» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.

The Brown Kitty Cup
One of my earliest memories is drinking hot chocolate from my brown kitty cup. It wasn't a large cup, small handle, medium brown plastic with a white line drawing of a Persian (or some cutesy-looking fluffy moggy) on both sides. I loved this cup. I'm right-handed so I always held it with my right hand. As such, one side of the cup got badly scratched thanks to my teething habit of scraping at the top of the cup with my lower row of gnashers. This inevitably wore away one of the images of the cat.

Fast forward a few years, I have stopped using the kitty cup (all growed-up and using smashable ceramics!) but I knew it was stored away in a kitchen cupboard, as I had informed my Mother solemnly that it was not to be thrown away (the start of my hoarding tendencies, much?) as I really liked my cup.

Some time after, a jumble sale is being held in a town not far from the village where we lived and my mother was having a sort-out of stuff to flog in the name of charidee. One such item she chanced upon was (yup, you guessed it) my brown kitty cup. Mother duly asked me if I still wanted the cup and I answered in the affirmative. I had a deep affinity towards this cup and the grooves I had worn into it with my brand spanking new teeth.

A few days later, I find myself being hauled into a church hall in the town for the jumble sale. Giving my Mother my best "I'll be good and behave and not touch and not run off" look she allowed me to wander amongst the assembled trestle tables and look at all the sorts of utter shite people were selling (a thought has just occurred to me: a jumble sale is really like eBay but tangible...).

I had completed a lap of the hall and was on the way back to my beloved Mother when I stopped at a table laden with little ornaments. To my mind, an array of little ornaments is always worth a second glance, just to make sure none of the assembled objets d'art were worth begging my Mother for some extra pennies. Nothing did. So back to my Mother’s stall I skipped.

Physics dictated I approached the stall from the front. Something caught my eye amongst all the tat recently evicted from my home. My brain starts talking to me.

“What's that, Sarah?”
“What? What?! Is it sparkling? Perhaps something infinitely childish?”
“Stop gibbering, Sarah, and pay attention.”
“Sorry.”
“Look carefully. That cup looks familiar.”
“Hmm. You’re right, Brain. It looks awfully familiar.”
“You really ought to take a closer look.”
“I will!”

So I made a mad dash to the table, covering the remaining distance like Amy Winehouse towards a freshly-warmed syringe of heroin.

I stopped.

I stared.

I might have even whimpered.

My brown kitty cup sat there, on the table, sticky label informing the assembled masses just how small a price my Mother placed on my treasured cup. I reacted with gazelle-like reflexes. I snatched that cup down and marched straight round the other side of the table and confronted my heinous parent.

“Mother, what’s this?”
“It’s your cup. You said you didn’t want it so I’m selling it.”

I splutter.

“I never said any such thing!”
“Sarah, if you had wanted to keep the cup, why would I be selling it.?”

I think to myself, “because you’re a money-grubbing, mean and heartless woman who I thought loved me because I am one of your treasured daughters.”

Obviously, this is a little too elaborate for a nine-year old girl to vocalise, so I actually answer, “I never, ever said I wanted to get rid of my cup!”

My Mother reacts with classic British parenting.

“Well it’s on sale now so if you want it back you’ll have to buy it.”

I stop. I think. Buy back my own cup? The one which I never wanted to get rid of? How ridiculously unfair! I say as much to my Mother, who then guilt trips me with the obvious fact that the charidee which the jumble sale is in aid of will be left out of pocket to the tune of twenty new pence.

Damn. But then my brain starts to demonstrate some of its cunning and underhandedness for which I am known as an adult.

“Okay Mum. Can I borrow 20p please? I have it in my moneybox at home and I will pay you back as soon as we return to the family homestead.” Or something similar. I knew I had the money at home.
“Yes, dear heart.” Cue Mother delving into her voluminous handbag for her purse of many partitions. “Here you go.” She hands me a bright, shining coin with our venerable Majesty’s head emblazoned on one side.
“Many and sincere thanks, Mother dearest.”

I hand the coin back to her. She looks at me a little blankly. I stuff my brown kitty cup into my Mother’s voluminous handbag.

“Please do not sell that cup. I really am quite attached to it. I don’t want to have to buy it back again.”

Here my memory fades, but I like to think my Mother stood there, jaw agape at her youngest daughter’s keen intelligence and utterly lost for words.

I sit here now, knowing exactly where my brown kitty cup is. It’s next to me as I got it out of a drawer where it has been kept safe for many years, away from the capitalist claws of my Mother. It’s only seen the light of day now so I could describe it to you, dear reader. Even twenty-odd years later I take great pleasure in reminding my Mother of this event every so often. It’s only fair, after the emotional distress and monetary loss I suffered.

