The springtime
Glitterati
Have returned
The goldness
Of mr finch
And his dull wife
A perfect pair
No leap year
Proposal here
Timeless
Between the Rose
And the lavender
JL Feb 29 12:17
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Ward 23
Just a thought
Last week confined
Side lined
Top floored
Sky lined
By the window.
Outside the wide
The striding
Sheets of rain
Beyond the roofs
A spiritual well
The tree topped
Pate
Of beacon fell.
Bleasdale
And the northern fells
Beguile the eye
With shifting shades
Beneath a broken sky.
My soul quivers
And I fly.
JL Feb 28 13:02
Last week confined
Side lined
Top floored
Sky lined
By the window.
Outside the wide
The striding
Sheets of rain
Beyond the roofs
A spiritual well
The tree topped
Pate
Of beacon fell.
Bleasdale
And the northern fells
Beguile the eye
With shifting shades
Beneath a broken sky.
My soul quivers
And I fly.
JL Feb 28 13:02
Monday, 27 February 2012
Tween Tide
Tween and twixt times
Slipping the anchor
Sliding on the roundness
Of the rising tide
The comfort of your
Morning crumpled coziness
Pushes me aside.
There is the jostle and slap
Of wind jigged dinghies
By the harbour wall
Anxious in their tether
To be set free
I have my tiller
In the cruck of arm
Taking your farewell
With me on the tide
Knowing not
When and how I might return.
JL Feb 27 16:00
Slipping the anchor
Sliding on the roundness
Of the rising tide
The comfort of your
Morning crumpled coziness
Pushes me aside.
There is the jostle and slap
Of wind jigged dinghies
By the harbour wall
Anxious in their tether
To be set free
I have my tiller
In the cruck of arm
Taking your farewell
With me on the tide
Knowing not
When and how I might return.
JL Feb 27 16:00
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Doors
There is the door.
There is a number there,
Indistinct, smudgy
But still there.
Where ere one turns
There are posts.
They point the finger.
There's the door
In readiness.
It's not the way to go
But you have little choice.
There are many finger posts
But no parting of the ways.
The trees along the path
Have many fruits.
The wisdom is,
To choose the sweet
And shun the bitter.
This is not a Garden of Eden moment.
JL Feb 26 13:54
There is a number there,
Indistinct, smudgy
But still there.
Where ere one turns
There are posts.
They point the finger.
There's the door
In readiness.
It's not the way to go
But you have little choice.
There are many finger posts
But no parting of the ways.
The trees along the path
Have many fruits.
The wisdom is,
To choose the sweet
And shun the bitter.
This is not a Garden of Eden moment.
JL Feb 26 13:54
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Bespoke 3
On with the motley. The art of what suits is the art of matching an individual piece of cloth to an individual body. Suiting in the olden days was referred to as broadcloth. Broadcloth came and still did in 1963 in a width of 58 to 60 inches. It was folded in half, selvedge edge to selvedge edge and rolled on a board in various lengths according to the requirements of the the establishment. A normal suit length would be between three and a half to four and a half yards. There is a certain wow moment when the cloth is split to its full face and some cloths can only be termed beautiful. They shine and have a depth of colour made up of a harmonious melange of threads. Many cloths such as merino are soft to the touch and give a sense of opulence.
The selvedge edge is the tightly woven edge which sometimes has the weavers name and the cloth code. Sometimes can be seen the tiny holes which are made by the tenterhooks by which the cloth is stretched for fulling or washing. Sometimes in a large piece of cloth can be seen little teazels a seed pod with hooks once used to raise the nap on the cloth before it was finally finished.
In the workroom the cutter is on the left with patterns hanging ready to be placed on the doth to be marked up with the square piece of chalk, china clay chalk. The shears make a distinctive scrr as they make a long cut and a ring on the final snip. Snippings are swept away with a deft hand into the box beneath the bench. At right angles is the journeyman tailor.
This man is a character as all these types are. He wears a formal double breasted light grey suit. He has worked for many years in India and has come back to England with his Indian wife. His eccentricity is to spend the weekends in his chalet at a North Cheshire naturist resort, then called a nudist camp. This hobby tends to raise the odd eyebrow. He stands basting a jacket together and his lightning needle makes tugging sounds as it courses through cloth and facings. He only works a four day week and I think he is paid by the piece and it can be any task except the cutting.
I have used the table for cutting simple cotton linings and poplin for surplices. These are sewn by our tailoress who works in a garret a hundred yards down the road and has a dedicated phone extension. She is an expert trouser maker and also does alterations. There are three other facets of the firm, firstly CMT factors who are in Stoke and they make up our made- to -measure orders, then our two out workers: Ginty&O'Dowd who make the jackets and Manny Taylor, the vest maker. Both these establishments are a distance away and exist way above the street and a visit generally involves many flights of dusty stairs.
Ginty & O' Dowd are two Irish comedians given to double entendre jokes among themselves. Ginty is thin as I remember and O' Dowd is more gently rounded and larger. I never knew their first names. I just knew them as a pair of eejits who would make it more difficult to get a job done quickly and carried away.
Contrary to this was Manny, the vest maker, and his many machinists. He wanted to get stuff away as quickly as possible. Manny (Emanuel ?) as the name would indicate was a little Jewish gent given to much smchooze and schmutter and was a 15 minute schlepp away across the city. His girls, every one a shiksa, were something else, naughty, colourfully tongued and not behind giving a young man a "feeling up". The advice was keep away from the machines. They had a nasty habit of using mischievous fingers while one was engaged in a discussion with the boss. I am sure he had an idea of what was going on. Any mention was met with an embarrassing chorus of oohs and ahhs from the "lasses". It was a daunting errand to be sent on and accomplished with great speed.
