It's Wake-Up Time

Angela Skelley

Description

Bristol in the 60s and 70s was a different world. There wereno phones, certainly no mobiles, and television was something you watched at awell-off neighbour's. This is the world that Angela Skelley remembers growingup in and recounts in her nostalgia-steeped memoir It's Wake-Up Time. Following Angela's childhood untilshe emigrated to Canada, in present-tense, clearly laid out chapters of herlife, the memoir will appeal both to readers who remember the post-war years andthose who enjoy seeing a fragment of history from someone else's eyes. Life could be hard, Angela and her three other siblingssquashed in a tiny prefab which froze on the inside every winter. But sherecalls that, in many ways, childhood for her still shares similarities withnow: music, (front row seats at the Colston Hall to see the Beatles, for lessthan a pound), dancing (more bopping than rave, but still...), weekly visits tothe cinema (lovely long sessions on a Saturday morning), boys (the good, thebad and the ugly), and family (to inspire, love, get frustrated with, lean onand push away from, take for granted and, eventually, to miss). From the first forays of the grown-up world of paid work toleaving for a new home, Angela shares her experiences in an honest, chattyaccount that will alternatively have you glued to the page or chuckling withdelight.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 19 juillet 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789011111
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

It’s Wake-Up Tim e





Angela Skelley
Copyright © 2018 Angela Skelley

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
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ISBN 9781789011111

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
This is my story about growing up in Bristol
in the 1960s and 70s. It is dedicated to everyone who appears here: you have all helped make me who I am!

In loving memory of my brother Dave.
Contents
P A N G E - OLD MISERY GUTS
GOOD GRIEF, THE SIGHT OF ME!
BLOSS AND POP AND THE HORRORS, DAVE AND AL
SHRIMP YEARS
NAN AND GRANFER
SPARE TIME
MOVING HOUSE
SCHOOL, YUCK
APPROACHING MY TEENS
AUNT OLLY AND NAN
LEISURE
I OWE GRANNY TUPPENCE
FAMILY PURSUITS AND LIFE THREATENING INCIDENTS
BACK TO SCHOOL DAYS
MINOR AND MAJOR MISHAPS,
BECOMING A WORKING GIRL
THE PICTURES AND MY FIRST GROWN UP DANCE
LEAVING SCHOOL, THANK GOD
WEDDING BELLS AND CANADA HERE I COME
IMPROVING THE MIND
SLOWLY MATURING
HILARY AND SID
THE START OF PROPER DATING
SNIPPETS
MOVING HOUSE AGAIN
SWITZERLAND
JADED, BUT NOT FOR LONG
JOE, THE TOAD
PROMOTION
WIMPEYS
MARTIN, MY FIRST LOVE

(Interlude)

