Hampton Court: Acquired 2015 (and back to 1990)

Some of the Readers of this Blog ask me how I can remember so many details of my life.  Two answers: I’m at the stage of my life where I can’t remember what I had for breakfast but I can remember what happened 40 or 50 years ago.  I have learnt that there are weeks, months and years that I can recall in detail but others where I have absolutely no memory, blank spots.  I can’t worry about that; I don’t worry that it a symptom of a wider problem.  It’s just what happens as you grow older!  I just revel in those memories I do have; they are important and a Tea Towel Blog gives me the opportunity to explore them.

If I wanted to write a ‘memoir’, a Tea Towel Blog is the perfect way to do this.  Things don’t have to be in a chronological order; they are snippets, glimpses of the past.  They can be long, in great detail, or short, a fleeting glance at the past.

As I said, I may not remember what I ate today but I can remember June 1990, in great detail, more detail than I really want.

1 June: I was called into the doctor’s office.  I knew that her kidneys had failed but I didn’t realise it could be that dialysis could also fail.  They wanted to turn the machine off; they wanted my permission.  Strange, I knew that legally I didn’t have any rights in this process but it makes the doctors feel better.

“What are the consequences of not turning dialysis off?”  I ask

“Her other organs will fail eventually” they say in a sympathetic manner.

”How long’s eventually?”

”Possibly two weeks, possibly less, maybe a little longer.  We don’t really know.  But we do know dialysis is causing her pain and distress; we have to give her additional morphine”

”What are the consequences of turning the machine off” as if I didn’t know.

”She will die, peacefully, without pain; she won’t wake up.  But she won’t wake up if the machine keeps going.  Take your time to think about it.  We’ve done the tests”

”You’re saying that there is nothing else you can do?  Transplant?”

”You already know she has cancer, advanced, with secondaries and we don’t know where the primary source is”

”I know, I know.  I just wanted a miracle.  Sorry.  If you switch the machine off, how long?”

“A few days”

Why haven’t I got a sibling to talk this through with?  This feels like the loneliness place in the world, yet surrounded by so many people.  How do you know what the right decision is?  What would she want?  Although she has been in hospital for three months this time, we never talked about it; she beat me at gin rummy, we did the Telegraph crossword, watched ‘African Queen’, played Scrabble which she also beat me at, watched ‘Coronation Street’ and planned for her move to a bungalow near me and a holiday in Guernsey.  I could be selfish and keep the machine going so she was at least still here in body but I couldn’t bear her being in pain for my benefit.

5 June:  At 7.05pm she died.  She had never even showed signs of waking up.  She looked fine, peaceful.  I was there.  It happened with my father, when someone’s life is held by a thread, you don’t know when they die.  The nurses keep checking, they know it is soon.  They brought me a cup of tea.  I don’t cry then because I did my crying 5 days ago.

I drove home listening to the score from ‘Carmen’, as loudly as I could play it.  I can never hear it, even 29 years later without thinking of that drive.

That night was taken up with telling people, reliving it, listening to other people’s memories when I only want to think of mine.  Kind words.

6 June:  Register the death.  Plan the funeral.  That was easy, do exactly the same as my father’s.  She had chosen that, so she must have liked what she chose.  So many phone calls, so many people wanting to tell me how good she was to them.  So many cards, nearly all with letters inside them but actually they are such a comfort, people sharing  their memories with me; I still have them all.

8 June:  I go and stay with Chris, her brother.  He helps me go through her Christmas address book and write to all the people for whom there are no phone numbers, and there were a lot.

12 June:  Mum’s Uncle Tom travelled down by train from Aberdeen; he stayed with me. Her sister Eileen, and son Lorenzo, flew in from Rome.  They stayed in a hotel.  There was a non-stop stream of cards and flowers.  Surreal.  We all went out for a meal that night.

13 June:  Discussion with the vicar, service planned.  It really is difficult to get people to understand that there will be no flowers, not even ‘family flowers’.  My Mum was a believer in flowers are for people that are alive, not for the dead.  I bought one spray of freesia, unwrapped to lie on the coffin.  Eileen cooked the evening meal.  I cried.

