Is it time to go home yet…?

I have been thinking back all those years ago when I first started working for this company. The excitement of a new job and meeting new people. Of not being unemployed anymore, watching your redundancy running out and the need to get a job!

How times have changed.

Six years on and I am sitting in the office with a pile of excruciatingly dull, tedious and utterly boring work to do. The same questions being asked by the same people who have been given the same answers to those same questions, over and over and over again.  It’s soul destroying but what with the horrendous issues going on in my personal life at the moment, I just don’t have the energy to resign and look for another job.

Nor will I…

I am doing exactly what I did at my last place when my team were being marginalised and treated badly. I am digging my heels in, because history seems to be repeating itself. And I say now, what I said back in 2010 approximately: that I am not leaving until I either retire or they make me redundant. Whichever comes first. I will not leave without getting money out of them. They don’t call me bolshie for nothing!  Two years later after I first said that, I got my wish, as did they, because it was only a matter of time before they could legitimately get rid of me.

It is probably not the most brilliant decision I have made but honestly, I have never worked for a company that doesn’t seem to know what to do with my small team. We have been in finance, then procurement then finance and back into procurement. Not to mention the physical moves to various offices we have had to put up with.

Make up your mind!

There are rumbles that they might be pointing their beady eye in our direction again at some point. There may be some truth in that, but whereas once I would have been shit scared of being made redundant, I survived the last experience and, if it happens again, I will survive this one. However, if you are going to do that, could you do it at the end of October, as I will have a full six years of reckonable service under my belt by then.  I just like things neat and tidy, thanks.

If they do put me up for the chop, I may ask for early retirement, as I am of a certain age and could be eligible.  I would still need to look for a job but maybe a part-time one to top up the funds (sadly, I can’t afford to fully retire yet).

Or, I could just win the ruddy lottery and skip happily into the sunset. No, ignore that. I meant walk sedately into the sunset. Hmm, limp into the sunset, holding my walking stick just in case, because safety first, you never know…


Melting Moments – cooking with Aunty Georgie

Aunty Georgie was a very good cook and when ever we visited her and Uncle Charlie, there was always an array of delicious food on offer and we never went home hungry.  Lunch was always excellent and there was always cake for tea.

She used to run cooking classes for the elderly, but that is another blog for another time…

On one occasion, when I had the good luck to spend a week with them when I was about 10 years old, it might have been on that last Saturday as she was preparing our lunch and maybe getting ahead of herself with regards to what she was going to cook when my family came to collect me the next day, that she asked me if I would like to make some Melting Moments biscuits.

Quite often I would sit in the kitchen with her as she cooked, chatting about this and that, and sometimes I would help her with simple tasks.  She had a wonderful box of recipe cards that I used to love looking at, flicking through them, staring at the pictures and wondering what the dishes tasted like, the ones that she had not already made, of course and this is probably why she asked if I would like to cook something.

I am no great cook now, and certainly wasn’t at that age but I said OK, I was happy to give them a go.

I took the recipe card.  They looked easy enough and there weren’t many ingredients so I didn’t think I would have any trouble making them, and besides, with Aunty Georgie there to guide me, nothing could go wrong!  

When I was looking for a picture of what they looked like for this post, there are several types of Melting Moments biscuits out there, but my ones had a glacé cherry on the top and I am sure they were made with oats, but some recipes I have seen use desiccated coconut.  This link is the closest to what I remember they looked like when I made them.

Anyway, she put out the ingredients for me along with her set of scales and kept an eye on what was probably my first trip into the world of cooking.  And off I went weighing this, mixing that and then shaping the dough into little balls, placing them onto a baking tray and putting the cherry on the top of each one.  Once ready, she put the tray into the oven and I helped her to clear the table and sat waiting for them to cook.

Uncle Charlie had been in the garden, I think, and he came into the kitchen all full of smiles and laughter, as he always was, and exclaimed at the wonderful smell.  A fortuitous arrival as Aunty Georgie had not long taken the tray out of the oven and these little discs of edible joy were sitting proudly cooling on a rack.  I had made plenty, (mainly as I knew, or hoped Dad would like them as he was fond of his biscuits!) so I had one there and then and enjoyed the (glacé cherry) fruits of my labour.  As did Uncle Charlie and Aunty Georgie who both exclaimed that they were delicious!  See what I mean about them being wonderful people?