There were others of one's own acquaintance in town, men in articles (accounting or law) always good for a half of Bass, from the wood, in the Manchester Merchants Bar, presided over by a diminutive well spoken lady called Mary. There was also a loud mouthed barrister's clerk in there who wore brown suede brogues. He will remain nameless. In fact he may have been assassinated by a secretive client.
In fact all my working world was there in Manchester of the early sixties. There are many other things of a private and a personal nature that happened there then and they remain just that, private and personal.
JL Feb 25 10 :04
The selvedge edge is the tightly woven edge which sometimes has the weavers name and the cloth code. Sometimes can be seen the tiny holes which are made by the tenterhooks by which the cloth is stretched for fulling or washing. Sometimes in a large piece of cloth can be seen little teazels a seed pod with hooks once used to raise the nap on the cloth before it was finally finished.
In the workroom the cutter is on the left with patterns hanging ready to be placed on the doth to be marked up with the square piece of chalk, china clay chalk. The shears make a distinctive scrr as they make a long cut and a ring on the final snip. Snippings are swept away with a deft hand into the box beneath the bench. At right angles is the journeyman tailor.
This man is a character as all these types are. He wears a formal double breasted light grey suit. He has worked for many years in India and has come back to England with his Indian wife. His eccentricity is to spend the weekends in his chalet at a North Cheshire naturist resort, then called a nudist camp. This hobby tends to raise the odd eyebrow. He stands basting a jacket together and his lightning needle makes tugging sounds as it courses through cloth and facings. He only works a four day week and I think he is paid by the piece and it can be any task except the cutting.
I have used the table for cutting simple cotton linings and poplin for surplices. These are sewn by our tailoress who works in a garret a hundred yards down the road and has a dedicated phone extension. She is an expert trouser maker and also does alterations. There are three other facets of the firm, firstly CMT factors who are in Stoke and they make up our made- to -measure orders, then our two out workers: Ginty&O'Dowd who make the jackets and Manny Taylor, the vest maker. Both these establishments are a distance away and exist way above the street and a visit generally involves many flights of dusty stairs.
Ginty & O' Dowd are two Irish comedians given to double entendre jokes among themselves. Ginty is thin as I remember and O' Dowd is more gently rounded and larger. I never knew their first names. I just knew them as a pair of eejits who would make it more difficult to get a job done quickly and carried away.
Contrary to this was Manny, the vest maker, and his many machinists. He wanted to get stuff away as quickly as possible. Manny (Emanuel ?) as the name would indicate was a little Jewish gent given to much smchooze and schmutter and was a 15 minute schlepp away across the city. His girls, every one a shiksa, were something else, naughty, colourfully tongued and not behind giving a young man a "feeling up". The advice was keep away from the machines. They had a nasty habit of using mischievous fingers while one was engaged in a discussion with the boss. I am sure he had an idea of what was going on. Any mention was met with an embarrassing chorus of oohs and ahhs from the "lasses". It was a daunting errand to be sent on and accomplished with great speed.
There were others of one's own acquaintance in town, men in articles (accounting or law) always good for a half of Bass, from the wood, in the Manchester Merchants Bar, presided over by a diminutive well spoken lady called Mary. There was also a loud mouthed barrister's clerk in there who wore brown suede brogues. He will remain nameless. In fact he may have been assassinated by a secretive client.
In fact all my working world was there in Manchester of the early sixties. There are many other things of a private and a personal nature that happened there then and they remain just that, private and personal.
JL Feb 25 10 :04
Friday, 24 February 2012
Dulce Domum
To arrive home
To find myself
Laden
Laden with your love
Laden with your kindest thoughts
Laden with such treasure
With poems
With soft songs
With spring flowers
With all my memories
Such a burden
More than anyone
Could wish for
And so light
It spins my being
Lights a fire
Only my thankful tears
Could quench
A super
Septuagerian
Thank you kiss.
To all of you.
JL Feb 24 16:19
To find myself
Laden
Laden with your love
Laden with your kindest thoughts
Laden with such treasure
With poems
With soft songs
With spring flowers
With all my memories
Such a burden
More than anyone
Could wish for
And so light
It spins my being
Lights a fire
Only my thankful tears
Could quench
A super
Septuagerian
Thank you kiss.
To all of you.
JL Feb 24 16:19
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Ward 23
Hello all
Jeff was in good spirits when I visited yesterday evening but this morning he reported that he had not had a good night. I'll find out more this evening.
Nora
Jeff was in good spirits when I visited yesterday evening but this morning he reported that he had not had a good night. I'll find out more this evening.
Nora
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Some away days!!!
Hello friends and followers of Jeff's blog. I have been instructed to tell you all that he is presently in the Royal Preston Infirmary. The medical powers-that-be want to monitor the use of a mask/machine that will help him to breathe easily at night and then, in theory , he should be less tired in the day. Unfortunately the communication that I have had from him indicated that last night it kept him awake!!!!!! Hmmmm!!
