TASHY DID - A LIFE
1949
As I said in the introduction, I was born in 1949, on 17th July at 10 minutes past 8 in the morning; just in time for breakfast. It was not an easy birth.
I understand I was a forceps delivery but don’t remember that bit. According to mother, who liked to note these things, I was delivered by
Mr Linton Snaith, MD, FRCS and FRCOG. GREAT. What’s more I was, apparently, expected on June 19th. Nowadays I don’t think they would allow someone to be
that overdue, although it may have been mother got her dates wrong. Knowing her, that seems unlikely. She was never wrong.
I was born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne General Hospital as my father had been transferred to Newcastle earlier in the year. He worked in the Ministry of Labour,
as was, and had, the previous year, been seconded to work in Geneva in Switzerland. It seems more than likely, without using a calculator, that I was actually
conceived in Switzerland, which may explain my addiction to chocolate and my desire to always be on time. I weighed 6lbs 8oz, I was an imperial child, and was
20½ inches long. This picture is of the flat above as it is today.
Four days after my birth, the doctor came to see me, flicked my right cheek, and said “Oh good, the paralysis has gone”. This was a shock to mother, as she said
didn’t know I had been paralysed. To this day, the right side of my face is less mobile, muscle movement-wise, than the left, although an attack of bell’s palsy
in 1979 afflicting that same right side may not have helped. My first journey was on 26 July, by car, back to our home in the Jesmond area of Newcastle.
Mother didn’t like Newcastle, she hated being away from her own parents in London, having just spent nine moths away in Geneva, and so, after only six weeks
as a Geordie, I was on my way back to London. We drove down, stopping off in Harrogate to see my paternal grandparents who still lived there; they were shortly to
move south as well. According to mother, while trying to get me out of the back of the car, father dropped the seat on my head. Yes, I can already hear the cries
of “that would explain a lot”. As you will discover later, that car, a Standard Eight for those who wish to know, registration number DLK 21 to prove how good my
memory really is, was the cause of several incidents in my early years. It was about this time, September 1949, that I also smiled for the first time. Enough said.
Three months later, I laughed. I get jokes a bit quicker these days.
Talking of memory, or jokes, reminds me of an incident fairly recently. When I was in New Zealand, in 2007 or 2008, my girlfriend arranged, no doubt with some
conning, a visit to a guy who did NLP and regression therapy. She convinced him she would write about it but never did, and I went along to take notes. At one stage
he asked her what was her earliest memory and she remembered something that happened when she was 2 or so. I was listening and decided I needed to ask a question
but before I did, he said something about some people remembering their birth. Well, I don’t, but I have a definite picture of the hospital ward. I know the colours,
the layout, even what side of the ward mother’s bed was on. Sadly there is now no-one who can confirm if I really do remember it or if I have just invented a picture in my mind.
Once back in London, while we looked for a house, we stayed with my maternal grandparents at their house in Willesden Green. That will have been ideal for
my mother who was particularly close to her parents.
So, that ends 1949 but, over these first few years, I thought I would tell you a little bit about my grandparents.
Lets start with my mother’s father. Firstly, because he was the last to die so I knew him longer; secondly, because it was his house I lived in for most of the
first year of my life and thirdly because I have been told I am most like him. This picture shows him in about 1945, with his beloved cat, Timmy. When grandfather
moved out of his house in 1955, Timmy came to stay with us but sadly ran away after a week and was never seen again. There is a story that my sister threw a teddy
bear at the cat but this may be apocryphal. Anyone who has since played any ball games with her will know that if she did, and she hit the cat, it was an accident
as had she been aiming for it she would have missed. She now owns about 10 cats herself; maybe as a penance.
Grandfather was born on 20th September 1885 in Kingswear in Devon. He was christened George Herbert and was the source of the name I used for the stories
I wrote for my children about Herbert the Chunkle. For all my lifetime though, he was known as Bert, another example of using the second name. I have no idea
what his parents did nor how long they had lived down in Devon. I do know that some of his family continued to live there for many years, well into my lifetime,
and that somewhere, in a church in Kingswear or maybe Dartmouth, there is a stain glass window as a memorial to someone. Would you like me to be any more vague
than that? On our first coastline trip we actually found the church, so the two of you who were involved in that epic venture may remember more than I.
