Kategoodall's Blog

This is just one of the reasons why I’ll never be thin.

I went to the Night Market in Walsall last night. I thought it was great, and I say that with a belly full of Tamworth sausages encased in some lovely artisan bread.

Man, it was bloody bitter out last night though, so I only lasted an hour or so before creeping off hugging a latte in my numb hands. I also bought a few Easter goodies for my nieces from a stall run by some friends, calling themselves Crafty Sew and Sews.

I was thrilled to hear a youngish mother ask her push-chair bound daughter if she wanted a chicken wrap. A welcome change from “d’ya wanna bag o’chips?”

It saddens me somewhat that some people struggle to accept an event like this as being a good thing for their town. Try having your cup half full people! There were lots of local traders there and it brought vibrancy to a town centre that needs a kick up the jacksy.

Another reason I enjoyed the Night Market was that I saw so many people I know. I expected to bump into several work colleagues of

Chocolate and marshmallow treats for my nieces.

course, but it was also lovely to have a quick chat with the likes of Vicky, an old school-friend of mine, who was somewhat distractedly looking for a bar, whilst exuding cocktail party glamour. If you don’t already read her amazing blog, and you’re a fan of giving life the big Vs and living it how you want, you really should.

And of course there was Angela Steatham, with her son Charlie, Cllr Kath Phillips and others looking after a tombola in aid of Walsall Hospice, for which they raised over £400. I had a quick hug from Ange. Tbh, I think she was trying to get warm. The woman knows no shame.

I also recognised one of the security guys at the event – I worked with him and his colleagues closely for the Olympic torch relay coming to Walsall last year. We said a quick hello, but he was busy working of course. And I wasn’t, yay! It’s really so much more enjoyable to be at an event when any emergencies that may arise aren’t your problem. Even better is when you’re freezing cold and…. yes, you can just leave, hot latte in hand!

I was surprised to have two people stop me to ask when I’d next do a blog post. I don’t do political, I don’t really do local; so why? Answers on a postcard.

So, big tick for the Night Market, but boo hiss for getting home and having to take TT out for a walk. I don’t think, fondly proud as I am, that she’ll ever master calculus. However, even with the oddities of me being off work and napping, the little sod still knows whether she’s had her two walks or not and complains both vocally (howling to opera on classic FM on in the kitchen followed up by eye-to-eye whining) and physically (determined nose-nudging) until she gets her way.

Today was about catching up with one of my bezzies. Her name is Eleanor, but I call her Ele-bag. In return, she calls me Skates, because she’s known me long enough to remember that I lived in my roller skates from about 1977 to 1981. No, I wasn’t any good; I just liked them.

I love my family, so let’s get that out of the way. The thing with my bezzie mates though, is that they’ve known me for most of my life and know (or knew or know of) my family and vice versa. It seems entirely normal to me to have close friends that I’ve known since I was 5 (Maz the Maz) or 11 (Ele-bag and Susie-belle).  And then there are a few good friends picked up at college in London and a few in the last 23 years at the jolly old council. These dear people are, to me, my family too.

There’s an indescribable comfort in spending time with an old friend. They know all your bad points but choose to come back for more. You can both blather on about your work or your families or whatever and they get it. And they don’t miss a beat when the Peroni makes you burp loudly. In Lichfield. How very uncouth.

The high point of my day out with Ele-bag has already been recounted on Twitter. We’d just left the Olive Tree restaurant after a lovely lunch (she did eat but never stopped talking), when we dropped in to the Paraphernalia shop. If you don’t know it, they do lovely furniture and mirrors and lights and so on, as well as various wooden objects. I picked up a wooden basket – made of one piece of teak – and commented on how lovely it was. “Oh yes” said Ele, “I love to feel wood in my hands”. Sue me, I totally cracked up. Whilst bent over double laughing, I managed to croak “Fnarr fnarr”, to which Ele, no stranger to Viz, laughingly responded “yack yack!” At that moment, my bladder was independently glad that I’d used the facilities at the Olive Tree minutes earlier. “You’re dirty” said a laughing Ele as she went upstairs. I had to step outside to have a smoke and stop sniggering.

And then there’s the old fart moments. We’d already had the discussions in the restaurant about my crap ankle and knees, how fat we both were, varicose veins, hypertension, support stockings and so on. Get over it folks, if you’re not in your 40s yet, you’ve got this shit coming. AND YOU’LL PROBABLY NEED READING GLASSES.

