Beach Mirror

 Dear Reader,

It has been quite an exciting week for me because I have had various feed backs about my new book: "Half a Pair of People."  Mainly they are good, it made people laugh, and they enjoyed the good stories.  However one friend of many years, found it "Sad".  This particular friend has been one of the lucky ones in life, wonderful happy family life growing up and never any money worries that I know of. Obviously if you have plenty of money always at your disposal your view of life and how it is led would be very different for those of us where money is scarce.

 In fact, as I remember it all,  I was perfectly happy and enjoyed the excitement of living in an university town of distinction. The early years of my life weren't memorable but I didn't dwell on them in the book, and my marriage was spoken of very little.  So 'sad' I don't think so but of course I have to take any criticism as it comes, otherwise as they say, 'if you don't want to feel the heat, stay out of the kitchen.'

                                                                             *

The only funny story this week is about cows.  Apparently when cows burp they fill the air with something that is not an advantage to the plant.  As a result they are going to fit cows with masks which apparently will help with the pollution.  I am not sure how much the cows will enjoy the masks but time will tell.  Perhaps there will be a protest march.  There seems to be one for almost any occasion these days.

                                                                               *

From Samuel Pepys, 1665 in London, 1st of May

'To Westminster, in the way of meeting many milkmaids with their garlands upon their pails, dancing with a fiddler before them.'

                                                                               *

Beach Mirror

I see myself, a young woman
recognize the long skirt,
the three blonde children,
one on her hip,
two holding hands,
all laughing, hugging, arguing,
her hair dancing in the wind.

Swirling thoughts about time past
consume me.
I kick at pebbles,
pick up oyster shells.
gaze at the everlasting point between sea and sky.

I have aged, certainly,
but, feeling the warmth of the sun,
watching the sea and the tides,
it seems these things
are ever the same as they were,
all those years gone by.

                                                                           *

'Half a Pair of People' to be bought on Amazon under the name Patrica Huth.

With very best wishes, Patricia

Wash Day

 Dear reader,

The exciting thing that happened to me this week was that my book: 'Half a Pair of People'  was published.  If you would like to order a copy put :  Patricia Huth into Amazon Books and they will send it to you.  

It is a 1980s memoir of me, a former debutante, who fled an unhappy marriage to live in Oxford. Re- singled at 41, I tell of comical adventures while often being vulnerable and poor. I hope it is amusing and if you buy it I hope that you enjoy it.

                                                                                   *

The original Newgate prison was built in 1188 but was rebuilt in 1770.   After being badly damaged during the Gordon Riots in 1780, George Dance was commissioned to design a new prison at Newgate.  The King often used Newgate as as a holding place for heretics, traitors, and rebellious subjects brought to London for trial.  The prison housed both male and female felons and debtors. Prisoners were separated into wards by sex.  

The name passed into infamy as a by word for despair: an oubliette from which the hangman's rope was often the only way out.  Towards the end of the eighteenth century all public executions were moved to Newgate and this coincided with a greater use of the death penalty, even for crimes previously considered too minor to merit the ultimate sentence.

Newgate Prison was finally demolished in 1904, ending its seven hundred year reign as the blackest hole inn London.

                                                                                 *

Wash Day

It is early spring, about 4.am
when I dress myself,
shiver in the ice cold air,
pull my red shawl around my shoulders
creep downstairs.

I gather up piles of laundry
pick up a new bar of soap
and hurry down to the river,
find a large flat stone,
knead and pummel
my master's white breeches,
my mistress's ruffs,
cuffs, petticoats and collars.

Hours later in the warmth of the
afternoon sun I spread the clothes
out to dry on a camellia bush.
I see my hands are
sore and bleeding.

Wearily I lie down under
an oak tree, a southerly wind
whistles softly in my ear,
and I sleep.

                                                                            *

With best wishes, Patricia

The Promised Land

                                                                                      The Promised Land

 

Dear Reader,

A very strange thing happened to me last week.  I woke up in the night at about 3am and there was a voice in my head reciting the poem that I am posting today.  I got up to write it down because I know that lots of ideas I have in the night have vanished in the morning.  This voice reciting to me has happened once before, many years ago and my poem as a result: 'The Mind Cupboard' is very much a favourite of yours.   I don't know where the voice comes from but suspect it is my Guardian Angel.  Or it could be the Good Lord Himself. Obviously I was thinking about the Christian faith this week, Holy Week, and always get unsettled on Good Friday thinking of the Crucifixion. There are more things under this heaven than we know about, and I certainly know that several things that have happened in my life have not been understood by me at all.

 

The Promised Land

I cannot see the distant place 
It’s out of reach for me. I cannot see the distant place, 
misting to the sea. 

I cannot hear the singing birds 
or see the mountain range, 
I cannot speak my Christian name 
since my body starts to change. 

I will not know what happens next, 
Or, where I might be, 
I cannot see the distant place 
It’s out of reach for me. 

As I drift into the Promised Land
Lord and Saviour, hold my hand.

 

I am not sure whether this was meant for the people of Ukraine or for anyone nearing the end of their life. 

                                                                                    *

From Gilbert White, 1786 in Hampshire

'Hay is become very scarce and dear indeed.  My rick is now as slender as the waist of a virgin; and it would have been much for the reputation of the last two brides that I have married, had their waists been as slender....The first swallow that I heard of was on April 6th, the first nightingale April 13th.  The great straddle-bob, Orion, that in the winter seems to bestride my brew-house, is seen now descending of an evening, on one side foremost behind the hangar.'

