Growing pains

Hello. This is something I wrote in August 1999. I sent it to a magazine in the hope that they might publish it, and send me some money. They didn't, they rejected it, so I can publish it now.

Tucked away at the bottom of a drawer in the old sideboard I inherited from my mother, I came across my old school report from 1959, I was ten years old. On the bottom of the page it says, 'Talkative'. That's what I was, a right chatterbox. I hated to sit still in class, and was forever turning around to talk to my friends. I liked to be the centre of attention and felt happy when I could make people laugh.

Although I was bright and chirpy, there was a sad, unhappy little soul deep inside. It was my appearance which was causing me so much pain, but I managed a brilliant cover up with my incessant talking. There wasn't actually anything physically wrong with me, all the right bits were in the right places, it's just that when beauty was dished out I got the slops. So chatter I did, I needed to make friends.

Not long after I moved to the senior school I started to take an interest in what young girls are supposed to take an interest in, fashion, make up, pop stars, and boys. The boys only seemed to go out with girls who looked pretty, just so they were the envy of all their friends. This would change every week,, competition was fierce. I never did get on the merry go round, they weren't interested in a girl who was chatty and funny. They didn't want someone to go on bike rides with, or someone to collect frogs with, or go fishing with. One girl in our class was actually engaged to a man of 21. She flashed her ring around when the teachers weren't looking, and constantly got into trouble for wearing nail varnish.

I felt some improvements in my appearance were called for, if I didn't do something I would be left on the shelf by the time I was fifteen. I was never going to get a boyfriend, looking like a bean pole, with national health specs and rabbit teeth. Terry was the boy I had my eye on. He was the best looking, and I thought he was kind to ugly people. I was wrong on that last assumption, he laughed his socks off when my friend told him I fancied him. That hurt. I spent a lot of time sobbing into my pillow.

Maybe I couldn't do much about getting my teeth straightened, or chucking the glasses, but I could go down town and visit the make up counter at Woolies with my pocket money. A Panstick was very useful for covering up spots. If I saved up enough I sometimes bought a small block of black mascara, the sort you spit on and apply with a brush. By coating my eye lashes six times and adding dollops of sky blue eye shadow, I thought I could pass for 'Miss Burton upon Trent 1962'.

Something had to be done about my chest as well. It was painfully embarrassing to be the only girl left in the class who didn't have a bra. I begged mum to get me one, but all she kept saying was, 'You don't need one, you haven't got anything to put in it'. I didn't need reminding of this. I knew my equipment was a bit late in coming, but I thought that if I had a bra it would prompt my chest to start blooming. Close inspection every morning was disappointing, I kept wondering if I was ever going to get bosoms. Eventually mum gave in and we went to Marks and Sparks. Once back home I excitedly tried on my new bra. I was so chuffed, now I could be a real woman. As I didn't have anything to push up and push out, I had to make do with a pair of socks. Later on I found that these had a habit of working their way upwards, and eventually popped out of the front of my dress.

My fashion idols at the time were Cilla Black, Sandie Shaw, and Cathy McGowan. They leaped out of the magazine pages, and the television screen. Oh how I wished I could be 'with it', like them, but I had no money to spend on nice dresses. The next best thing was to improvise. I was pretty nifty with a sewing machine, and fabric from the market was dead cheap, I could knock up a mini skirt for five bob. My friends were dead impressed. I could sell them a skirt for 7/6d and buy some more fabric to make my dresses. A basic pattern could be adapted, and a loan of mums Singer treadle machine produced some amazing outfits. So amazing that men on building sites whistled at me. I felt a million dollars.

I enjoyed going to the youth Club, and on a Thursday night there was always a battle between me and mum as to who would wear her trendy calf length leather boots with a heel. She wanted to go to bingo in them, but I usually won. In our family clothes were passed down the generations. I used to claim all mums cast off stockings. All the better if they had two or three ladders in them, at least people would know I was grown up and wearing stockings now. I could usually buy a pair of stiletto shoes from a jumble sale for two shillings. I would totter off to the bus stop to go to town on a Saturday afternoon. This was the highlight of the week as I paraded up and down the High Street, imagining I was in the heart of swinging Soho amongst the boutiques.

After many agonizing years my attempts to create a raving beauty out of an ugly duckling have finally diminished. I did manage to get my teeth done and swap my specs for contact lenses, but my chesticles were never what you might call voluptuous. Now gravity has taken over and everything is plunging south. I finally have to admit defeat.  

I wrote this fifteen years ago, my memories of growing up in the sixties. It's funny thinking about how I have changed. Then I wanted to be like all my pals, wanted to be in fashion, and wanted to look pretty. I desperately wanted to fit in, and be one of the gang. Now I am the complete opposite. I don't need to be fashionable I can wear what I like. I don't need to be one of the gang, I don't have to cosy up to people and seek approval, or impress, and I don't have to be in with the in crowd. It's a liberating feeling.
Toodle pip

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A little bit of nostalgia.