More tomorrow
Nora
More tomorrow
Nora
Monday, 20 February 2012
Almost Lent
Grey and cold
A splash of gold
Of finches wings
Screaming things
Croaking crows
Come to blows
Starlings sparring
Robins bobbin
Pairing and sharing
Sly cat snaps that
Stay clean
Steam preen
JL Feb 20 13:06
A splash of gold
Of finches wings
Screaming things
Croaking crows
Come to blows
Starlings sparring
Robins bobbin
Pairing and sharing
Sly cat snaps that
Stay clean
Steam preen
JL Feb 20 13:06
Sunday, 19 February 2012
Yesterday
All this morning
Rain in driving sheets
On towards the eastern hill
Then of a sudden
The sun, the sun
In a blue sky
As though
The earth had come up for breath
And me behind my window
Smiling fresh for a
A new kind of day,
With kaleidoscopes
Of colour in the
Rain washed street.
And today it is still
Brightly breathing,
On our way to mass
The last Sunday before Lent.
JL Feb 09:57
Rain in driving sheets
On towards the eastern hill
Then of a sudden
The sun, the sun
In a blue sky
As though
The earth had come up for breath
And me behind my window
Smiling fresh for a
A new kind of day,
With kaleidoscopes
Of colour in the
Rain washed street.
And today it is still
Brightly breathing,
On our way to mass
The last Sunday before Lent.
JL Feb 09:57
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Bespoke Act 2
Well here we are back in the shop and we are ordering fancy cloths from the traveller's bunches. Well I am just looking on. The cloths are mainly the business suit variety, well toned, quietly confident having an aura of assurance. The shades, for that is what they were, just shades with some chalk stripe and herringbone and Prince of Wales checks, will be considered in greater detail in next week's post. When we came to a bunch of louder stripes, only one was chosen, for the Count.
The Count was a valued client who bought two suits a year from us. One was quietly business like and one was boldly striped. Both were double breasted. The bold suit was in subdued colours but broadly striped and had an air of, if not belligerence, at least self righteous indignation. He was on the portly side and exuded a faint aroma of cigars and was accompanied by a tall, thin young man with floppy blonde hair. The remaining feature was his method of payment. He paid by a Coutts & Co. cheque which he produced singly from an oyster silk envelope purse which hung around his neck beneath his jacket on a silken cord: altogether most memorable.
Most of the clients appeared to be rather portly. Certainly the ageing members of the clergy who graced the establishment had an air of settled peace and calm and waistlines that certainly did not reflect fasting and abstinence. However the odd bishop did seem to be made of sterner stuff and was usually accompanied by a young and quite athletic looking young priest.
It was the arrival of a visiting bishop to be measured in the fitting room which occasioned the banishment of Tommy Venn. Tommy was an excellent bespoke vest(waistcoat) maker who worked on the fourth floor with a group of journeymen tailors. He often came in to buttonhole the odd vest by hand. This is an art involving gimp, a kind of wirelike cord and fine silk twist. The gimp held the shape of the buttonhole and the silk twist was used to sew it in place. I have never seen it done by hand by anyone else. He was the master.
Tommy was a small man with a long body and short bow legs. He spoke with a west country accent and given the name Venn, maybe hailed from Dorset. I seem to remember there was a Diggory Venn in The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy. However looking at gravestone records for the family name Venn by far the most entries are from suffolk and and only a few from somerset.
He was in his late seventies, had been a tailor in the army and as a result of some event at that time had shed all his hair owing to alopecia . There was not a tuft or whisp just a shiny pink dome. He always wore a hat outside. Inside off it went with a scratch of his head. He then sat cross legged on the bench and worked at his buttonholing. He was not swift or deft but quietly accomplished and the result was always immaculate. He complained that his eyes were going and he would have to retire even though he seemed to me to sew without looking. He was a fund of coarse tales and even coarser language.
With the bishop in the fitting room he had to be banished to the basement. He would then appear three minutes later saying the light was too dim, dump his work on the bench and in his words "bugger off". Then there would be a phone call upstairs when the coast was clear and back he would come, slide on the bench and finish the job.
The last I heard of him was in an accident. He was running to catch a bus which suddenly stopped and he landed on the back of it. He was concussed and, I think, died soon after. He was eighty years old. He remains in my memory to this day, a gnome like figure, folded on the bench, engrossed in the stitches, muttering gentle obscenities under his breath but always with a wink and a grin to me and an eye cast on the boss.
JL Feb 18 09:58
The Count was a valued client who bought two suits a year from us. One was quietly business like and one was boldly striped. Both were double breasted. The bold suit was in subdued colours but broadly striped and had an air of, if not belligerence, at least self righteous indignation. He was on the portly side and exuded a faint aroma of cigars and was accompanied by a tall, thin young man with floppy blonde hair. The remaining feature was his method of payment. He paid by a Coutts & Co. cheque which he produced singly from an oyster silk envelope purse which hung around his neck beneath his jacket on a silken cord: altogether most memorable.
Most of the clients appeared to be rather portly. Certainly the ageing members of the clergy who graced the establishment had an air of settled peace and calm and waistlines that certainly did not reflect fasting and abstinence. However the odd bishop did seem to be made of sterner stuff and was usually accompanied by a young and quite athletic looking young priest.
It was the arrival of a visiting bishop to be measured in the fitting room which occasioned the banishment of Tommy Venn. Tommy was an excellent bespoke vest(waistcoat) maker who worked on the fourth floor with a group of journeymen tailors. He often came in to buttonhole the odd vest by hand. This is an art involving gimp, a kind of wirelike cord and fine silk twist. The gimp held the shape of the buttonhole and the silk twist was used to sew it in place. I have never seen it done by hand by anyone else. He was the master.
