and said "I can't guarantee anybody falling off the apron."

Thesaurus

English, which draws on a great number of sources for its vocabulary, often provides me with some surprises. On looking through my Pocket Thesaurus I found that a large number of somewhat unpleasant words begin with the letters sn. For example - snag, snap, snare, snarl,snatch, sneak, sneer,sniff, snigger, snip, snivel, snuff, snuffle, snob, snub, snake, and snail. I am sure there are more. I'm sorry to say that many of these words seem to have a Scandinavian origin. I say I am sorry because I count myself as a descendent of the Vikings my family having come from East Anglia.

Memories of Sandgate.

I spent 25 very happy years living in Sandgate - a small coastal village in Kent.

It was Mr. Martin from the sweet shop that I met on the very narrow stairs when the library was above the Old Fire Station. We were both pretty substantial figures and he said "You know, Mrs. Bowler, they say it is bad luck to pass on the stairs - but I think we would be lucky if we could."

One of the vicar's many hobbies was making beer. He suddenly lost a lot of weight and when I asked him how he did it he replied in sepulchral tones "Mrs. Bowler, the vicarage brewery is now closed."

We met Mrs. Jago at the bus stop. She was a stalwart at the scout jumble sales. She mystified my 8 year old son by telling us she had just been to the Scout Hut and bought a lovely gazunda with roses on.

When I was running the Sunday School the youngest child was a little 4 year old girl called Susannah who came with her older brother. The children's favourite hymn was "Sing Hosanna to the King of Kings". It had a rousing chorus. Susannah was too shy to speak for the first two weeks. On the third week I thought I must get her to say something so I announced "I'm going to ask Susannah to choose a hymn. What will it be?" She said, very quietly "Sing Susannah."

Dinner guests

A new husband discovered that when you invite another couple for dinner you first of all clean the whole house including the upstairs bathroom, hiding the dirty socks. You then pretend that your house always looks so spick and span. The other couple then invite you back and do the same thing in their turn. You can judge my prowess at housework when my husband remarked that it was a good job that we sometimes invited people fordinner!

A Pilgrimage

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned
By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned
Alexander Pope 1688 - 1744.

I have just returned from a visit to Denmark. My third visit to the site where my first husband's plane crashed in September 1943. (New readers see www.ee138.net Click on crew and then on Ernest Thirkettle.) We received a great welcome from the members of the Halkjaer family who have protected and tended the site ever since the crash - nearly 68 years. The plane crashed into a deep bog and, because it could not be recovered, the bodies of the crew remain in the plane so the site is also their grave.On Wednesday we spent the day with Else & Erling Halkjaer in their farmhouse which overlooks the site. A lady was there to interview me for a local magazine. After lunch we went with other members of the family to visit the village church which was beautiful and very old. In the evening we joined the villagers for a musical evening.
On Thursday we went to a ceremony at the crash site. I was asked to make a speech. (Of course at that moment the microphone failed but I soldiered on) Senior officers of the Royal Australian Air Force and the Royal Air Force spoke. We laid wreaths at the memorial which is like a very small garden in the middle of an empty, windswept landscape. Then for the big event. The Lancaster which was seen at the recent Royal Wedding flew four times over the crash site at 500 feet! Two or three hundred people had gathered to watch including many children. Rember this is a small very remote farming community. The Danes remember the sacrifice with gratitude. It was a moment of mixed emotions; sad, thrilling and awe-inspiring to see this enormous plane flying so low over us.
We went to a friend's house for refreshments and then returned to the farmhouse where a journalist came to video an interview with me. Then Else & Erling took us out for dinner.
On Friday we went for a last look at the crash site and then drove to Aarhus where Kirsten, another member of the family, gave us a delicious supper. On Saturday I had lunch with Lis who, as a child of 11, witnessed the crash from her bedroom window in the farmhouse and has never forgotten it. Another nice supper with Kirsten and lunch next day with Lis and husband Ove before flying home. Everyone was so hospitable so you can see why I call them my Danish family. All those years when we didn't know what had happened to our boys they were being cared for by the Halkjaer family.