Moving on from the brief  cobbled together post from yesterday, here is me putting a bit more effort into it. A little bit of nostalgia today, it doesn't hurt to look back once in a while. It's good to reflect on what has gone before, but best not to get hung up about the bad bits. I like to remind myself how lucky I am, that I have come through the shit relatively unscathed. 

Scanned pics take no time at all to upload, the editing takes a bit of time due to cropping all the unwanted bits from the outer edges. Sadly this leaves them a bit grainy, but as I haven't the expertise to tart them up further, apart from tweaking the contrast and colour density, these are the the best I can do. So, in no particular order, come take a stroll through the past with me. 

Six Flags theme park at Darien Lake, this was one of 17 theme parks I visited in the USA, on a Roller Coaster Club trip in 2001. I can honestly say it was the best holiday ever. It was manic, dashing from park to park with 100 other people, on two coaches. I was with my boyfriend at the time, he took the pic. 

Yonks ago I did a sponsored hitch for charity. Me and a friend hitched lifts all over the UK, raising money for Great Ormond Street Hospital. The Kernel Hotel gave us free accommodation, it's no longer there now.

I was truck mad for years. Everywhere I went I looked for big trucks to photograph, the bigger the better. This one belonged to GEC at Stafford.

My friend drove this one, he would ring me up and tell me where he was parked so I could go out and meet him. It belonged to Abnormal Load Engineering, at Stafford. These two were big push and pull jobs with a massive low loader trailer in the middle.

This is me helping out as a marshal at a truck show. Trucks were my hobby as well as my job.

Hey, look at me getting my hair done. I was invited to go to London for the day to take part in a makeover for Chat magazine. It was great fun.

A bit of larking about here. A sunny Sunday afternoon with nothing to do. My friend came to show me his new bike, so I said, lets take some photo's, I will be the model. I had my own bike at this time, but my Honda CX500 Custom was not as big as this beast.

There was an interlude in my driving career when I left full time employment and became self employed. I didn't buy a lorry, but hired out my services to drive for other people.I joined the Business Club in my town and we had an exhibition in a hotel. This is my stall laid out displaying my certificates, touting for business.

In my spare time, when I had any after working 60 hours a week, I took the Lady Truckers stall out to the truckshows. I had a small caravan hitched up to my Ford Cortina which was my base for the weekend. By this time I had become quite famous so there was a steady stream of visitors calling in to chat. It was great fun.

There was a firm in Derby called E & A West that I worked for, it was a British Road Services contract, we delivered chemicals in tankers. They had an open day and invited all their bigwig customers. They took me off the road for the day and I had to dress up and look smart, stand in front of my lorry, meeting and greeting.

Ha ha, this shunt vehicle was no looker. Me with the tight jeans and big hair. Not your average beer bellied hairy arse trucker. 

Two best friends, Carol and me, in the street outside her mum's house.

I'll finish off with this one. Look at the platforms, and the suntan,  real I might add. These young lassies today think they are so so in fashion, sorry, but they are forty years too late. I was just back from Majorca when my sister got married. My dear mum looked lovely. 

So as I end this post I pay tribute to my dear mum, as always I thank her from the bottom of my heart for giving me this life. Today is the anniversary of her passing away. Thank you mum, I love you.
Back tomorrow. Toodle pip.

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An interesting experience.

Hola Ilona! Estoy de Espa�a! I read your blog for a long time but dont'' write hi. Please blog us about your life in Mallorca, Gracias, Maria.

Hola Maria, thank you for your comment, your wish is my command, but please don't expect any Spanish from me. I learnt a little but now I have forgotten. After all it was forty years ago. 

My first overseas holiday was to Magaluf, I went with my friend Janet, and we liked it that much we decided we would go and live there and find some work. We booked a holiday to go  to Palma Nova the following March. It was a five day all inclusive package trip, but we didn't come back. It was the cheapest way to get there, rather than booking a scheduled flight only. It was in 1973 and I was 24 years old. 

After the five days we had to leave the hotel, or pay for some extra nights. We couldn't afford it and looked for cheaper accommodation, perhaps a flat share. I had met a boy and started going out with him, and when he heard that we didn't have anywhere to stay, he said we could move into his flat with him. It was a relief to have somewhere to go. 

My boyfriend was French, so despite the language difficulties we managed to communicate ok. I have his name written down as Chemari, I have no idea if that is the correct spelling but that's how you say it. He worked on the beach renting out pedaloes, and I used to go down there and sit with him and take his lunch.   