Tommy was a small man with a long body and short bow legs. He spoke with a west country accent and given the name Venn, maybe hailed from Dorset. I seem to remember there was a Diggory Venn in The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy. However looking at gravestone records for the family name Venn by far the most entries are from suffolk and and only a few from somerset.
He was in his late seventies, had been a tailor in the army and as a result of some event at that time had shed all his hair owing to alopecia . There was not a tuft or whisp just a shiny pink dome. He always wore a hat outside. Inside off it went with a scratch of his head. He then sat cross legged on the bench and worked at his buttonholing. He was not swift or deft but quietly accomplished and the result was always immaculate. He complained that his eyes were going and he would have to retire even though he seemed to me to sew without looking. He was a fund of coarse tales and even coarser language.
With the bishop in the fitting room he had to be banished to the basement. He would then appear three minutes later saying the light was too dim, dump his work on the bench and in his words "bugger off". Then there would be a phone call upstairs when the coast was clear and back he would come, slide on the bench and finish the job.
The last I heard of him was in an accident. He was running to catch a bus which suddenly stopped and he landed on the back of it. He was concussed and, I think, died soon after. He was eighty years old. He remains in my memory to this day, a gnome like figure, folded on the bench, engrossed in the stitches, muttering gentle obscenities under his breath but always with a wink and a grin to me and an eye cast on the boss.
JL Feb 18 09:58
Friday, 17 February 2012
Out of the dark
How miners
Raise the roofs
Deep voices
Stroke our souls
Raise the mind
To higher thoughts
With horns and trumpets
All sounding brass.
Above the coal fields
Welsh voices kindle fires.
So from dark places,
The corners of the soul
Where there is loss
We can be redeemed by song.
JL Feb 17 09:55
Raise the roofs
Deep voices
Stroke our souls
Raise the mind
To higher thoughts
With horns and trumpets
All sounding brass.
Above the coal fields
Welsh voices kindle fires.
So from dark places,
The corners of the soul
Where there is loss
We can be redeemed by song.
JL Feb 17 09:55
Thursday, 16 February 2012
1954
Another day and a different post. Recently, probably owing to some breathing difficulties I tend to wake at about 3 or 4 in the morning. At these times incidents from my early life close in and in great detail.
In the early hours of this morning I was assailed by three characters world widely known. On of them being Cris Brasher, in digs at my friend's mother's house. There was a meeting there I think, Roger Bannister with his nose, Cris Brasher with the horn rimmed spectacles, and Chris Chataway with the blonde quiff, I seem to remember. There again I was only 12. They were the four minute mile pacemakers for the first under 4 minute mile in May 1954. achieved by Roger Bannister.
Why that woke me up last night I have no idea. Was I in the house for the meeting? I will never know.
JL Feb 16 13:56
In the early hours of this morning I was assailed by three characters world widely known. On of them being Cris Brasher, in digs at my friend's mother's house. There was a meeting there I think, Roger Bannister with his nose, Cris Brasher with the horn rimmed spectacles, and Chris Chataway with the blonde quiff, I seem to remember. There again I was only 12. They were the four minute mile pacemakers for the first under 4 minute mile in May 1954. achieved by Roger Bannister.
Why that woke me up last night I have no idea. Was I in the house for the meeting? I will never know.
JL Feb 16 13:56
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Fell Foot
I said on Monday,
This week
Let us seek
The pussy willow.
Today the sun shone
On fells fresh green
Across the darker
Conifer screen.
Rounded lambing ewes
Below the crown of hill
Suckle black faced lambs
Against the stone fold still.
Another year begins.
Sunlit snowdrops shine.
Above are pussy willow slips,
Below my years first celandine.
Even in a land but partly dressed
The Lord gives hope of loveliness.
JL Feb 15 15:15
This week
Let us seek
The pussy willow.
Today the sun shone
On fells fresh green
Across the darker
Conifer screen.
Rounded lambing ewes
Below the crown of hill
Suckle black faced lambs
Against the stone fold still.
Another year begins.
Sunlit snowdrops shine.
Above are pussy willow slips,
Below my years first celandine.
Even in a land but partly dressed
The Lord gives hope of loveliness.
JL Feb 15 15:15
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Saint Valentine
Was it not on the feast of Lupercal, the Ides of Februata, that Caesar said, according to William Shakespeare
"Forget not in your speed Antonius, to touch Calpurnia; for our elders say the barren touched in this holy chase shake off their sterile course."
This was a day to celebrate the foundation of Rome and the fertility of its people. There were some rather strange rites performed by bachelors on the day, to Februata Juno, in the hope of gaining a bride. Ides of Feb: the 15th. The race of the unmarried men was one such rite. There were others!
And so like many pagan practices they were christianised and a suitable saint a martyr linked to the date, the day before in fact, was named a Saint for loves sake. He was to be Valentine: a martyr and priest who was said to solemnise marriages.
Seems reasonable to me.
So you all have a lovingly, loveable love kissed day, and make it last.
Love Jeff
JL Feb 14 11:35
"Forget not in your speed Antonius, to touch Calpurnia; for our elders say the barren touched in this holy chase shake off their sterile course."