I enjoyed leaving what used to be the Yankee Candle shop, now Kringle(?) candles or whatever. I was first out, down the few steep steps and uttered an old fart “ooh” (ankle + knees) on my way. I waited and was ever so pleased to hear Ele also issue an ‘ooh’ (back) on her way out.

I managed to hold myself together in the Kitchen Shop when Ele wielded a fish slice with some firmness of hand and intoned “I need to see if it suits my technique”.

Amen for old friends

The title comes from Joni Mitchell’s ‘Big Yellow Taxi‘. The line is ‘don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.  This line says something about how I feel about the loss of my Uncle Alan. He’s very much on my mind just now as we have his funeral in the morning.

I like the song, but I really doubt Alan would have thought much of Joni’s rendition. I can well imagine him casting a disparaging eye and ear and quietly intoning “we had a much better singer on at the club last weekend” before turning back to the sports page of the E & S. That was Alan; he always had his own views.

Alan? Not ‘Uncle’ Alan? Oh no, Alan and his brother Colin decided when we kids were of  ’an age’ we should just call them by their first names. I honestly can’t remember how old I was but I’ll guess 13 or so. Whatever the age, I see it as one of life’s rites of passage as they sat us down and told us we were old enough now to call them by their first names. Although I can’t remember exactly when it was, I do remember that feeling of being a little bit more grown up.

I’m really proud that my family trusted me to organise the Order of Service for Alan. I opted to use RW Print in Pelsall. We’d used them for the Orders of Service for my Mom and Dad and they’re just great. I’m always one to support local companies, and a family concern like this is hard to beat.

So anyway, here’s what I put together about Alan.

The life of a simple man; our Titch

Alan was a man of few needs or wants. He lived a simple life with just one priority; selfless love for his family. For those of us lucky enough to have been part of his family, that’s the main thing we’ll always remember about him.

Alan came into the world on 3 July 1937. He was a second son, following Brian, for Harry and Gwen, and was quickly followed by Jean, Colin and Joan. Harry and Gwen first raised their growing family in Blue Lane, Walsall, in an old terraced house that eventually made space for the police station. Back then, when Alan and the others were growing up, Walsall town centre was a very different place. During the second World War, the Betts kids had great fun exploring bomb sites, canals and locks and green fields – all on their doorstep.

The Bettsy kids all had nicknames from an early age that stay with them forever. Brian is Bronco. Alan was Titchy. Jean was Polly. Colin is Chubba. Joan is Pony. Its news in this family if you marry in and you’re given a nickname.

As Britain recovered from the war, new housing estates started springing up and this saw Harry and Gwen move their family to a new house in Darwin Road, Beechdale. This was where Alan and his brothers and sisters became adults. It was from here that Alan left his family behind to do his National Service, including the much talked about time he had in Malta. When he returned, his very deep tan was the talk of the estate, since he looked like Beechdale’s first black resident!

After his National Service, Alan settled down to a working life with the Co-op. He spent many happy years as a milkman, before being promoted to inspector. Some of his family still have the Dairy Diary cookbook, circa 1978! Through late afternoon naps and trademark dogged perseverance, he managed both the 3am starts and a very active social life.

His sister Jean’s diary of this time is full of entries about hers and her sister Joan’s forthcoming weddings, with Alan being the number one chauffeur to all the dress fittings and so on. Added to that, Alan was always up for getting on the dance floor, which was great for two girls who needed a dance partner when their soon to be husbands weren’t around. Alan was always there, for any family member.

In the early 70s, the family bought their own house in Birchover Road, Reedswood. This welcoming home was usually teeming with family at weekends, with kids having to wee in the drain outside as Alan and Colin took over the bathroom for hours getting ready to go out!

For the majority of Alan’s life, he spent his social time in two places; the Birchills Liberal Club and the Cheslyn Hay Community and Sports Club. At the Birchills Club, Alan was often to be found in the snooker room, where he enjoyed snooker, dominoes and the camaraderie of family and friends. He was always very quick to buy pop and crisps for his clamouring nephew and nieces and always made time to play penny knock with them, sometimes including Harry, when he’d wandered in from the concert room. Said nephew and nieces were in awe when Alan became the first person they knew to own both a calculator and a digital watch! It really was all happening in Birchover Road.

