Possessions

Like most of us I like possessions. I assume it is a natural human trait. 'Possess - to have as property, own; wealth.' To own something implies having something that is ours, personal belongings exclusive to us. And again like many of my generation, I was poor in the extreme in childhood. (Note I said poor, not unhappy.) One Christmas I asked for something to wear and something to play with. And the family bought me a pair of trousers and cut the pockets out. Not true of course but you get the message.

Something happened this week that made me examine a lifetime of possessions.

I remember one Christmas receiving a small replica of an army field gun. Totally mesmerising and highly prized it fired matchsticks. (All of thirty or so inches but no matter, it repelled the dreaded Boche in a six year old's imagination.)

In a later year a cardboard Subbutteo set gave hours of pleasure. Make no mistake, Derby County lost few games in hard fought matches played by the light of the gas mantle.

I once had a pocket stop watch, complete with chain which I proudly produced one every necessary or contrived occasion. The strange thing is I don't remember where it came from (I probably swapped it; I hope I didn't steal it) Plus I don't know where it went though I vaguely remember dropping it and stop watches don't bounce.

I also once had a large leather football, courtesy of an uncle who lived near the famous Baseball Ground. That ball was my ticket to the 'big boy's club', for ownership of a real football was prestige indeed. No matter that I seldom got a kick of my own ball.

I remember well the Raleigh, three geared bike with drop handle bars, cost around seventeen pounds, bought with my paper round wages, seven and sixpence a week. And the superior Dawes bike that I wrapped round an oncoming motorbike; a sad end to a prized possession. And the similar demise of second hand Francis Barnett number TNU 137. Cost fifty two pounds and a lifetime of aching bones. (see blog dated 14th March 2009)

The green minivan is remembered as my first ownership of a four wheeled vehicle, less so for my attempts at brush painting. (Racing Green I think the paint was optimistically described.) GDT 703C was definitely a pride and joy, a Mini Cooper that signalled my arrival in the swinging sixties; what joy, what memories!

Marriage brought an end to selfish frivolity and the introduction of semi poverty for many a year. The bonus has been a loving wife and two tremendous children; plus a lifetime of work, the lot required of the working man.

I have had much in life. I have lived in many different circumstances, some homes rented and some owned outright in later years. Whilst not rich I consider I am blessed and want for little. For what does a man close to his seventieth year need or want. Therein lies the reason for this blog. What prized possessions do you remember from your past. And are there any things you are going to 'treat' yourself to before you go.

As I write I gaze in wonderment at my latest 'toy'. If I die tomorrow, I die happy. For there it is. I reach out and touch it, amazed at my purchase. It's sensational, impressive, exciting, mind -blowingly awesome, and expensive with it. Lord, please excuse my extravagance, but almost septuagenarian males never truly grow up nor ever really grow old. (Sorry kids, bang goes some more of your inheritance, but hopefully the house is yours when we go!)

By the way, a vow of poverty does not suggest being for ever poor but the sharing of any thing you have, (the idea of not claiming private ownership of any possessions.)
Anyone who knows me will guess what I now possess. If not watch this space in five days time.

And you are very welcome to come and share it with me.

Home Sweet Home Six

1970 marked the end of life as a single man. No longer a totally selfish existence considering no one but myself. What a shock to the system after thirty years! Paulette and I married in April and after a brief honeymoon in the Lake District settled into domesticity with an elderly friend of the family, a Mrs Wilson. Some found our choice of honeymoon night at Knutsford amusing; Knutsford is far from amusing I can assure you. Neither was it funny when Paulette crashed my beloved Mini Cooper two or three days into our honeymoon. I took it remarkably well, I thought, it could have easily been one of the shortest marriages on record.

I remember nothing of living under Mrs Wilsons roof. (Evidently it was always dark and Mrs Wilson was into pot plants.) It was an inauspicious start to marriage, hard though the lady tried to make us comfortable. It was some relief when the council provided us with premises on our own. I would like to say their generosity knew no bounds, alas this would not be true.

The council gave us the tenancy of an upstairs council flat in Newbold, close to the Eagle Youth Club which I ran as warden come dogsbody. But I was naive, we were both young and we enjoyed life in our own innocent way. The flat was tiny, actually only the upper floor of what was originally a semi detatched council house. Again the details are remembered by my wife and not myself, consisting of a through lounge come kitchen, a bedroom and a tiny boxroom.

The estate was noisy, lively with no pretentions whatsoever. It is not true that even dogs roamed in pairs but it was not exactly the best address in town. But we were young, it was our first home together and we were perfectly happy in our own little world. The only problem was, as Paulette came in of an evening from her job as a comptometer operator at the nearby Glass Tubes factory, I would be going out to run the youth club. It was obvious that another more compatible existence was needed. Nevertheless they were happy days and our tiny flat was certainly 'home' in its own way.