This was a day to celebrate the foundation of Rome and the fertility of its people. There were some rather strange rites performed by bachelors on the day, to Februata Juno, in the hope of gaining a bride. Ides of Feb: the 15th. The race of the unmarried men was one such rite. There were others!
And so like many pagan practices they were christianised and a suitable saint a martyr linked to the date, the day before in fact, was named a Saint for loves sake. He was to be Valentine: a martyr and priest who was said to solemnise marriages.
Seems reasonable to me.
So you all have a lovingly, loveable love kissed day, and make it last.
Love Jeff
JL Feb 14 11:35
Monday, 13 February 2012
Pussy Willow
This week
Let us seek
The pussy willow
On second thoughts
A silent solitary cygnet
On a silver lake
Slides away from me.
A silhouette
From a far land
Breathes beneath
The bridge's arch.
Ripples round
The rocky edges
Of the rushing weir
Shiver me.
The unexpected
Poem in grey
On this winter's day.
JL Feb 13 12:58
Let us seek
The pussy willow
On second thoughts
A silent solitary cygnet
On a silver lake
Slides away from me.
A silhouette
From a far land
Breathes beneath
The bridge's arch.
Ripples round
The rocky edges
Of the rushing weir
Shiver me.
The unexpected
Poem in grey
On this winter's day.
JL Feb 13 12:58
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Something Amiss
Long twigs
Short straws
Wrack rope
On the lawn
Signatures
Of incompetence
By collared doves
Flap en clap
Flap flies up
Clap constructs
Flap flies down
Clap destructs
Clapenflap
Flapenclap
Coo coo
Bill bill
Third year this
Of conjugal bliss
Going amiss
Three years of matches
And dropped catches
Do their best
But yet to nest
Since they fledged
In the sycamore
Year four
And again
This year
Once more.
Nesting takes place?
Watch this space.
JL Feb 12 13:17
Short straws
Wrack rope
On the lawn
Signatures
Of incompetence
By collared doves
Flap en clap
Flap flies up
Clap constructs
Flap flies down
Clap destructs
Clapenflap
Flapenclap
Coo coo
Bill bill
Third year this
Of conjugal bliss
Going amiss
Three years of matches
And dropped catches
Do their best
But yet to nest
Since they fledged
In the sycamore
Year four
And again
This year
Once more.
Nesting takes place?
Watch this space.
JL Feb 12 13:17
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Bespoke
Working in Manchester in the world of bespoke tailoring was a diverting summer experience. Whereas there was a fair share of the fey and flamboyant characters front of house, the back room staff were different altogether.
Our establishment was a small family business, long established as a Civil and Military tailors (On the official war office list) during the war and simple Bespoke Tailors after it. I still have the business cards: civil and military in clear Roman type; bespoke in italic with a flourish.
The proprietor, bearing the same name as the shop dealt with front of house and the finances. The choice and ordering of cloth was organised by him under the guidance of the Cutter.
The senior cutter was the boss when it came to the finished article and he was as punctilious and meticulous as the proprietor was not. The cutter called the measurements for me to take down on a pre-printed card with boxes for each measurement. I was in the office adjoining the fitting room. That fitting room, if I recall rightly, had three mirrors. Three piece suits were the order of the day during the week with sports jackets and flannels for Saturday morning. They weren't flannel really but 18 oz Huddersfield worsted. I am told they still have manufacturers of fine cloth in Huddersfield.
Mr J, the cutter, was a spare figure of a man. " one of the greyhound breed," he called himself. He took the Manchester Guardian newspaper which lay at the end of his bench as tight and neatly folded as the man himself. He loaned it grudgingly and only on the proviso that it was returned as near to the pristine as possible. He took it to the basement with him for his frugal lunch of a cheese sandwich and an apple. Here he cut a slightly lonely figure surrounded by his brown paper patterns garnered through the years and generations. His was a solemn demeanour and I rarely saw him smile, although he did permit himself a controlled, polite laugh with an old and respected client. Other clients were left to whoever was available while he disappeared back to his shears and chalk. On one occasion, I inadvertently sliced through my tape while cutting out some linings. His response to my “Damn!” was ” tut” accompanied with eyes rolled upwards while he looked down his nose disdainfully and turned away. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact he didn’t suffer them at all.
The shop was long and narrow with a deep mahogany counter down the long side and short glass topped cabinet as a counter at the end. The till was situated here; a long wooden affair with an opening on top to access the till roll and to write in the items. The roll turned with the opening of the drawer. That was how things were done fifty years ago. The long counter was used to measure and cut pieces of cloth to a manageable length. Blacks and greys came in 32 yard pieces. Fancy cloths came in suit lengths of three and a half yards or a small number of multiples thereof for the more popular lines.
There were a small sample number of ready to wear items and accessories but the shop was mainly stocked with fine worsted cloth in suit lengths on appropriately sized shelves. It was rarely busy and clients arrived singly and sometimes by appointment. Customers off the street were rare and a matter for careful consideration.
A selection of regular clients and the eccentric world of the outworkers will be the subject of a later Saturday post.
JL Feb 11 13:07
Our establishment was a small family business, long established as a Civil and Military tailors (On the official war office list) during the war and simple Bespoke Tailors after it. I still have the business cards: civil and military in clear Roman type; bespoke in italic with a flourish.
The proprietor, bearing the same name as the shop dealt with front of house and the finances. The choice and ordering of cloth was organised by him under the guidance of the Cutter.
The senior cutter was the boss when it came to the finished article and he was as punctilious and meticulous as the proprietor was not. The cutter called the measurements for me to take down on a pre-printed card with boxes for each measurement. I was in the office adjoining the fitting room. That fitting room, if I recall rightly, had three mirrors. Three piece suits were the order of the day during the week with sports jackets and flannels for Saturday morning. They weren't flannel really but 18 oz Huddersfield worsted. I am told they still have manufacturers of fine cloth in Huddersfield.
Mr J, the cutter, was a spare figure of a man. " one of the greyhound breed," he called himself. He took the Manchester Guardian newspaper which lay at the end of his bench as tight and neatly folded as the man himself. He loaned it grudgingly and only on the proviso that it was returned as near to the pristine as possible. He took it to the basement with him for his frugal lunch of a cheese sandwich and an apple. Here he cut a slightly lonely figure surrounded by his brown paper patterns garnered through the years and generations. His was a solemn demeanour and I rarely saw him smile, although he did permit himself a controlled, polite laugh with an old and respected client. Other clients were left to whoever was available while he disappeared back to his shears and chalk. On one occasion, I inadvertently sliced through my tape while cutting out some linings. His response to my “Damn!” was ” tut” accompanied with eyes rolled upwards while he looked down his nose disdainfully and turned away. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact he didn’t suffer them at all.
The shop was long and narrow with a deep mahogany counter down the long side and short glass topped cabinet as a counter at the end. The till was situated here; a long wooden affair with an opening on top to access the till roll and to write in the items. The roll turned with the opening of the drawer. That was how things were done fifty years ago. The long counter was used to measure and cut pieces of cloth to a manageable length. Blacks and greys came in 32 yard pieces. Fancy cloths came in suit lengths of three and a half yards or a small number of multiples thereof for the more popular lines.
There were a small sample number of ready to wear items and accessories but the shop was mainly stocked with fine worsted cloth in suit lengths on appropriately sized shelves. It was rarely busy and clients arrived singly and sometimes by appointment. Customers off the street were rare and a matter for careful consideration.
A selection of regular clients and the eccentric world of the outworkers will be the subject of a later Saturday post.
JL Feb 11 13:07
Friday, 10 February 2012
Friday Prayers
Friday-- on this day, I believe Malta celebrates the birth of the Maltese church. It dates from the landing of Paul on the island where he stayed for some three months preaching and from this they count the beginning of the church.
As for me
By a strange perversion
Subjected to the flesh
Unwilling taken
By steps I would not follow
Obedient to an inner wound
By necessity tied tight
Strangled
By a thief
Come in the night
I
With a humble spirit
Try to submit
And in humility
Search daily
For the words
To set my spirit
Free.
Acceptance
Is a hard stone
Upon which
To whet one's
Spiritual knife.
JL Feb 10 11:55
As for me
By a strange perversion
Subjected to the flesh
Unwilling taken
By steps I would not follow
Obedient to an inner wound
By necessity tied tight
Strangled
By a thief
Come in the night
I
With a humble spirit
Try to submit
And in humility
Search daily
For the words
To set my spirit
Free.
Acceptance
Is a hard stone
Upon which
To whet one's
Spiritual knife.
JL Feb 10 11:55
Thursday, 9 February 2012
CO2
Chained to the wall
Locked in conflict
Iron bars
And all that
They tell me
I have captured
Carbon dioxide
In my body
I can tell you
It don't give fizz
It fizzles out
Even quicker
Pas pétillante
Mais non crémant
Non mousseux
Still here.
Captured by
Circumstance
And brought gently down
Into a frozen meadow.
JL Feb 9 12:43
Locked in conflict
Iron bars
And all that
They tell me
I have captured
Carbon dioxide
In my body
I can tell you
It don't give fizz
It fizzles out
Even quicker
Pas pétillante
Mais non crémant
Non mousseux
Still here.
Captured by
Circumstance
And brought gently down
Into a frozen meadow.
JL Feb 9 12:43
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Apricot (the t is silent as in france)
I have loved
The crystal freshness
Of your after shower
Kiss
The walking wood
Of bluebells
Scenting in your hair
The merlot softened
Welcome
To your tryst
What need of life
Another spice
When you are there ?
Soft Apricot my cheek
Upon your curve
Of thigh.
Bring down
The curtain
And leave me lie.
JL Feb 8 13:09
The crystal freshness
Of your after shower
Kiss
The walking wood
Of bluebells
Scenting in your hair
The merlot softened
Welcome
To your tryst
What need of life
Another spice
When you are there ?
Soft Apricot my cheek
Upon your curve
Of thigh.
Bring down
The curtain
And leave me lie.
JL Feb 8 13:09
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Taste
There is many a slip
Twixt cup and lip
And I should know,
Literally.
And it's no use
Crying over spilt milk
Butter fingers.
The proof of the pudding
Is in the eating
But no more.
So pass the red wine
and smile.
JL Feb 7 14:26
Twixt cup and lip
And I should know,
Literally.
And it's no use
Crying over spilt milk
Butter fingers.
The proof of the pudding
Is in the eating
But no more.
So pass the red wine
and smile.
JL Feb 7 14:26
Monday, 6 February 2012
A Smile
I did not recognise
The colour
Of your hair
Nor the texture
Of your skin
Nor the bow
Of your lips
Yet the pressing
Of your hand
Upon my wrist
The urging whisper
At my back
Are both present
And remembered
In the dark.
The lightness
Of your laughter
Smiles at me.
Thank you.
JL Feb 6 12:43
The colour
Of your hair
Nor the texture
Of your skin
Nor the bow
Of your lips
Yet the pressing
Of your hand
Upon my wrist
The urging whisper
At my back
Are both present
And remembered
In the dark.
The lightness
Of your laughter
Smiles at me.
Thank you.
JL Feb 6 12:43
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Falling Down Stairs
Sometimes at night in the darkness I fall down stairs.
Make things
To break things
Grow things
To throw things
Mend things
To send things
Sow things
To blow things
Away
The soul's lot
A tight knot
The mind
Entwined
Caught
Wrought
And the heart
Torn apart
Simply
Limp
Not really
Just early
Morning
Dawning
Yawning
New day
Same way
The night
And light
Confused
Diffused
Like me
In the dark
By the same token
Broken
Feel here
Kneel here
Stay with me
Pray with me
Before the cross
Dedicate my loss
You know it's real
But no big deal
Within the larger picture
Where all crowned in lace
I see the vision of his face.
Around my head
Swirling shadows
Of the dead
And be aware
At the turning
Of the stair
This life is never fair.
Passing
“Faster than the weaver’s shuttle.” Job
JL Feb 5 13:02
Make things
To break things
Grow things
To throw things
Mend things
To send things
Sow things
To blow things
Away
The soul's lot
A tight knot
The mind
Entwined
Caught
Wrought
And the heart
Torn apart
Simply
Limp
Not really
Just early
Morning
Dawning
Yawning
New day
Same way
The night
And light
Confused
Diffused
Like me
In the dark
By the same token
Broken
Feel here
Kneel here
Stay with me
Pray with me
Before the cross
Dedicate my loss
You know it's real
But no big deal
Within the larger picture
Where all crowned in lace
I see the vision of his face.
Around my head
Swirling shadows
Of the dead
And be aware
At the turning
Of the stair
This life is never fair.
Passing
“Faster than the weaver’s shuttle.” Job
JL Feb 5 13:02
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Round Our End
Round our end, come Easter or Whit it seemed to be the practice to buy and wear new clothes for the year. Thinking now, this was probably to use up the coupons. Socks were rationed, hence the proliferation of northern knitters. This time of year prompted me to to request something new to wear. Thus the rise of the fine feathers make fine birds derision from my mother from a previous blog. The money in this house goes on the table not on people's backs, thus the shot down in flames, from the same source.
That being said, we did dine at the high table when compared to my friends. This gave significance to the errands I was sent on from the earliest years. The local parade of shops known as The Shops, rather than the The Village where such exotics as Bookbinders Patisserie could be found, these were known Just as The Shops.
Bookbinders the Patisserie was in the village. I can call it a patisserie now, in the future as it were, because I have reference to such establishments as I found on travels into Europe. Then it was just a Jewish cake shop. It closed early on Friday shut Saturday and opened Sunday.
Only later in life visiting Patisserie establishments across Europe did I realise the true nature and excellence of Bookbinders. Mother was a regular customer and indulged herself with abject immorality and carried me with her decorated with chantilley cream and chocolate sauce.
My mother was gently rounded in later life but not obese and in the Bookbinder days slim as a pin. Age is the heavy weight. Well that was Sunday morning and the delicacies waited until tea time,
Locked in the pantry as a luscious temptation.
Back to The Shops: two greengrocers, one where I worked on Saturdays; two butchers; one independent grocer John Willams and the Coop which had a butchery section also; one sweet shop and fancy stationary; one bakers third rate; newspapers and tobacconist; one fish and chip shop; haberdashers and bicycle shop(separate). There was an obvious emphasis on what went inside than that which adorned the outside.
On Monday a boring day of cold roast, mash and peas. Tuesday steak and onions, usually frying steak and perhaps a little piece of fillet for mum.
Wednesday lamb chops with peas and new potatoes in the summer, roast in the winter. There was a day with Lancashire Hot pot somewhere in there, as there was a dish of tripe and onions with crusty bread. There were summer tea delicacies of honeycomb tripe with malt vinegar and sliced tomato and yet another down to earth end of the week meal, when not fish on Friday, was pig'strotters again with malt vinegar and lashings of white pepper. The only thing I heartily hated was lumps of cow heel in stew. It was used to thicken the juice and made me heave.
Sunday high tea with visitors was an event. There was home cooked ham and salad, celery with cheese, a cake or fairy cakes, sherry trifle or tinned fruit and evaporated milk and the table was piled high. There was nothing left. This tea was a moveable feast and sometimes it took place on Saturday with an aunt and uncle to the accompaniment of the football results, noise of chewing only please.
JL Feb 4 10:11
That being said, we did dine at the high table when compared to my friends. This gave significance to the errands I was sent on from the earliest years. The local parade of shops known as The Shops, rather than the The Village where such exotics as Bookbinders Patisserie could be found, these were known Just as The Shops.
Bookbinders the Patisserie was in the village. I can call it a patisserie now, in the future as it were, because I have reference to such establishments as I found on travels into Europe. Then it was just a Jewish cake shop. It closed early on Friday shut Saturday and opened Sunday.
Only later in life visiting Patisserie establishments across Europe did I realise the true nature and excellence of Bookbinders. Mother was a regular customer and indulged herself with abject immorality and carried me with her decorated with chantilley cream and chocolate sauce.
My mother was gently rounded in later life but not obese and in the Bookbinder days slim as a pin. Age is the heavy weight. Well that was Sunday morning and the delicacies waited until tea time,
Locked in the pantry as a luscious temptation.
Back to The Shops: two greengrocers, one where I worked on Saturdays; two butchers; one independent grocer John Willams and the Coop which had a butchery section also; one sweet shop and fancy stationary; one bakers third rate; newspapers and tobacconist; one fish and chip shop; haberdashers and bicycle shop(separate). There was an obvious emphasis on what went inside than that which adorned the outside.
On Monday a boring day of cold roast, mash and peas. Tuesday steak and onions, usually frying steak and perhaps a little piece of fillet for mum.
Wednesday lamb chops with peas and new potatoes in the summer, roast in the winter. There was a day with Lancashire Hot pot somewhere in there, as there was a dish of tripe and onions with crusty bread. There were summer tea delicacies of honeycomb tripe with malt vinegar and sliced tomato and yet another down to earth end of the week meal, when not fish on Friday, was pig'strotters again with malt vinegar and lashings of white pepper. The only thing I heartily hated was lumps of cow heel in stew. It was used to thicken the juice and made me heave.
Sunday high tea with visitors was an event. There was home cooked ham and salad, celery with cheese, a cake or fairy cakes, sherry trifle or tinned fruit and evaporated milk and the table was piled high. There was nothing left. This tea was a moveable feast and sometimes it took place on Saturday with an aunt and uncle to the accompaniment of the football results, noise of chewing only please.
JL Feb 4 10:11
Friday, 3 February 2012
Sun Kissed
Where shall I stand
This sun kissed morning?
Twin finches settle
Branch on branch
Seeming studied
In the watching
Of their mate.
Such quiet
Mid winter pairings
Launch hopes of spring.
Coarse magpie chatter
Attacks the chimney pot.
We are told to expect snow.
JL Feb 3 12:48
This sun kissed morning?
Twin finches settle
Branch on branch
Seeming studied
In the watching
Of their mate.
Such quiet
Mid winter pairings
Launch hopes of spring.
Coarse magpie chatter
Attacks the chimney pot.
We are told to expect snow.
JL Feb 3 12:48
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Gracing
I don't know where or how I came upon this.
Give your all in gracing today
And you will be happy
With yesterday, tomorrow.
Succinct or what?
I have not been able to find the author,having googled it, so it could be me, in positive mode. There again it could be Thomas a Kempis or at least a derivation.
JL Feb 2nd 10:44
Give your all in gracing today
And you will be happy
With yesterday, tomorrow.
Succinct or what?
I have not been able to find the author,having googled it, so it could be me, in positive mode. There again it could be Thomas a Kempis or at least a derivation.
JL Feb 2nd 10:44
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
On This Day 1645
Years ago I was quite inspired by reading a book: Henry Morse (priest of the plague) quite a short hard back I came across in the public library. It was not unusual in those times to find such esoteric titles in the public library.
I was interested in this young man who converted to Catholicism and went to study in Rome in the early 17th century. He was ordained priest and began his ministry in northern parts, going from house to house, mainly well heeled houses and saying mass, not necessarily on a Sunday as many folk had to keep up appearances and attend a church of England service on Sunday. Inns were sometimes used as they were well known places on the high road giving opportunity for escape and the foreknowledge of priest takers.
One such place was the Red Cat now an Inn in Whittle le Woods near Chorley at a cross road with the road to Blackburn. Lancashire was noted for its recusant population at the time. It is a matter of legend that a red cat, probably a porcelain model was placed in the window to signify the presence of a priest. So gaining the name the house of the Red Cat. Perhaps it was a live and furry red cat for they love sitting in windows.
Back to Henry Morse: he carried on his ministry in northern parts and at length was arrested and jailed in York for three years. Here he studied for his novitiate into the Jesuits, having expressed a desire to join. When released he continued his ministry mainly among victims of the plague in London and was infected himself although he survived, only to be arrested and sentenced to be hanged drawn and quartered for sedition.
He was executed in this manner at Tyburn on February 1st 1645, a true martyr who did not have a need to blow himself up. Like many martyrs he was a humble man ministering to his people.
JL Feb 1
I was interested in this young man who converted to Catholicism and went to study in Rome in the early 17th century. He was ordained priest and began his ministry in northern parts, going from house to house, mainly well heeled houses and saying mass, not necessarily on a Sunday as many folk had to keep up appearances and attend a church of England service on Sunday. Inns were sometimes used as they were well known places on the high road giving opportunity for escape and the foreknowledge of priest takers.
One such place was the Red Cat now an Inn in Whittle le Woods near Chorley at a cross road with the road to Blackburn. Lancashire was noted for its recusant population at the time. It is a matter of legend that a red cat, probably a porcelain model was placed in the window to signify the presence of a priest. So gaining the name the house of the Red Cat. Perhaps it was a live and furry red cat for they love sitting in windows.
Back to Henry Morse: he carried on his ministry in northern parts and at length was arrested and jailed in York for three years. Here he studied for his novitiate into the Jesuits, having expressed a desire to join. When released he continued his ministry mainly among victims of the plague in London and was infected himself although he survived, only to be arrested and sentenced to be hanged drawn and quartered for sedition.
He was executed in this manner at Tyburn on February 1st 1645, a true martyr who did not have a need to blow himself up. Like many martyrs he was a humble man ministering to his people.
JL Feb 1
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