15 June:  Funeral day.  I am sitting in the lounge and the telephone rings.  It is Great Aunt Elsie; I know she isn’t coming.  “I had a vision this morning” she says, “your Dad at the end of the bed saying how happy he was.  He was waiting for your Mum”.  What on earth is she talking about, I think.  “The problem is that if you cry all the time (me?) then it holds up the passing over and your Dad is waiting for her.  She’s in limbo.  So I needed to tell you not to cry today so that the passing over can go smoothly, otherwise you are being selfish”.  She’s bonkers, I think.  It’s the funeral.  Of course I’m going to cry.  But is she right?  Am I blocking the natural processes?  I know, looking back, that was one of the cruellest things someone could say to you on the day of the funeral but at the time I didn’t know what to think.

The Church was just round the corner but we still had ‘the cars’.  As I got into the car, the Undertaker handed me a small envelope, saying “I thought you ought to have this now”.  It was my mother’s wedding ring.  I don’t know if it was good or bad timing; I was too numb to know.  I took it, put it in my handbag, took a deep breathe and off we went.  As we entered the church, I realised there were more than 200 people there.  Who were all these people?

It was important to have the cars because  the crematorium was in Mortlake, 40 minutes away.  We even got stuck in a traffic jam.  Very lucky, so they tell me, to get a ‘crem’ spot so quickly, usually have to wait four weeks.

I remember it seemed weird taking family photos on the day of the funeral but there were loads.  I wore a black skirt and jacket and looked as though I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.  Pale, haggered and smiling.

However, I think I found this jolly family gathering somewhat odd.  My mother was close to Eileen, Lorenzo and Tom.  It was right that they were there but other family members hadn’t spoken to her for more than 20 years.  Families!

16 June: Eileen and Lorenzo fly home

17 June: Uncle Tom thinks that he would like to buy me a present.  We walk up Pitzhanger Lane and in the window of the Art Shop is a print of Woodbury Beacon, limited edition.  He buys it for me because it reminds him of the family birthplace, Oswaldtwistle.  It still hangs on my wall.

18 June:  Uncle Tom goes to visit friends in Lancashire, before returning home.  I am alone.

19 June:  Letter from my boss, offering condolences, saying that now my compassionate leave is finished would I like to take annual leave or unpaid leave.  Bastard!

20 June:  Trip to the solicitors, the undertakers, collect her belongings from work, estate agents.  I will have to come back for all the other things I need to do.

21 June: Return home, taking her tea towels with me, nothing else.  Can’t return to work yet.  Need to get my head straight.  Visit the doctors for a sick note for a week so I don’t have to make decisions about compassionate leave and unpaid leave.  I see in the paper that the first Hampton Court Flower Show will be held at the beginning of July.  That’s it.  I will go to Hampton Court; she would have liked that.  That will take my mind off things.  Stuff the doctors note, I’ll go back to work.

And that is what I did.  I loved Hampton Court Flower Show where I bought a stone candlebra (which I still have) and a stone pigeon for the garden (still got that) but somehow I could never go back to Hampton Court.  Too many memories.

The two Hampton Court tea towels are courtesy of my friend Jean who lives in Aberdeen.  These are two of her tea towels that she no longer needed once she had gone to live in a Nursing Home.  Thank you, Jean.

 

The Hepworth Wakefield: 2019

Cathy, from Creative Writing, set us some homework.  We had been looking at ‘Memoir’ so the task was to think of an ‘event’ from our life and write about it.  It was surprising how many people chose events from their childhood, many not too happy.  I remembered an outing to Beachy Head and as I wrote I could feel my stomach churning.  Memories last a lifetime.