I eagerly awaited for lunch the next day when I could proudly offer my plate of Melting Moments to Dad who as expected, did enjoy them and ate quite a few of them with his coffee.  He did love his biscuits.


This Bint, she is a moving…

…, well not that far, still in the same building, just to another area on this floor.

A while ago, I wrote this post about how many times I had moved about in my working life and I was reminded of it because everyone is being relocated to a new area.

I moved to Bank in July 2017, and thought that would be the end of it.



Knowing how much I have already moved during my time with this company, I should have known better than to think there would be no more changes!

These floor relocations are taking place over the weekend and will be the third time I have moved since coming here two years ago.

So, number 15 on the linked post should now read:

15. Bank – 1 floor, 3 desks.

I should point out that number 11 on that list is when I joined this company.

Thank goodness I am on leave all next week!


Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Today, #WeRemember the victims of the Shoa.

Today, #WeRemember the victims of all genocides.

I wrote the following on this day in 2017, and I dedicate it those who perished in the Shoa and to all lives lost through fear, hatred and the refusal to understand and accept.

Tickets Please!

Tickets, please!
Tickets, please!
Do you have your tickets?

My ticket is my star, that is sewn upon my coat.
It gives me special privileges.

I get to ride 1st class in a wooden hut on wheels.
It doesn’t have a window and you’re not allowed a seat.

Don’t expect refreshments and certainly not a loo.
And there are no guarantees that you’ll get through.

But, they’ve told us there are showers at camp when we arrive.
So, I’d better be prepared as I want to survive.

I have a yellow star, that is sewn upon my coat.

Tickets, please!
Tickets, please!
Do you have your tickets?

In Memorium: 100 Years On, At The Close.

Four years ago, for the 100 year anniversary of the start of the First World War, I wrote this post.  It seems like only yesterday that I wrote that and how fast those years have flown by!

Two years ago, to remember the Battle of the Somme, I composed the following short poem for my Great Uncle Joe, who did not get to return home to his family.

Thiepval 11/11/2016

One day I will visit you, Great Uncle Joe,
and I will say hello to your name.
I know the pillar it is engraved upon and
one day I will go, Great Uncle Joe, and say hello to your name.

When I discovered that Granddad had lost a brother through my genealogical research, I was surprised, because Dad had never mentioned anything about this, but his knowledge was not great.  And, of course, he wasn’t here for me to share my discovery with him. 

I also wished that Granddad hadn’t died when I was a young child; I would have liked to have talked about his experiences with him.  What did it feel like to lose a loved one in horrific circumstances and not have a body to bury?  I will never know, but I am always curious.

So, we come to the 100th anniversary of the end of World War One.  A period of time that has resonated with me for many years and along with elements of World War Two, like the Shoah (or Holocaust), form the cornerstone subject matter for my poetry.  I can’t explain why I am drawn to these periods of history and why I love the poems of WW1, but you know what, I am not going to try to explain it, it feels right and that is good enough for me.  I continue to jot down many lines and ideas for poems and often create complete poems in one go.  They may not get looked at again for a while and when I revisit them, I do change and edit them, but some I don’t.

To Our Brother

Sorry, mate.
We had to leave you behind.
Your body, you see, we couldn’t find.
But, we tried.

You were never forgotten.
Remembered you every day.
We wanted to bury you,
stand over your grave, and pray.

But we didn’t.

All that’s left is your name,
carved upon a wall.
Pier and face 2A.
That is all.

The Wharves of Wapping – a visit with Uncle Charlie*

I have a memory that I hold on to very tightly and it is as vivid now as the day I first recorded it.

Many moons ago, my Dad met a couple when he was on holiday on the Isle of Wight. They became firm friends and stayed that way until his death in 1986 (we made sure to keep in touch with them after Dad died). I knew them as Uncle Charlie and Aunty Georgie, a wonderful couple who both sadly, are no longer with us either. I miss them.