Grandfather had at least one brother and two sisters. I say at least, because I cannot be completely certain about this. One sister, who I knew and was
also my godmother, was called Freda, was a teacher and a spinster all her life but lived with her very close friend, a fellow woman teacher. In our modern
world, I might be able to tell you more about that but, despite hints from mother, nothing was ever said. A second sister, pictured, died in 1921, having been,
as I was told, run over by a car. She was walking home, late one evening, and a car failed to see her. She was older than my grandfather by about five years,
so was 41 at the time of her death. My mother, who was only five at the time, always had fond memories of her.
My grandfather’s brother had his name etched into history; the name, William Richard. I think he was a sea-captain, as my mother used to tell me she had dreams of
me following in his footsteps or, more accurately, his tidal wake. He died on 4th March 1946 and there is no doubt that I was named after him, mainly because he
was named in the 1880’s but also because I am called William Richard. He, too, used his second given name and was known as “Uncle Dick”, in the days when this
didn’t matter.
Sometime before 1910, grandfather moved to London and, at the age of 25, set up, or bought, a laundry business. You must remember that in those days people
did not own washing machines and, those that could afford it, would send their washing away to be washed, ironed and returned, usually the following week. Until
1963, my own mother did this with bed linen and towels, having them collected on a Monday and returned, in a lovely box, all pristine in appearance, the following
Monday. For those interested, she used the Watford Model Laundry. I know because it said it on the box.
On 26th March 1912, funny that Jennifer, grandfather married my grandmother, sorry my future grandmother, and they lived in a house in Strode Road in
Willesden Green in London. The laundry, as I understand it, was at the back of the house. He did not see active service during World War I, but was
part of some home-based volunteer regiment, based in London. It was, according to mother, the only regiment allowed to march through London with bayonets
fixed but I stand to be corrected on that, on mother’s behalf.
Their first child, Walter Herbert, carelessly known as Walter, was born in 1914 on 17th September. Two years later, to the day, your grandmother,
Edith Mary, obviously known as Mary, was born and in 1920 a third child, Kathleen Julia, but known as Kathleen, entered the world.
I will tell you more about them a bit later when covering other relatives. The two pictures, though, show grandfather with his youngest daughter in 1938, when he
was 53, and again in 1964, when he was 79. His style of dress, with winged collar, handkerchief in top pocket and waistcoat, altered little. I should point out, at
this stage, that I always called him Grandpa but I pronounced the first syllable grand so that it rhymed with bond.
Grandpa was, it would appear, very much a man’s man in so far as he enjoyed the company of his male friends at various clubs and would pointedly leave the house
if any of granny’s relatives came to visit. These were not gambling clubs but social, often slightly religious, meeting places. Owning his own business meant
that he seemed, according to my mother’s diaries, which are the sources for a lot of this, to have a fair amount of spare time to spend as he chose. Obviously,
in the beginning he may have worked all hours to set the business up but, by the time the diaries begin, in 1929, he seemed to be a fairly relaxed laundry
proprietor, making pretty good money. His mode of attire, in a slightly hazy photo in 1932, when on a beach holiday, was, perhaps, interesting to those of you
who live in modern times. As we move later into this epic, you will see that change was slow and, for some, the sixties was not that different from the thirties.
In 1920, the family moved out of their Strode Road house to Chatsworth Road, still in Willesden Green. As this was where I stayed for the first few months of my
life, I will tell you a bit about it. It was a 4-bedroomed detached house. To my young eyes, not then but in later years as I grew up and visited my grandparents,
it seemed enormous. There was a large dining room at the front of the house with a massive table. The table could have a couple of leafs added and was then at
least 12 feet long and probably four or five feet wide. There were large high-backed chairs around it. There was a large black-wood sideboard, which made the room,
from memory, seem quite dark.