The following day, Liz and I went to Wakefield.  This was part of her birthday present from Lyn, her sister.  We were off to visit a Rhubarb farm, part of the Yorkshire Rhubarb Triangle.  Lyn also treated Liz to a meal and suggested The Hepworth Wakefield.  We had a look round the gallery first; there was a photographic exhibition.  Suddenly, I came face to face with a photograph of a small child wearing white ankle socks and a pair of Clark’s one-bar sandals.  The photo was in black and white; the child was sitting on a cliff edge and I could see the waves far, far below.  The image was just of the child’s legs, from the knees down, dangling over the edge of the cliff, no face.  My stomach churned once again.  So here is my story:

                                                      The Photograph Album

You don’t get to my age without learning some important lessons.  One is to ask the questions you need the answers to, when you want them.  No one knows what will happen; don’t leave it too late to get answers you need.

Photograph albums are like a treasure trove. Memories clamour for attention but often pose those questions you never asked.  

The pictures of Beachy Head, swathes of green grass, sloping up to the edges; no warning notices or railings, my Grandfather’s Bentley parked near the edge.  Gordon, Eileen, Catherine, Chris, my mum holding me, standing in a semicircle, dressed as if we were going to a wedding.  Why was my mother wearing a hat or 10 year old Chris wearing a tie and short trousers? Questions I never asked.  

“Aaaagh.  Stop.  Please put her down”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a strong pair of hands” he said, with a smile on his face.

I don’t remember how I came to be in Gordon’s clutches or why no one stopped him.  I do remember the crying, sobbing, screaming; sounds that erased any noise from the seagulls and crashing waves.  I’m still not sure where those screams came from. Was her or me?  I should have asked.

As I dangled over the edge of the cliffs, firm in my uncle’s hands, I looked down.  I saw the white foam, lapping over the sand; so far below.  I wanted to scream.  I didn’t; my mother told me that.  I don’t know if I understood the danger of drawing Gordon’s attention to me, in case he dropped me.

“Please Gordon, put her down on the grass.  You’re frightening her.”

“Don’t be silly, she loves it”

Oh I didn’t, really I didn’t.  

I regret not asking my mother about that excursion from Pevensey Bay to Beachy Head; why would someone do that to a three year old?  What I do know is that, to this day, I am terrified of heights.

However, what a great tea towel from the Hepworth but it can’t erase the memories!

Fort William: 2002

The only successful thing about my trip to Fort William was the tea towel.  Personally, I think that is good enough but it doesn’t make for a ‘meaty’ Blog.  I was on my way to Mallaig, saw the signpost to Fort William, knew we could do with a cup of tea, a nice cup of tea, so took a small diversion.

We had the names of several possible tea rooms so went on the hunt.  Someone had passed on poor quality information.  One was a Truck Drivers cafe, ok for food but not somewhere for loose leaf tea; another was a High Street ‘greasy spoon’ and the third had been replaced by a Fish and Chip Shop.   Sadly, we had a strict timetable to adhere to, boats wait for no one, so we didn’t have time to look for other tea rooms.

Instead, we bought a bottle of water, a tea towel and a sandwich and moved on to Mallaig.  I can remember the Main Street very clearly; I suppose it has put me off returning there which does seem very unfair.  Things might be different but when there are so many places on your list of ‘places to go’, it is inevitable.  Sorry Fort William but I like the tea towel!

Trerice: 1987

I’ve never really known how you pronounce ‘Trerice’; just feels like too many ‘r’s in a short word.  The guidelines for pronunciation show it as ‘Tre-rice’.  Does that help?  It is mainly referred to as just Trerice but it is in fact a Manor House, known as Trerice House.  It was built in 16th century, as an ‘E Plan’ and handed over to the National Trust in 1953.

1987 was still a time when I used to go round the National Trust (NT) houses, as well as gardens.  Today, I focus much more on the gardens (and tea rooms) and I can thank Trerice for that; it introduced me to quirky gardens and interesting plants, at a time when I had only just taken up gardening.  In Cornwall 1987, I discovered the glory, and variety, of NT properties, the coastline and the gardens, the large mansions and small manor houses, the unique quirkyness of it all.  From that year, I got good use out of my NT membership card.

I remember the refectory table in all of it’s oaken magnificence, 20 foot long, built in situ and too long to be removed from the room; it stands in front of a huge fireplace, the overmantle being engraved with ‘1572’.