Even though we lived in Kent/East Sussex when I was growing up and they lived in Ilford, Essex, that did not stop us from driving up to their home to spend a day with them and we did this many times as I was growing up. I remember being so excited and I always looked forward to those days. Mum ensured that we were smartly dressed (don’t ask, it was the done thing in those days) and when I look at the pictures of us, I laugh – well, the 1970’s were never known for their fashion sense, were they!

I also had the good fortune of spending a week with them on a couple of occasions, if my parents were away and during school holidays of course. Great times, many fond memories, many stories!

One time when my sister and I were both staying with them, Uncle Charlie decided he would take us to see the old wharves of Wapping. I don’t know why but I guess that he wanted to show us a piece of London’s past before it ceased to exist.  I was excited just to go to London!

Our visit occurred before the massive regeneration of the docks started, so the whole area was derelict and you could walk around freely. I don’t think I had ever seen such massive buildings like these before, they fascinated me and I was awed by them.

I stared at those magnificent structures that were silent, empty and proud.  I walked amongst them and imagined them when they were wanted and useful.  They were beautiful to me, these industrial constructions. They were dirty, forlorn and now unwanted, but even at my tender age, I fell in love with them.

The atmosphere was silent, almost eerily so as you would expect, and apart from listening to Uncle Charlie talking, the only other sound that I remember was the litter being blown about in the breeze.  Oh, but I knew that if I tried hard enough, I was sure I would hear the wharves breathing out the imprinted whispers of a bygone age.  And I didn’t want to leave them.

I have told this story many times to various people over the years and the memory of that day is still clear to me, and may it always remain so.  However, when I do think about it my memory is in black and white, and I look at it in the same way as I look at a black and white photograph.  Not because if the weather that day was gloomy, but because for me, they stand out and are venerated in black and white.  In my emotional mind, that is how I honour their history and their place in it at that time all those years ago.  Especially when you consider the enormous changes that have happened to the East End.  My only regret is that I wish, just wish that we had had a camera that day.

*N.B. This is the first of several posts about these lovely people who I had the privilege of knowing and having in my life, and I have wanted to share some of the stories for some time.  I will post them as and when and they won’t be in any order of time.

Desert Island Dishes

A fellow foodie friend of mine emailed me a few weeks ago about what dishes he would take to a desert island.

The idea came about because of a newspaper article that he read in The Observer.  Written by a chef, it listed his 10 preferred dishes.  Unfortunately, this list did not excite my friend but it got him thinking about what he would take and he duly compiled a list of eight, that he kindly shared with me.

Of course, this prompted my friend to challenge me, and I must admit that it was not the easiest list to compile and I certainly don’t think that it can be called my final list of options.  I find, as always, that a list is a work in progress.

I have been on this earth for quite a few years now and eaten a lot of delicious food (my waistline is nodding in agreement) and coming up with eight options when I wanted to list 410 has been interesting, but for a first list, these are my choices in no order of preference:

  1. Mum’s potato pie (a fully encased shortcrust pie of sliced potatoes, cream and other lovely stuff. Mum found the recipe in a magazine and it was a hit from the start and became a regular menu item when I was growing up).  Yes, I know that it is not strictly Mum’s own recipe but I gloss over that (very minor) detail…
  2. French onion soup
  3. Cassoulet
  4. Steak and kidney pudding with false soufflé, (another old recipe from the 1970’s of mashed potatoes mixed with an egg, butter (or cream if you prefer, or both!), seasoning and cheese, then cooked in the oven so that it rises like a soufflé, utterly sublime). I can’t quite decide on what vegetables, but something sautéed in butter, probably
  5. Boudin blanc (the white version of French black pudding)
  6. A roast, probably sirloin, with all the trimmings
  7. A full English
  8. Proper chips, with salt and vinegar

There no desserts for my desert island trip; that is a list for another time.  There is no cheese listed either, difficult because I would want to take all the cheese!

Oh, and yes, I do realise that this list is very stodgy for a desert island.  Again, glossing over that (very minor) detail.

What would you choose?