Length? Well, the teething grooves are not much to write home about but the cup stands over a mighty 3 inches!
(Tue 19th Aug 2008, 13:38, More)

» Siblings

The Three Ss
Ah, how I love my older brother (by six years) and sister (by five years). I have many tales of the three of us getting into all kinds of scrapes. Naturally a few of them stand out in my mind, and I shall tell you of them. Now, it’s no good me using initials to refer to them, as handily our parents named us all common names beginning with S. Nice. So instead, I shall refer to them as my brother and my sister. Job done!

Now, a quickie. My sister has a delightful scar lengthways down the inside of one of her wrists. No, we didn’t drive her to it, instead in a pique of fury during one of our many scraps, I scratched her with my bare fingernails. I am adorable!

One of my earliest memories involves my siblings. We had a red and white tricycle when we were very young, which had a little boot on the back of it (classy or what?!). Being the youngest, the best idea my elders could think of was to bundle little me into this boot, shut the lid then have my brother go off peddling as fast as he could up and down the path outside our house. Said path takes a sharp turn right to go alongside the side of the terrace, so he shot round it on two wheels, the lid of the boot pops open and I roll out in the opposite direction. Oh, how we laughed!

Another time the three of us were spending a rainy evening playing with a bunch of other children on the swings etc. at the large recreation ground in the village when my brother comes up with a most spiffing idea.
“Everyone get on the big roundabout and hold tight!”
“Okay” bellow the rest of us, myself and my sister included.
My brother and one of his friends then proceeded to push the roundabout very fast indeed. Subsequently my little fingers got tired of clutching on so they let go. Cue me hurtling off the playground instrument of torture (as I now view them), through the air before coming to rest on the ground several feet away. Of course the laws of physics got their way and I continued to travel along the ground on one side of my face. Do you know what upset me the most, and kept me in tears all the way home? My brand new Mickey Mouse t-shirt had got ripped a little bit! What a git.

Many a time was we would play hide and seek, I would hide (splendidly, I thought) but my dear siblings would then give up, start playing another game and leave me in my hiding place for what seemed like hours.

My sister, being five years my senior had make up and nail polish before I did. Not fair, especially considering the more creative flair I have! So, one bored summer afternoon saw me paint my name using her new scarlet nail polish on our shared chest of drawers in our shared bedroom. How on earth did they find it out it was me?! I also remember when we were bought a new bedside lamp by our loving parents and I adorned the shade with the name ‘Gary’ (no, I don’t know why either) using one of her lipsticks. The shade was grey, by the way. I don’t know how they saw it!

Oh yes, I just remember another early memory. I sat on my sister’s head and farted. She never got me back for that one, despite her swearing she would.

At one point, our back garden was filled with rubbish (my parents were having a massive clear out) so we were playing war – my sister and me against my brother. Part way through the game we swapped sides of the garden so we could have different weapons to use but my sister and I wanted our shield ironing board back so my brother threw it to us across the garden. It arrived. And smacked me square in the mouth. And knocked out my two top front milk teeth. And I promptly swallowed them in shock. Then let the whole neighbourhood know about it. Loudly.

One time I got cross with my brother so I tested out a word I had heard used somewhere. I called him a bastard! I wasn’t even in double digits at the time, and I did it in front of my parents and sister too! I found myself soon being told off loudly for that one. (I should add here that I’ve heard swearing for as long as I can remember, and as soon as I hit senior school my potty mouth was unstoppable. It’s terrible at my current place of work too – the two guys I sit with spend the majority of each day calling each other some of the worst names possible: we’d make a sailor blush.)

Back to the subject. A good one was our father was strict when we were little, and from time to time it would be time for the group bollocking. My sister suffered from inner ear problems when she was a child, and also occasional fainting episodes. So one time our father was merrily blaring away at the three of us and next thing I know he’s gently pushed my sister onto the sofa and my brother has run screaming and crying from the room. Shortly it transpires that my brother has thought our father has just killed my sister and lost it big time with him, when actually our father saw my sister was about to have a fainting bout so pushed her to the sofa so she wouldn’t smack her head on the floor. Isn’t it amazing how things look to a child?

I’m running out of decent tales now, so I’ll tell you how things have panned out for the three of us.

My brother clearly developed a taste for older women: the smallest age gap between his partners and him was about five years, and that was his wife. He had a son at age 21, my parents’ first grandchild and whom they dote on (my father adores him). As I was only 14 when my nephew came into the world, I didn’t want to be called Auntie. However I know he does behind my back because his half-sister told me he does. And also one time he accidently called me auntie when I was talking to him, the git! Bless. He also doesn’t like that I take after my father in the height department and although he’s nearly taller than my sister (and is, at last, taller than my mother) he’s still got a good half a foot or so to get to my height though. Hah! Back to my brother. He’s now divorced from his wife (and his son’s mother) and had a couple of relationships but is now happily engaged (long term) and doing his original job of a postman.

My sister knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life – she got a City & Guilds in caring, had a succession of jobs working with teenagers and young adults with autism and/or severe learning difficulties. She left home when she was 24 and is successful on the property ladder. She had a semi-serious relationship at around that age, even getting engaged but he was a berk and she finally finished with him. She didn’t really have anything serious until about 2-3 years ago when she met her now live-in partner. Happily they started trying for a family in autumn 2007 and she got pregnant almost immediately – with twins! (Twins don’t run in either our or his family but I suppose they’ve got to start somewhere.) She gave birth to two little girls in May last year who are turning out to be two very different personalities and are utterly adorable. And if you’re wondering: I shan’t mind them calling me Auntie – I’m going to be 30 this year! *shudder*

Edit: [insert your own witty length pun here]
(Tue 6th Jan 2009, 15:33, More)

» Festivals

Free, gratis and for nothing!
I got to go to Glastobury 2000 (the dry year) for the price of a telephone call - YAY!

There I was, 21 years old sat at home watching The Priory hosted by Jamie Theakston and Zoe Ball, guest starring Kylie Minogue when the weekly competition appears on screen: identify the reason the person was famous. Easy, thinks I: it was the chappie who reads out the footballs scores of a weekend. I knew this because he'd appeared on a programme not less than a week before.

Verily I dialled the number and chirpily gave my answer to the friendly lady at the other end of the line, who sounded incredulous I knew, and so asked. I told her what I've just told you. She took my details and within the hour I was watching the rest of the show when teeny, tiny Kylie reads my name out (and pronounced it correctly to boot) as the excitable winner of a free pair of glorious Glasto tickets! YAY!

I spent that weekend enjoying the delights of The Happy Mondays (overrated), Reef, Coldplay, Slimboy Fat, Kelis (Best. Set. Ever. Kaleidescope is far too overlooked as a debut album), The Orb and Basement Jaxx. (And to this day my brother has never forgiven me for choosing Basement Jaxx over David Bowie on the Pyramid Stage on the Sunday night as my entertainment of choice.)

The only festival I've ever been to and I didn't have to pay! Plus, Kylie read my name out on national television!
(Wed 10th Jun 2009, 12:44, More)

» Bullies

Children are cruel
But in my experience, teachers can be horrific too, and worse.

Mrs Morley

You fucking short-arsed, acidic old whore.

At junior school, I had this hellspawn as my second year teacher. A sour bitch overall, but she had moments of unrivalled cruelty sprinkled throughout her behaviour. Two moments stand out in my mind. One was when she was berating one of my fellow pupils (a troublesome, freckly fuckwit named Paul) for being a twot, and made to deliver some punishment to the moron with the aid of the blackboard rubber. For those of you who weren't educated in the mid-1980s, these were wooden blocks with fabric 'cords' on one of the flatter sides.

She threw it at his head. I don't remember if she took aim or not, though I doubt it.

Because it hit me in the head.

MOTHERFUCKER! She never apologised to me until my parents contacted the school. And then she was clearly unhappy about it. My parents lodged a complaint and she must've had it in for me from then on but then I might be paranoid.

The other occasion was during PE. I'm nowhere near the epitome of physical health and wasn't as a child - never have been. This is coupled with a fear of heights - even that of a standard Box - a familiar piece of gym equipment, but if you don't know it, Google it. So once class I found myself on this torturous item, shaking as I slowly got to my feet on top of it - thus making the distance to the floor (and my certain death) even greater. Beelzebub then starts calling me all the names under the sun to get me to jump from the Box, making me cry in the process. I mean for fuck's sake, I got called all those names by my peers (though why I should call those bastards peers, I don't know. I am and was certainly better than them, but more on that later) every day as it was, I didn't need it from an authority figure as well. Hateful, hateful waste of blood and bones. I'm starting to well up now recalling this - I'm right back in the school hall, sun shining outside, the sweet pea bush by the door growing out of control. I want to add here that this is all true and I urge anyone who ever bullied or is doing so, consider the affect on the bullied party. The incident I have just relayed happened to me when I was eight years old and for it to make me feel useless and pathetic over two decades later should give you some idea of the repercussions.

For a teacher to sink to the same level of bullying as their charges is unthinkable but as I've shown, possible. What I find scary is I now believe there are worse people out there than Mrs Morley and perhaps I got off relatively lightly. A horrific experience nonetheless.

Mr Glover

Bitter and hairy ginger giant

Mr Glover taught CDT at my senior school and before I even started attending, I'd heard of this person through my older brother. As a side note, both he and his wife (the imaginatively-titled Mrs Glover) taught at the school and she was a sour-faced old hag who never smiled. Though it can't have helped being married to a monstrosity such as Mr Glover. Mr Glover was never out rightly cruel to me, though I can't say I looked forward to his classes. I think this was because I had a tomboy streak in me from an early age which found me helping my father in DIY around the house, indulging my creative side with scraps of wood in the shed and getting the knack for hammers, saws etc, so consequently Mr Glover couldn't really pick holes in my technique. However I remember one time one of the class clowns was acting up as usual so Mr Glover dealt with it thusly:

The room was furnished with rectangular work tables with two vices fixed at either end of each long side. Mr Glover wound open one such vice and asked said clown if he would put his wrist into the open vice, with his back to the table. Mr Glover then wound the vice closed so it pinched the clown's skin but didn't break his arm or leave physical damage. He then repeated this with the vice at the opposite end of the table and forcibly put the clown's other wrist in the open vice and closed it. He then proceeded to shout (think Brian Blessed volume) at the poor sod for what seemed forever but was probably less than five minutes. This was done in front of the entire class. I don't know if complaints were ever lodged, but it made me scared of the bastard, on top of disliking him intensely already.

As someone (probably dead) once said, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Mrs Morley and Mr Glover were / are two people who I'd not wish on the offspring of my worst enemy. I write '/ are' as I know Mrs Morley is still kicking about at my old junior school. I know this for two reasons. She spotted my poor nephew's surname (the same as mine) in her register and made some hell for him until my brother put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. I understood from that that Mrs Morley had been a bitch to my brother some six years before my year of hell. And about five years ago I attended an open day at the school in the role of aunt of a current pupil and the vision of death appeared by my side (by which time I'd reached my adult height of 5' 8" - apparently a little tall for a woman, but not some lanky Amazon) and tried to be the personification of sweetness and light to which I turned to my right to face her, gave her a splendid death stare (I've been told I can creep people out with a single glare) and stalked off without uttering a word, leaving her doing a decent impression of a suffocating guppy. Of course I've thought up a thousand witty retorts since that moment but I feel I got the message across nicely.

Of course I was subject to the bullying of my fellow pupils throughout infant, junior and senior school and I know I'm not the only one, and it was just about my weight. Yes, I came home from school in tears many times, and now I still have difficulty telling whether people are being genuine or not, I've developed an appalling penchant for swearing (as you may've gathered) and I'm often too sharp when I speak to make new friends easily. During my fourth year at senior school (age fourteen to fifteen) I never spoke to anyone who wasn't a teacher or one of my four close friends. I was fed up with giving people ammunition. This bottling things up attitude led to me thinking it was an ideal way to handle bad situations, to which end I found myself in counselling and on anti-depressants in my early twenties, and I've since learnt it's not ideal!

However, I know other people've had it worse and since the age of sixteen I've tried not to wallow in self-pity and get on with life, brush with depression notwithstanding. To this end, despite appalling academic failure at 6th Form college, that place was one of the best things to happen to me. I had a whole lot of new people to mix with, as well as my close friends from school - our circle of five all went to the same college. I learnt to be me again, the lively and friendly daughter my parents raised me to be. Okay, I'm still shy in large groups and have had jobs where I've been content to work on my own but I now I'm part of a large team, try to make friends carefully and get paid to spend all day chattering on the telephone to faceless customers which is ideal for me. I've got miles and miles of BT cabling to hide behind!
(Thu 14th May 2009, 17:21, More)

» School Days

Funny for those around me
At junior school we had assembly every morning. Cue four years of children sat cross-legged on a cold stone floor (or some kind of parquet, I'm not sure).

The rows were arranged in order of age, so the first years were at the front, seconds behind and so on. The time in question I was near the front, so virtually the entire school had a view of this most spectacular of spaz-outs.

I had been sat in rapt attention for the duration and must've not moved. How do I know this? When I stood to leave the hall at the end, some fucker'd stolen one of my legs!

OMGWTF! And also OW!

Yes, dear Sarah had been so engrossed in the drivel that whichever authority figure had been spouting that she lost all feeling in her leg, stood up and fell straight back down again. The sound of approximately 200 children bursting into simultaneous laughter is a distressing noise and I doubt I'll ever forget it.

Length? My miserable limp out of the hall aided by a kindly teacher seemed to last for miles.

Click if you want to hear the stairway stumble.
(Thu 29th Jan 2009, 13:36, More)