My choice of Trerice, today, was not a random selection.  This term, in the Creative Writing Course, we are looking at different styles of writing; each of us had to chose a piece from our favourite genre and explain why we liked it.  Last week was my turn; unsurprisingly, I chose Blogging.  Guidelines on writing a good Blog suggests that (a) it is an informal form of writing (b) you should be able to demonstrate research (c) it shouldn’t be too long because Blog readers supposedly have a short attention span (d) there should be pictures and (e) there should be a USP, a style.  I offered a piece about Calke Abbey from @nt_scones.  She meets all the criteria for a good Blog,  writing the funniest Blog, about her visits to NT properties, in order to get the most out of her membership, sampling a scone in each.  Her aim is to visit every NT place.  She is not finished yet but, as a result of her work so far, the NT have produced a book of her 50 Best Scones.  Cathy, our tutor, was able to use this as an example of how Blogging can lead getting yourself published, something most members of the class aspire to but haven’t yet achieved; Blogging is not something to be derided, even though most group members have no intention of following this route of writing.

When I looked at @nt_scones Blog once more, I randomly picked Trerice and fell about laughing.  She has the real talent of being able to combine facts (real facts) in a shortened form (as many people prefer to take their history), singling out the quirkiest, ending with her review of the scones and often the disasters of how she got there.  I am always amazed at how many times she attempts a visit by public transport when most NT properties are in ridiculously isolated spots.  For me, @nt_scones is a real inspiration, to be able to produce such a readable Blog, on a regular basis, is wonderful.  If you have read this Blog please go to http://www.nationaltrustscones.com and you will be entertained while I use the beautiful tea towel!

 

 

Royal Deck Tea Room: 2018

”I’ve always wanted to go to the Royal Yacht Britannia” says Lyn, after hearing the tale of our visit.  I bet she would have really loved the Tea Room!

I have talked about the accessibility of the Royal Yacht Britannia, with the external lift to each deck with wider gangplanks.  But the Tea Room is in the heart of the yacht, only accessed by the original, internal lift.  You can tell that none of ‘them’ used a wheelchair.  The lift is small, one of those that you have to enter at an angle in order to allow the doors to close.  But there is a knack to how you get a wheelchair and the ‘driver’ in at the same time.  The ‘driver’ gets in first and stands at the far corner and then has to pull the wheelchair in.  The important thing is for the ‘driver’ not to have a large bottom.  On our trip, one of the Guides showed us up, making three in the lift.  Breathe in and don’t move is the key.  He was tall and thin and used to the manoeuvres.

All this squeezing was worth while.  The views over the harbour were magnificent and it was all laid out like an upper-class tea room: perfect white linen, matching silver cutlery, fine bone china, attention to detail.  The menu was simple but appetising.  I chose a roast beef and horseradish sandwich together with rose petal tea and felt like royalty.  It was delightful, the sort of tea room that I would go ‘the extra mile’ to find.

I was excited to find the tea towel specifically related to the tea room as a reminder of that wonderful light lunch; I’m not sure that I would have managed a full Afternoon Tea. But I kept my paper napkin, with the royal crest, as a momento which I am hoping to try a bit of decoupage with!

Sheffield: Acquired 2019

I’d got Blogger’s Block for a while.  I’ve started several, but not got beyond the first two sentences.  I’m not sure why.  Actually, I do think I know why.  For three and a half years I have been blogging away, 650 blogs in fact.  I know they aren’t world-shattering but they do what I want them to do.  Sometimes they tell a story, or raise a memory or acknowledge what someone has done.  In order to improve my style of writing I joined a Creative Writing Course; it has been fun.  It has taken me out of my comfort zone, challenged me to write poetry, helped me include different styles of writing in the blog.  However, last week, on the course, we looked at ‘Blogging’ as a style of writing.  This was my downfall; I was challenged to look at blogging as a ‘style’.   Blogging is regarded as an ‘informal’ style, involves researching your subject, is like a public journal.  Perhaps, I didn’t want to analyse what I was doing, I just wanted to get on with it.