There was an English newspaper and every day Janet and I searched for a job. We were prepared to do hotel work, clean rooms, or bar work, looking after children, or shop work. We went for an interview with the manager of a hotel, but he said we were too early in the season and he couldn't start us until later. A few weeks later we still hadn't got a job and Chemari was feeding us. Every time we asked for a job it was always manyana, come back tomorrow. Our money was getting very low, then Janet ran out altogether, although I had a bit left.

Janet was worried, and contacted her parents, who paid for an air ticket to get her back home. I couldn't do that because there's no way my mother could pay for me. A week later, Chemari gave Janet her taxi fare to the airport and she went home.

I was on my own, with no job. I had almost given up, what with the language difficulties, chasing non jobs,  and no one showing any interest in me, it seemed hopeless. I spent most days either in the apartment or at the beach with Chemari. I had tried to get a ticket on the same flight back as Janet, but didn't have enough money. I was stuck.
  

I started to see a different side to Chemari, he became very possessive and wanted to control my every movement. I remember one time I was sat on the beach while he was renting out his boats, and heard a man speak in English. It was such a relief to hear my native tongue, I started a conversation with him. Chemari became very nasty and accused me of chatting him up. I knew then that I had to get away.

It was never in my nature to take handouts from anyone, and I didn't like having to ask Chemari for money for the shopping, although he was happy to keep me. I still had a bit of my own money left, and wanted to keep that for emergencies. I couldn't get a job, I wanted to go home. Every day I looked in the English newspaper, there was sometimes small adverts from people who had come to Majorca on a package trip like we had, then sold the return part of their ticket because they had already got a job lined up. A few days later I found a ticket, and rang the number. Success. It was a price I could afford, just.

In the few days I had to wait for the flight, I didn't tell Chemari about it. I was afraid he would be angry and destroy the ticket. The person who sold me the ticket provided a car to the airport, there was a second ticket which someone else had bought. We were due to leave at midnight, and I told Chemari I was going two hours before, promising that I would be back. He didn't kick up a fuss and let me go. I knew I wouldn't be going back.

When I got to Heathrow I had just enough money for the train home. That little adventure lasted about two months. I wasn't new at standing on my own two feet, as I left home at 18. I was confident about looking after myself, but alone in a country where they spoke a different language was a bit scary. There were some English people living there, but nowhere near the amount there are today. If I had got a job straight away it might have worked out, but for me to rely on someone else to feed me and put a roof over my head is a big no no. I had to earn my own money, reliant on no one. It was an interesting experience. I was straight into another job when I got back home.
Thank you for reading. Toodle pip

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Love your mum

I have very few regrets about how my life has panned out, things have almost gone how I expected them to. I've pretty much sailed through life compared to some people. Oh, there have been the occasional blips, a wrong decision here, a bit of a cockup there, but nothing that I haven't overcome, and no major disasters. Getting involved with the wrong person, more than once, funny how we can make the same mistake twice, or several times. I think we do learn, eventually.

I don't regret leaving home at 18 and moving away to start my independent life. I don't regret changing jobs so often, I get bored doing the same repetitive tasks over and over again. I don't regret not getting married, it would have been a constant battle between wanting to do my own thing, and being half of a partnership. I don't regret moving to this house, even though it was a relationship and a job which brought me here, both of which have since ended. A place is what you make it, and it's nice place to live.

I have never been one for harping on about the past, what's gone is gone, move on. I am not the shy child now, or the troubled teenager who was unhappy about her face. Oh, it was painful at the time, caused me no end of grief, especially the other kids calling me names. I have moved on, I still don't like my face but I'm stuck with it.  My only regret was looking in the mirror and crying so much, but I was too young to do anything about how I felt.

No, looking back, there are very few regrets, except one that comes into my mind now and again. You know what that is? That I didn't talk enough with my mother. She died unexpectedly 28 years ago, and I was too busy with my own life to make time for her. My regret is that I have missed out on the chance to learn more about her life, I was so damned selfish. She told me bits about growing up in Hamburg, about the war, and about my half brother. I know a little about some of her family members, but she told me these things when I was a child, and I wasn't paying attention, because I didn't think I needed to know.

You might have noticed that I wear two rings, these are the rings that she always wore and I inherited them. She didn't leave much to us, she died almost penniless, there was just enough to pay for the funeral. My poor mother had such a hard life, and I wish I could speak to her now. Looking at the rings on my hands reminds me of her. I have just made a short video, you will see the rings, that is what has triggered me to write this.

If you are lucky enough to still have your mother, please talk to her as often as you can. Ask her about her life, find about where she came from, ask her what it was like growing up all those years ago. Get her to pass down her stories to you, because one day she won't be there any longer.
Lots of love xxxxxxx     

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