A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife, Mrs Ethel Richardson

 Dear Reader,

I have been reading this week from The Spectator magazine an article about what makes us fat.  Those of us who are.  I have been tackling weight problems all my life and although some of the diets have worked and some have not, in the end after a few months, I am back where I started.  But finally at the age of eighty I have discovered what I must do to loose weight easily and not return to former size.  I bought a book about calories, every food you could possibly imagine is listed.  And all you have to do is find out how many calories you can eat each day for weight loss.  I can only eat 700 calories each day which is bad luck as I know women are supposed to eat 2000 calories a day to be healthy and thin.  Well I have now lost one and a half stone and counting.  Give it a try if you feel overweight.  It really works.

                                                                        *

On September 1st, 1800, from Grasmere, S.T. Coleridge wrote 

'The beards of thistle and dandelions flying above the lonely mountains like life, and I saw them thro' the trees skimming the lake like swallows.'

On September 1st, 1823, William Cobbett in Kent wrote:

'From Tenterden I set off at five o'clock, and got to Appledore afer a most delightful ride, the highland upon my right, and the low land upon my left.  The fog was so thick and white along some of the low land,that I should have taken it for water, if little hills and trees had not risen up through it here and there.'

                                                                        *

 

 A Grimsby Fisherman’s Wife

Mrs. Ethel Richardson

 

 

 

During the day she knitted

her life into rough wool sweaters.

Fear of north east gales,

- more forecast -

fear of no return,

and Friday night beatings,

were turned with a collar,

stitched with sober wools.

Knit one, purl one.

 

Men known to her, sea-taken;

the grief of loss for

a babe or two; and

winter storms and

treacherous rocks that

albatrossed a fisherman’s life,

were knitted into sleeves,

into polo necks.

Knit one, purl one.

 

At night from her narrow bed,

she knitted dreams of exotic places

warm from the southern sun.

She danced on beaches, cockle-free

and knitted love

into her dream sweaters,

with wools, brightly coloured;

corals, blues, pinks, and red.

By night she knitted pumpkins.

Knit one, pearl one.

 

 

*

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia.

 

Photograph by Nikki Moran.