Alan, along with Colin, enjoyed so many family holidays from the 1960s to the 1980s. Pontins, Butlins, Hoseasons – the extended Betts clan ruled them all. Alan, along with the rest of the family, didn’t need much to be entertained. Bingo, a few acts, a visit to the amusement arcade and chips to take back to the chalet made for a lovely time. Then in the day time, playing with the kids on the beach, maybe some beach cricket, and certainly listening to the cricket on the radio, a nap then getting ready for the night out.

Following the move of Harry, Gwen, Alan and Colin to Cheslyn Hay, the Cheslyn Hay club soon became the new place to be. The anticipation and joy in the move was short-lived though, with first Harry in 1984, then Gwen in 1985, passing away and leaving a huge void. Alan though, with the support of Colin and the rest of the family, resolutely got on with life; that was the way he’d been brought up. With Colin soon easing into being the Club’s Entertainment Secretary, Alan always enjoyed seeing the acts every weekend. He became quite the accomplished chef having watched his Mom for years and was soon trotting out Sunday roasts that Colin couldn’t get down fast enough.

In time, Alan left the Co-op and some years later Colin retired. Their lives didn’t change too much; they still enjoyed meeting their mates at the club and simple pleasures such as watching the birds at play in the garden. Possibly without knowing it, Alan and Colin shifted from just being brothers, to being the best of friends. There are all sorts of loving friendships, but living your whole life with your brother gives you an unbreakable bond.

Alan liked to do a bit of keep fit in the garage, but what he really liked was watching pretty much any sport going on TV, whilst simultaneously reading the Express and Star from back to front. Alan was also quietly interested in current affairs and happy to tell anyone who’d listen what he thought about the state of the world and enjoy any debate that ensued. Once he’d ignited the fire and fanned the flames, he was happy to sit back, enjoy the warmth and throw in the occasional rocket.

With an obstinacy particular to the Betts clan, Alan knew he wasn’t right at the end of last Summer, but decided against seeking medical attention for a long time. Too long a time, as it transpired. Whilst very weak in hospital during his final weeks, he retained his quirky sense of humour and, despite suffering numerous surgical and other medical procedures, never once complained. That was the lad Harry and Gwen brought up. A simple, much loved, and loving, man.

I do regret not seeing more of Alan over the last few years. Maybe he regretted not seeing more of me too. Selfishly, perhaps, I knew he’d always be there for me. I hope he felt I’d be there for him too.

It’s going to take some time adjusting to the fact that Alan’s not here any more; he was more reliable than the sun.

Those of you who know me will know that my Uncle Alan passed away recently. He was my Mom’s second oldest brother and one of life’s truly lovely people. You know the kind, they just quietly go about their own business, but you know they’re there if you ever need them.  And like my Dad, he always used to pick up a newspaper and turn to the back page to read it.

So what’s that got to do with diaries? I offered to help with writing something about Alan and his life to go in the Order of Service for his funeral. I have some ideas of course, but wondered if they were too personal to me, rather than being a recollection that others would agree with. Whilst starting some spring cleaning today, I found my Mom’s diary and thought maybe I’d get some inspiration. I’m SO her daughter. Immediately, the spring cleaning stopped and I spent a happy hour or two slobbing on the sofa reading up on things that happened just shy of fifty years ago.

I think Mom must have been given the five year diary as a Christmas present in 1963 as the first entry was New Year’s Eve 1963. As I found to be the case with many of the entries, the evening was spent at “the Liberal Club”.  That was (maybe its still open – I saw lights on there a few nights ago) the club on Old Birchills in Walsall. The entry for New Year’s Day made me laugh – “broke all my resolutions before 1 o’clock” particularly since she’d have stayed in bed till 11 given the chance.

Mom only really kept the diary up in 1964 and 1965. The arrival of my brother no doubt made her busy. When I came along the next year, she did record it (and that I had jet black hair and she wanted to call me Maria!) but after that there were just a few postscripts every 10 years or so, presumably when she happened upon the diary in whatever hiding place she’d found for it. Any of us would hide a diary I guess. Particularly if you find out from your very young and inquisitive daughter that your cousin had been reading the contents to your children whilst baby-sitting! Poor Sharon; I think she got a good telling off for that!

Obviously, the moments captured in my Mom’s own hand are very precious and most of it isn’t for sharing. What I can share though is how interesting I’ve found it to read of her life, mostly before I existed, as expressed in her own words. It gives an added dimension to the life of this lady I loved dearly and thought I knew inside out.

