Lives less Ordinary

Those hours on that day, in spite of the passing years, still sit securely and sadly in my mind. Me in my classroom at Meads Junior School, Harold Hill, Romford Essex. A school which had previously been such a happy place. The teacher, Miss Adams, who took me out of the classroom at playtimes helping me to keep pace with the rest of the class. I'm so grateful for the hours that kepy me buoyant and encouraged my constant love of both reading and writing.

     I still see the clumsy, frightened child that I was then, pencil stick legs with my best school shoes angrily scuffing the floor. I was always quiet in my anger. Always a child desperate to please and to be loved. Yes, love had been there in abundance. I don't beleive that we could have had a better childhood; up until the day strode so quickly away from us.

    There'd be no more firework displays in our back garden, us with our sparklers in gloved hands, whilst dad took complete charge of the fireworks. Catherine wheels whizzing with no seeming beginning or end- until they stopped and the light went out.

It was in the same backgarden, where in the more productive months, had proudly stood runner beans, onions and potatoes. I wonder how it was thad dad crammed so much into his short life. When he wasn't working as a telephonist in Chelsford, commuting from Harold Wood station, he'd be visiting friends in London, his family in Coventry,playing his accordian at weddings,mucking around with his tape-recorder or carrying out crazy woodworking procedures in mum's kitchen. Mum never moaned about this. She just got on with her being a busy housewife; listening to the wireless or playing the piano. We were a happy gang then. Money poor but happiness rich. I wasn't ever envious families. In fact I was so proud of both my parents that I wanted the world to see.

Forgive me if I'm talking about my past. I feel that it's important that I paint something of a picture before I move forward with not just my story but many others too.