Now, I just had to find a bit of inspiration!  Jai gave me this tea towel several weeks ago; her friend gave it to her, to pass on to me.  It had belonged to her late mother.  It had been unused; I don’t know how old it is but it has a traditional style.  I love the idea of being bequeathed this, and three other, tea towels but Sheffield was a bit of a problem.  I have been to Sheffield on several occasions but I have no great memories of it, or tales to tell: (a) I did go to a psychiatric hospital in a number of occasions when I belonged to the Mental Health Act Commission (b) I visited the Botanical Gardens but I can’t remember them (c) I heard of a Russian Tea Room, which I thought looked good, but, when I visited, it had closed.

My inspiration for today’s Blog came from a story on BBC Breakfast News, six weeks ago, about a bloke called Tony Foulds.  It started with Dan Walker, presenter, walking his dog in Endcliffe Park in Sheffield.  He met Tony who was tending a small memorial to ten American airmen who died in a plane crash on 22 February, 75 years ago.  Tony has tended this every day since it was erected 66 years ago.  He isn’t paid to do it, no one knows he did it.  He calls those ten men who died, his friends, he talks to them, tells them what he has been doing.  He and Dan had a long conversation which ended in Tony appearing on BBC Breakast sofa, telling the full tale and humbly saying that it would be fitting to have a flypast on that 75th anniversary.

#GetTonyAFlypast and #RememberTheTen became the hashtags of note for the next six weeks.  The story is that as an eight year old, Tony was playing with his friends in Endcliffe Park when they heard a plane struggling, flying on one engine.  It was clear they wouldn’t get to an airfield, not rise above the trees surrounding the park.  They knew that to land on the park would kill the children so they aimed for the trees and sacrificed their lives to save the lives of civilians.  Tony has lived with what he feels is the guilt of this, guilt that grows with his age.

In six weeks a flypast of ten aircraft, both American and British, including one from the Memorial Flight was arranged.  Family members were found and flew to Britain, one presenting Tony with an engraved door handle from the plane which was sent to the pilot’s family.  Tens of thousands of people turned out for this event in beautiful sunny weather.  The hashtags changed: #TonyGotAFlypast, still #RememberTheTen and now #SheffieldFlypast.

For me there were several highlights to this event: (a) the picture of the ten young men who gave their lives in a war they were not responsible for (b) the Missing Man formation, one plane dropping out to represent the crashed plane (c) Tony waiving to the planes as they flew past (d) the door handle from the plane being passed to Tony (e) the amount of hardened presenters who were in floods of tears at varying times.

But there are two lessons to be learned: many children of Sheffield will have learnt more about the Second World War through this piece of ceremony than through the formal school lessons; it is seeing the photograph of ten young men, young men they can identify with.  The second thing is this is a simple piece of kindness and respect given to those men who Tony feels saved his life.  There needs to be more respect and kindness in this world.

The point of this story is that amongst all the hatred that is around the world, all the rubbish that is spoken about Brexit, there is still quiet, human kindness and dignity which warms all our hearts.  I think this demonstration of giving came at a time to mask, even for a short time, the pain of what is happening in Britain.  Thank you to both Tony and Dan.

 

Champion Brew Technician: 2010

It’s a cute little tea towel.  It is a reminder of my time working with Margaret Thornby, in her search for the great tea rooms of Britain.  She was an unlikely ‘Michelin Guide’ of tea rooms but very successful.  She was able to enthuse her love of tea into her colleagues; she introduced loose leaf tea to the ‘Tea Bag Brigade’ and she did it in a gentle way.  She was never critical of tea rooms, she merely reviewed the tea rooms that she loved.  She went on a long journey of touring Great Britain, to find the best tea rooms, over a 20 year period, ending up producing four books, and a magazine for eight years.  My role had been to do the initial scans of some tea rooms, providing her with names of tearooms to visit.

I was on an intense tea room search in August 2010, based in Manchester, where I saw this tea towel pinned on the walls of a tea room.  I loved it and abandoned my cup of tea to go and buy it.  It was a very modern tea room, chic, different.  In fact, at that time, Manchester was full of tea rooms; it was a delight to find so many places to take a nice cup of tea.  I haven’t returned to Manchester since 2010, so I have no idea whether there are still so many iconic places to drink tea.  I do hope so.

North Wales: 1989

 

Just two memories of North Wales: a trip to Bangor with Gwyn and seeing Hello Dolly at Rhyl.  Somewhat contrasting memories and neither involved the purchase of this tea towel; that was done, passing through Flint on the way to Scotland.

Gwyn and I worked with a group of people with learning difficulties, for more than 20 years, called Self Advocacy in Action (and they had their own tea towel!  Of course I have one).  They ran one day conferences, four day residential workshops, did staff training, were involved in consultation exercises about the closure of hospitals and much more.  They are still going strong but Gwyn and I are no longer involved.

In the early 1990’s, the group was invited to be the Guest Speakers at a conference for people with learning difficulties, encouraging them to set up their own group in North Wales and to become staff trainers.  Gwyn and I were their ‘supporters’; we were able to take them there in the minibus and just be around to give them confidence.  It was a great conference but one day Gwyn and I decided to ‘skip off’ and go for a walk.  We found ourselves sitting on Bangor Pier, looking out to sea.  It was delightful.  Self Advocacy members still remember that conference.

Back in 2012, I holidayed in Wales, staying in a delightful, rural cottage.  I would definitely not describe Rhyl as ‘rural’; I’m not even sure I’d describe Rhyl as attractive or even a place I would want to holiday in.  What it does have is a great theatre, not great in terms of history, or even attractiveness, but rather in terms of shows in that it is obviously on one of the main ‘circuits’ for pre-West End touring shows.  I just happened to see a brochure for ‘Hello Dolly’; I’ve seen the film but never the show.  Couldn’t resist.  It was lovely to take a couple of hours out of ‘rural’ and seeing a great show!

Golden Oldies: 1997

”Thank you, Sweetie” said the waitress in the restaurant yesterday.  Who would ever call me ‘Sweetie’?  Actually mother used to call me “Sweetie Pie’ up to the age of about 10, when I began to vigorously object it.  So for 50 odd years I have been able to avoid this manner of address.

”Don’t worry, Love, let me help you with that” says a stranger as I successfully open the doors to a shop with two bags of shopping.  I appreciate kindness but somehow, as I get older,  people feel able to call me all sorts of diminutive names, without my permission, taking liberties

”Don’t worry dear; I’ll not start the bus until you’ve sat down” says the bus driver, with a friendly disposition and a patronising manner.

”Do you need any help, Babe?”  comes from a shop assistant, who looks about 12, and has as much interest in helping me as I have in being called ‘Babe’.

I may look wrinkled and be a Grumpy Old Woman but I don’t feel the need for infantilisation.  I remember Ethel, in a residential home I used to visit, who complained that staff called her by her first name, or ‘love’, without her permission.  The staff called her grumpy.

But in today’s world, it is taken for granted that you can change anyone’s name: the sport’s presenter on East Midlands Today has the most infuriating habit of doing just that, John Smith becomes Smithy, Alan Birchinall becomes Birchy.  There are many different ways Barbara can be altered: Babs, Barbie, Barb yet from as early as I remember I would not respond to anything but ‘Barbara’.  This is the name I was given, this is the name I will be known by.  I remember Hugh calling me Babs and the outburst that came from my mouth.  Other staff members saying to Hugh “I wouldn’t use anything but ‘Barbara if I were you”.

Today, I was wiping up and noticed the ‘Golden Oldies’ tea towel, bought at the Royal Show in 1997; it seemed cute then.  Now it just seems like a tea towel for an old woman, Dearie, Babe or Love.

Around Plymouth: 1987

I am addicted to ‘Money for Nothing’; I’m not ashamed because, although it would imply that I am watching ‘day time TV’, I just record it to watch when the evening TV is so crappy.  Recycling, upcycling, repurposing, reusing, salvaging… all my favourite words.  Having seen how pieces of furniture can be transformed into the unusual or quirky, I have always wanted something like that in my home.  Don’t get me wrong, this is not a new talent I have developed; it would be criminal for me to attempt any kind of transformation and completely ruin something but, I thought, there must be a piece of furniture, that I already own, in need of upcycling (and then, of course, I have to find someone to be able to do it).

Moving house has so many potentials!  While downsizing had been a priority when moving, there were things that would never be ‘downsized’: tea towels (of course), jugs (and there are a lot), pictures (also a lot, but sadly no Picasso lurking there otherwise I might have changed my mind).  Several thousand books went but I do still have a lot, not novels (because I read on Kindle) but classics, poetry and travel, in the main.  My previous residence had massive shelves and therefore there was always a place for a new jug or two.  The downside was that these shelves were open thus all the jugs required dusting.  It had been an ambition of mine to find ‘storage’ for these ‘collectors of dust’, behind glass doors.  I just didn’t have such a piece of furniture; I didn’t even have shelves, without glass doors, in my new place.

As I sat watching ‘Money for Nothing’, I did wonder if that small, useless cupboard in the lounge could be converted into something.  To cut a long story short, I found Sarah, a ‘furniture artist’, near me; she located an old-fashioned, glass fronted display cabinet that would go on the top of that useless cupboard and the rest is history, as they say!  She asked me how I wanted it designed.  “Leave it to you, you’re the artist”.  She looked around at the pictures, asked me about my holidays and said she had some ideas.  It is at this point, I thought “OMG, what have I done?  Is it going to be something I could live with?”  Too late now.

While the cupboard itself was pretty useless, there was an open shelf at the bottom where I kept some old poetry books, things I had inherited, authors I enjoyed.  It meant that when the cupboard went to Sarah’s workshop, I had to pile these books on the floor. Better just check I still want them all.  It is when I found “Britain in Verse and Sketch”, compiled and illustrated by Lindley Searle.  In the front was an inscription, in blue ink, not biro, “A happy birthday Beatrice from Pamela and Sheila xxx. March 1946”.  My mother would have been 22; today this book is 73 years old, in perfection condition.

”This book is dedicated to all country-lovers”, said the first page.  It was first published in 1945 with a ‘stamp’ saying “Book Production: War Economy Standard”.  During the Second World War there was a need to ration the use of paper.  In 1940,  publishers had their pre-war useage reduced by 60%.  In 1942, the Book Production War Economy Standard was introduced which defined the size of font, words per page, number of blank pages; this was a voluntary agreement but if publishers didn’t comply their rations were reduced once more.

On Page 17 is a poem called ‘Plymouth Harbour’ by H.D. Rawnsley; never heard of him.  I have to say that it is a dreadful thing to admit to never having heard of Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley because, beside his prolific production of poetry, he was one of the founders of the National Trust (I’m a member) and the first published writer that Beatrix Potter had met and who encouraged her to get her first book published.   Beatrix Potter being a heroine of mine, (even though I always disliked Peter Rabbit).

I have no idea if ‘Plymouth Harbour’ is considered to be ‘good’ writing; but it is one of many of his poems in this book, alongside Robert Burns, William Wordsworth and Lord Byron.  It is for readers to decide.  I am delighted that moving the cupboard revealed this book.  I can honestly say that I never opened a page; I wonder how many other books there are that I haven’t looked at and/or might be an inspiration for a Tea Towel Blog.

Back to the cupboard, I had a few glimpses of the upcycling, with photographs winging their way through the information highway.  Still couldn’t imagine it in its full glory.  Last Sunday, it returned home.  Totally amazing!  I wondered what would happen to the cupboard if jugs were put in it.  Would they detract from its beauty?  The answer is “No”. Sarah has designed and painted an amazing Scottish scene, purple of the mountains, heather and fern, light, flowers.  Perfect and fits in well with our paintings.

http://www.sarahjamesltd.co.uk