It’s difficult to try to be objective about the contents of Mom’s diary. On the one hand, I’m fascinated by some of the words she used. Her written English was always very good, but there are a few words in there that are definitely Black Country-isms. Such as Winnie at the club “ketching” up her dress to do the knees-up. And then there’s the constant mentioning of family members (mostly hers, but plenty of references to Dad’s family too) and of them doing things together en masse, or certainly in numbers. That was the way it was when I was a kid so it sounds normal to me. I suspect things aren’t like that now, for many families anyway.

On 15 January 1964, 12 family members made the journey over to Shelfield to visit the dressmaker who was sorting out everything for Mom’s sister Joan’s wedding. 12 of them! My Big Fat Beechdale Wedding or what I’m not making fun. Back then, it would have been a big deal to get that many people across town even. No email, no texts, most people didn’t have a phone and few had cars. There wouldn’t have been time/room for cock-ups. Very different times.

Interested too to read my Mom’s entries for her birthdays in 1964 and 1965. They went to “the” Chinese for a meal both times. I don’t know, but I can well imagine that Walsall had just the one Chinese restaurant back then and it would have been a huge deal and seen as quite cosmopolitan to go there for a meal. Bad show Dad; apparently in 1965 you opted for Chicken Maryland, you wuss!

By the next year however, Mom left Dad babysitting my brother and went up to the Liberal Club to meet the family for her birthday. She didn’t mention the family in her diary, but they were there most nights except Sundays I think and there’s no way she’d have gone there without knowing they’d be there. I was surprised to read that Mom had trusted Dad to baby-sit, as I well remember her howling at the way Dad held my brother at his Christening – “legs sticking out everywhere”. Mom and Dad were living in Hospital Street by then, so the club was only a short walk away. According to the diary, my Dad “gave me (my Mom) the money for a whiskey anyway”.  Ooh, I can sense indignant feminists forming a queue to be outraged. Calm down dears. All that she would have meant was that, bearing in mind their limited income, he wanted her to have an extra treat for her birthday – they always viewed a tot or two as a cheeky treat.

I have to work in local government? Wahhhhhhh

Going back to trying to look objectively at all this, I find it interesting that my Mom was quite OK with going to the club on her own back then but she would never have dreamed of meeting my Dad in a pub, or going to the bar to get the drinks in for that matter. This was probably something to do with the social niceties of the time, and girls going into bars “getting a reputation” and so on. To me though, it just says that there’s something very sad about the demise of Working Men’s Clubs, whatever name they were known by. They offered a safe and welcoming place for women who didn’t have the luxury of automatic washing machines, disposable nappies, ready made meals, cars, and all the other stuff we take for granted today, where they could relax for an hour or so, play a bit of bingo, maybe see a few acts and generally just be themselves. They were also safe environments for kids to gain their sea-legs in a pub type environment. And if you’ve never been in one, get down there now before they all disappear – the booze is well cheap!

On the subject of washing machines…. 26 January 1965 “I had my washing machine today. It was funny really. We didn’t get the instructions until 4.30 but Mom and Alan were having a go at it. I thought the ruddy thing was going to blow up. Oh, it’s marvellous though.” Imagine though, that wasn’t an automatic washer. It would have just been a washer. With no spin. And definitely no dry. This was when they only had an outside loo, so you can see how having your own washer would have been big news.

So, is keeping a diary a good thing? I think so yes, with caveats. There is so much we could/should write but wouldn’t say. Some of the stuff my Mom captured would perhaps be the stuff she’d have put on Twitter were that available then.  And people dismiss Twitter as being fluff about what people had for breakfast. They’re people who don’t understand Twitter and don’t understand people. You have to follow the lives of people, in whatever media they use, to understand the nuances. For example, my Mom’s diary could simply read “bacon sandwiches at 10am at work”. I know though, that she means she cooked the bacon illicitly and probably dangerously on the electric fire whilst the boss of the leather factory was out.  He knew too. She told me about him looking at her over his glasses and intoning “have you been cooking bacon again Jean?”.

The caveats? I kept a diary sporadically  from when I was about 12 (another 5 year diary!) through a few more books, till I was about 23. I had another go in 1999 in the form of a journal on a trip to Nepal. True to form, I’ve hidden the damn things and find them now and then. When I do, I’m reminded that I should make a bonfire. On the whole then, I say yes to diaries, but not for the under 25s. We were all under 25 once, we probably had much the same thoughts and they’re not worth recording.

I mentioned Twitter. Apparently we can all access our old tweets. Whoop-di-doo.  There’s also Facebook and whatever else. I do love social media. Nothing though, NOTHING, beats the witness of the written words of someone special to you.