BACK TO MARTIN
AFTERMATH
ADORABLE MICHEL
INTRODUCING BEN
THE PARENTS DO A BUNK
THE END OF US
PAULS I AND II
IDLE TIME
WHAT ELSE? ODDS AND ENDS
MUSINGS
A BUNCH OF DATES
TAXI DRIVERS AND OTHER IMBECILES
BLUSTERING NORMAN
TIME TO MOVE ON
TASTERS OF FAMILY LIFE
TIME FLIES
THERE’S NO GOING BACK
P A N G E - OLD MISERY GUTS
I’ve decided not to kill myself after all. Last night, though, I almost did it. I went to bed feeling lonely, missing Ben so much. Even to hug my hot water bottle tight, trying to imagine I was cuddling him, failed to be of comfort. I wet the bed yet again with bucketfuls of tears. I flooded my earholes with them too which will probably start up an internal itch, and I thought “Yes, I really will do it this time and put myself out of misery once and for all.” I didn’t exactly chicken out. Lying in the dark, on my sodden pillow, I worked out my plan of action to end it all down to the minutest detail. I would wait until everyone was in bed of course, then up I would get very gingerly, trying not to creak the bed or the floorboards, rummage in the dressing table for my lady razor, because naturally I couldn’t put the light on, get back into bed in the warmth with it and just do it. I would be dead and gone without any trouble at all – simply a few quick slashes across the wrists, nothing more. I expect I would have screwed up my eyes and gritted my teeth, but it wouldn’t have hurt because nicks don’t. I wouldn’t even have been able to see blood gushing. I’d shut my peepers, snuggle down beneath the blankets and drift up to heaven; leastways I would have hoped to put down roots there. It would have been a perfect way to go. I most definitely would have been a corpse, no doubt about it, when discovered this morning. I mean to say, the family wouldn’t have begun to worry that they hadn’t seen me until lunchtime, because I usually have an extremely long lie-in on Sunday mornings, and by the time a knock came on my door accompanied by “You getting up today or tomorrow?” I would have been stone cold.
Why, you may be wondering, wasn’t the deed accomplished then? Well, as I was going back over my plan, and at the same time doing my best not to cry noisily in case a member of the household heard and came to investigate the horrible row, I suddenly thought of Blossom, my old china-pie Mum. There she was downstairs, odds-on with bent head and arms folded, stockings rolled down to her ankles, asleep in the chair, absolutely unaware that she would have to clean up a bloody, ghastly mess in the morning. Sure as eggs she would have fainted off too at the sight of me, and it is possible Dad, and brothers Dave and Al might have had queasy stomachs. I couldn’t do it to them, not that way, and other ways I’ve thought of don’t appeal to me. Maybe I should have fizzed a bottle of Disprin in a glass of water and taken it before going to bed. I wouldn’t have had time to think then, once I had climbed the stairs. On second thoughts that would have been gassy and filled me with wind. I should imagine that was an uncomfortable way to die, feeling burpy and bloated. And besides I have never made it clear to Dad that when I go I don’t wish to be locked up in a coffin. I would get awful claustrophobia and the beetles and woodworm would be bound to get me eventually. Oh no, that’s not for me. I want to be burnt and my ashes scattered haphazardly. That is, preferably over countryside and near to the sea. (A bluebell wood would do nicely.) Rather different to what Mrs. Batter has in store for her husband. His ashes are going into an egg timer. She told me she is going to give him a headache, and make him work, if it’s the last thing she ever does.
So when tears and morbid thoughts wore me out, I suppose I fell asleep. Not before Blossom created a disturbance. She had a shrieking nightmare and told us this morning, beaming all over her ‘cherubs’, she could remember burglars kidnapping her. Dad slept on and didn’t put up a fight. As Mum was telling us the story, she stepped back onto a saucepan she had put on the floor and squashed it. Pop wouldn’t even have dented it, had it been him. Actually, it’s Dad who usually wakes me up in the night, not Mum. His snores are loud certainly, but he also calls out “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear” over and over again in his sleep.
So there we are. I woke up this morning remembering the gory details of the night before, gave myself a stern talking to and here I am, still in the land of the living. I will be honest and tell you that yesterday morning I also thought I might do away with myself. When I left home to go shopping I informed the family they would never see me again, because I was going under a bus, but I forgot to do said deed and on my return Dave’s first words were “Weren’t they running Pange?” So how to cure myself of acute heartache? There are plenty more fish in the sea so I’m led to believe.
Excuse me while I adjust. My movements are restricted today on account of my bra strap breaking, and it’s too cold and I’m too lazy to do anything about it. I really don’t have the right to feel downhearted. There are those far worse off than me. Prunella went to the dentist last week for a check-up. She thought she needed a filling, which was correct. Also she was told she would have to have all four wisdom teeth out, and at the same time the hospital would see to her clicking jaw as well. If I think about it, most days my spirits do get a boost and there are occasions when I find myself chuckling – a good sign I’m recovering from my loss and my broken heart is on the mend. I bet if I think back over the past week I can think of a dozen things whereupon I smiled without force. Now let’s see.
Last Saturday Peggy from the office spent a day in town wearing a black shoe and a navy shoe, not realising she was odd. The heels weren’t on the same level either. Sunday I did find one or two things to chortle about too. Tea-time we had a power cut when Dave was making toast under the grill and he ended up with Frizzled Dick, because he only managed to do the one side. “Dang” he said, but munched nonetheless. Later Dad took a candle upstairs to have a bath with and next minute was thumping down for Mum to take up the matches. He had accidentally blown it out. Mum went upstairs with crossed legs, laughing at the thought of Pop’s predicament, but she had to compose herself before going in to him, and make sure she had the straightest of faces, as they were in a huff with one another that day and not speaking. The rest of the evening was spent by firelight and I had the pleasure of listening to my dear brothers joining in with songs on Radio Lux. Dave, the versatile member of the family, could stretch his notes either way, to falsetto or bass. Al made do with his tenor. The neighbours must be used to plugging their ears by now. We did too play creatures on the wall with hand shadows, but I declined participating in a game of murder in the dark. I was happy enough. It was better than going to bed early and not sleeping, which I find myself doing most nights, because no-one has thought to buy me a truncheon to keep beside the bed.
Then Monday evening I walked out of the house arm in arm with Al, on our way to beginners’ dancing class, carrying my hairwash stethoscope instead of my brolly. They are both hung up in the same corner of the kitchen so it wasn’t such a dumb thing to do. On Wednesday morning the Baker came early, before I went to work, and caught Mum on the hop. She wasn’t dressed and had to swiftly don Dad’s mackintosh over her nightgown before running to the door. I wouldn’t go becaus