                                                                                  *

I hope you all have a wonderful Easter holiday
and very best wishes, Patricia

Gentleman of the road

                                                                                   Gentleman of the road
 

 

Dear Reader,

The best laugh this week has definitely been about daffodils.  St. Blaise Town Council in Cornwall has cut down more than 1,000 flowers from a recreation ground for fears that children could fall ill eating them. Whatever next?  I have never heard of a child eating a daffodil any more than eating a rose or delphinium, or any flower for that matter.  I think some things brought up in council meetings in England have gone mad, and as a consequence chaos seems to reign. England that I love, and was brought up in, seems to have disappeared and lunatics have take over. Next lunacy could be that all trees have to be cut down in case they fall on us as we walk by.  Well I wouldn't be surprised.  God help us all.

                                                                                       *

Just to let you know about  my Covid experience.  My cough has nearly gone except for at night and I am feeling much better.  I think that it is a depressive illness, or was for me, but that part seems over now.  Feeling a bit tired goes on, but you all know how old I am and so feeling tired is natural at my age.

                                                                                      *

This is a message for those of you, especially from America, who very kindly write to me on FaceBook. I very much appreciate your comments but cannot put you on Friends Request.  Mainly because I don't know how to, but I am very happy to know you Follow me.

                                                                                       *

  A short extract from my book: Half a Pair of People. 

Everyone was very friendly. There were lots of bad jokes, and a few arguments, but only in the same way that a united family argues, with love not aggression. At 10 o’clock sharp when the director was beginning to lose control, we retired to the Crown and Cushion pub until closing time. Unlike the bar and beer at the Open University (which comes later), here, I was allowed to drink gin and tonic in peace, enjoying the theatre gossip. Past productions, future productions, costumes, who was going to paint the props this year, (it bloody well wasn’t going to be whoever was talking at the time), speculations on Christmas weather, how many tickets would sell, or whether with the advent of videos, the pantomime would still be popular. And soon. I drove back to Oxford not minding the fog and cold. gin coursing through the veins, lulled into a false sense of security. At that stage having a part in a pantomime was all I had hoped for – my dreams, as it were, come true.

*

Gentleman of the Road

The old man shuffled into the cafe
head bent, shoulders hunched
with a weather-beaten face
and straggly beard 

he looked sad and lonely.

In a deep rasping voice he said
he would like a ham sandwich.
I made in one,
and sat down beside him.

'I am gentleman of the road,' he told me
'been on it for fifty years or more.
I have walked the byways of
England, watched the sun come up
watched the sun go down.'

He told me his life story.

Often being cold and hungy,

frightened when sleeping

on a city street,

how he felt old and

out of sync with the times

how he hoped to die

in the countryside, under a willow tree.

When he left I hugged him

and tears came into his eyes

"I haven't been touched by another

human being for over thirty years', he said.

And tears came into my eyes.

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                

I glimpsed a child

 Dear reader,

This photograph is one I had taken when I had Covid.  I was cleared from Covid two weeks ago but I thought you might like to know the repercussions I still have.  The main difficulty I had with Covid was with a horrible cough which I still have.  It makes sleeping very tiresome as I have to sit up or if I lie down I immediately start to cough.  And if I do anything strenuous I come out in a sweat and have to stop, viz. making the bed, or gardening.  And I have been tearful which has been very unlike me for the last three years. I did read somewhere that depression is one of the unattractive features of having Covid or having had it. I have got an excellent cough mixture but it states on the label that it is an opiate and can become addictive. I might become addicted to alcohol but cough mixture?  I don't think so. Anyway I will keep you posted on how I am doing in the coming weeks.  

 

                                                                                           *

A short extract from my book: Half a Pair of People.  Pantomime Time.

 

 

 That left one possibility, the good fairy. I

was given her lines to read and knew instinctively that the part of

Fairy Silverchime would be offered to me. I deduced this from the

lack of anyone else’s apparent willingness, rather than from my

obvious reading or acting ability. (I had the feeling the prospective

cast is not supposed to state a preference for a certain part, but a

keen bearded man from the VG stores particularly wanted to play

King Rat. And said so. But he didn’t get it. It went to a more suitable

candidate, a teacher from Banbury. A week later, not having heard

anything, and strictly keeping to the rules of “don’t ring us, we’ll ring

you” the telephone rang and I was officially invited to play the pantomime

fairy in the 1982 Chipping Norton production of Dick Whittington.

Rehearsals took place at 7 o’clock on Tuesday evenings in various

venues. Sometimes the assembly room in the local school, sometime

in the Chipping Norton Theatre. (The Chipping Norton Theatre,

incidentally, is absolutely delightful, remarkably pretty architecture,

very small and full of atmosphere..........

 

                                                                    *

I glimpsed a child

on the kitchen chair
feet dangling
legs swinging

large brown eyes stared
from a dusty pale face

she didn't smile or speak

about seven years old I thought
Syrian or perhaps Iraqi
her clothes once pink and green
now mud-stained and torn

her silver bracelets sparkling
in the sunlight

I made her Moroccan mint tea
offered her cake
kissed her cold cheek
dried her tears

I fetched more sugar
but on return I saw
the chair was empty
the child gone
dissolved in the morning air 

                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia