Down Sommat Avenue
and up Wotsit Street

Eunice Exley gets stuck down life's cul-de-sac

______________________

"Come on now. Quick sharp. We want to be off. Turn that television off now. Don't pick it, it'll only make it worse...... where's your brother....Mother, there's lipstick on your teeth. Now come on, everybody into The Anglia. What did I say...come on."

"Come on now. Quick sharp. We want to be off." Never meant a trip to the circus, "Come on now. Quick sharp. We want to be off." Always indicated something horrible like a visit to the dentist who was later defrocked for gassing a patient.

This particular "Come on now. Quick sharp. We want to be off." meant going into Barnsley to buy school shoes. School shoes expeditions were only marginally better than the dentist. Now that both me and Sis were at The High School in capital letters, we had a strict uniform code, as outlined on the typed paper we brought home at the end of every term, listing Aertex blouses and navy blue knickers for gym, navy blue skirts which cannot be straight but must be pleated or gored, a word I still don't understand unless it's in a bullfighting context . And, worst of all, Clark's shoes. All we wanted were some nice, uncomfortable winkle pickers, preferably with a sling back and a tiny heel. What we got was that instrument of torture in which your foot is measured this way and that.

"She has a broad foot." Mother always used to apologise to the saleslady, whilst Gran wandered off to get lost in the hat department.

We were really going up in the world and little girls with parents who are going up in the world went to The High School and wore correct Clark's shoes to ensure that their feet had room to grow and didn't end up all knobbly like Val the hairdresser's. After all, we had recently moved to The Balk. The Balk had several social advantages. Firstly, it didn't have a common name like something avenue or whatsit street. Secondly it was at least a mile away from the nearest council estate and finally, it was a cul-de-sac. The first French any of us ever learnt, we heard it so often.

"Oh yes, we live on The Balk - a quiet little cul-de-sac."

Furthermore, we lived in the height of sophistication - a bungalow. Detached. So it was goodbye to the shared privy up the yard, and hello to the pink tiled bathroom and open-plan lounge complete with dining area and a Boots' Mona Lisa above the contemporary stone fireplace. A whole new vocabulary came along with the Balk, not just cul-de-sac, also veranda, central heating and breakfast nook.

"School in the morning. Clean your shoes. Make sure your uniform is ready. Do you have any homework? No, you can't stay up to watch The Man from Uncle, it's school tomorrow." ______

Yes, imagine the kitchen! No longer was the kitchen a place where we bathed in the sink (kids) or a tin bath in front of the fire (parents). Now the kitchen had blue and white chequered lino all over which Dad used to tap dance every day when he came home from work for dinner. (Lunch having not yet been invented in Barnsley.) Smelling of sweat and engine oil and wearing his old brown cardigan, he would Fred-Astaire around the kitchen until Mum yelled at him to stop because he was leaving black scuff marks on her nice kitchen floor. "Stop it now!. I've got a nice bit of finny for your dinner".

A fully fitted kitchen, with easy-to clean surfaces. "DON'T put that hot pan down on my Formica." A kitchen with a picture window with a view all the way to the pit, which our pet budgie mistook for the wide open spaces during an escape bid, and fell into a pan of milk which had been set down on the windowledge to cool. Come Saturday Mum would go in The Anglia to fetch lunch from the chippie. Fish and chips, with scraps of course, liberally buttered Mother's Pride and several bottles of dandelion and burdock.

There is a fallacy that in the North of England, everyone sits down to Sunday dinner (not lunch, remember) of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, after which the man of the house goes to sleep watching Leeds United on the TV whilst mother washes up. Not true. Well, we did sometimes have Sunday dinner (small Yorkshire puddings for the women and great big man-sized ones for the men, even if 'the men' included the infant little brother. No matter how young you were, if you had a willy, you got a big Yorkshire pudding!), but only after the pub.

At the pub, the parents would ensure that the kids were all right by installing them in the big-finned Ford Zodiac, with orange juice and cheese and onion crisps, and then go to enjoy themselves with pints of Barnsley Bitter or, if they were in a going-up-in-the-world mood, gin and tonics. In the days before drink-driving laws, they could keep themselves amused for hours, whilst the kids disembowelled each other in the Zodiac. Then it was back to the Yorkshire puddings and Jimmy Clitheroe on the radio, sorry, wireless. Mum must have loved those days, when she could say words like 'wireless' and not be laughed at. Not to mention counterpane, cruet and companion set.

For me and Sis, cursed by The High School, Sunday teatimes were a nightmare. For one thing, tea was currant teacakes and jam, enough of a nightmare for anyone. But, we knew it was school in the morning. Clean your shoes. Make sure your uniform is ready. Do you have any homework? No, you can't stay up to watch The Man from Uncle, it's school tomorrow.

"Come on now, Quick sharp You want to be off or you'll be late for school...where's your brother....Mother, there's lipstick on your teeth. Now come on, everybody into The Zodiac. What did I say...come on."

 

Can I talk to your mum?

A salesman calls this house, and the 3 year old son answers the phone.

The salesman asks,
"Can I talk to your mum ?"

The boy whispers in a very low voice,
"She's busy."

The salesman asks,
"Can I talk to your daddy ?"

The kid whispers again, in a very low voice,
"He's busy too."

The salesman then asks,
"Is there anyone else there ?"

The tot replies in the same quiet voice,
"A policeman."

The salesman inquires,
"Can I talk to the policeman ?"

The boy repeats again, in a low whisper,
"He's busy too."

The salesman again questions him and asks,
"Is there anyone else there?"

The kid comes back in a whisper,
"Some Firemen."

The salesman then wants to know if he can talk to one of the Firemen.

And once again the tot whispers,
"They're busy too."
By now the salesman is really getting worried about what is going on.

He asks the boy,
"What are they all doing ?"

The little tyke replies, still in a very low whisper...
"Looking for me."

_____________________

You Know Who

Little Jason went to his mother demanding a new bike. His Mother decided that he should take a look at himself and the way he acts.

She said, "Well, Jason, it isn't Christmas and we don't have the money to just go out and buy you anything you want. Why don't you write a letter to Jesus and pray for one instead?"

After Jason threw a temper tantrum, his mother sent him to his room, where he finally sat down to write a letter to Jesus.

Dear Jesus, I've been a good boy this year and would appreciate a new bicycle. Your friend, Jason.

Now, Jason knew that Jesus really understood what kind of boy he was - a brat - so Jason ripped up the letter and decided to give it another try.

Dear Jesus, I've been an OK boy this year, and I want a new bicycle. Yours truly, Jason

Well, Jason knew this wasn't totally honest either, so he tore it up and tried again.

Dear Jesus, I've thought about being a good boy this year, and can I have a bicycle? Jason

Jason looked deep down into his heart (which, by the way, was what his mother really wanted). He knew he had been terrible and was deserving of almost nothing. He crumpled up the letter, threw it in the trash can, and went running outside.

He aimlessly wandered about the streets, depressed because of the way he had treated his parents. For the first time, he really considered his actions.

Jason finally found himself in front of a Catholic Church. He went inside and knelt down, looking around but not knowing what he should really do.

He finally got up and began to walk out the door and was looking at all the statues. All of a sudden, he grabbed a small statue and ran out the door.

He went home, hid it under his bed, and wrote this letter:

Jesus, I've got your mum! If you ever want to see her again, give me a bike. From, You know who.