The hall was the size of a good room these days. In the centre, there was a large circular table, everything was oak or mahogany, about seven-foot in diameter.
To the back of the house, off this hall were two doors. One led to a kitchen, the other to a massive sitting room. Large windows opened on to the garden and,
in the corner, was a baby grand piano. The garden was mainly lawn, two sloped pieces, very good for rolling down, were at the top, near the house, while behind
the photographer was ……………………… an air raid shelter. This house was their home from 1920 until it was sold in 1955. I checked out its current day value and it would
seem to be way in excess of £1 million.
In 1931, my grandfather sold his business. He was 46 and several of his friends had recently died and he feared he would have a heart attack if he continued
working and having the stress of his own business. From then until 1963, he lived off his savings and his investments, being quite a prolific, and obviously
successful, player on the stock exchange before the war. His time was spent with those remaining friends and taking holidays around the UK, mainly in Devon,
Norfolk, Weston-super-Mare and Margate. To my knowledge, he had never had a real hobby or interest.
From 1949 he obviously became a part of my life, or maybe I became a part of his, and so you can find out more about him in the yearly pages that will follow.
As I said in the introduction, I was born in 1949, on 17th July at 10 minutes past 8 in the morning; just in time for breakfast. It was not an easy birth.
I understand I was a forceps delivery but don’t remember that bit. According to mother, who liked to note these things, I was delivered by
Mr Linton Snaith, MD, FRCS and FRCOG. GREAT. What’s more I was, apparently, expected on June 19th. Nowadays I don’t think they would allow someone to be
that overdue, although it may have been mother got her dates wrong. Knowing her, that seems unlikely. She was never wrong.
I was born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne General Hospital as my father had been transferred to Newcastle earlier in the year. He worked in the Ministry of Labour,
as was, and had, the previous year, been seconded to work in Geneva in Switzerland. It seems more than likely, without using a calculator, that I was actually
conceived in Switzerland, which may explain my addiction to chocolate and my desire to always be on time. I weighed 6lbs 8oz, I was an imperial child, and was
20½ inches long. This picture is of the flat above as it is today.
Four days after my birth, the doctor came to see me, flicked my right cheek, and said “Oh good, the paralysis has gone”. This was a shock to mother, as she said
didn’t know I had been paralysed. To this day, the right side of my face is less mobile, muscle movement-wise, than the left, although an attack of bell’s palsy
in 1979 afflicting that same right side may not have helped. My first journey was on 26 July, by car, back to our home in the Jesmond area of Newcastle.
Mother didn’t like Newcastle, she hated being away from her own parents in London, having just spent nine moths away in Geneva, and so, after only six weeks
as a Geordie, I was on my way back to London. We drove down, stopping off in Harrogate to see my paternal grandparents who still lived there; they were shortly to
move south as well. According to mother, while trying to get me out of the back of the car, father dropped the seat on my head. Yes, I can already hear the cries
of “that would explain a lot”. As you will discover later, that car, a Standard Eight for those who wish to know, registration number DLK 21 to prove how good my
memory really is, was the cause of several incidents in my early years. It was about this time, September 1949, that I also smiled for the first time. Enough said.
Three months later, I laughed. I get jokes a bit quicker these days.
Talking of memory, or jokes, reminds me of an incident fairly recently. When I was in New Zealand, in 2007 or 2008, my girlfriend arranged, no doubt with some
conning, a visit to a guy who did NLP and regression therapy. She convinced him she would write about it but never did, and I went along to take notes. At one stage
he asked her what was her earliest memory and she remembered something that happened when she was 2 or so. I was listening and decided I needed to ask a question
but before I did, he said something about some people remembering their birth. Well, I don’t, but I have a definite picture of the hospital ward. I know the colours,
the layout, even what side of the ward mother’s bed was on. Sadly there is now no-one who can confirm if I really do remember it or if I have just invented a picture in my mind.
Once back in London, while we looked for a house, we stayed with my maternal grandparents at their house in Willesden Green. That will have been ideal for
my mother who was particularly close to her parents.
So, that ends 1949 but, over these first few years, I thought I would tell you a little bit about my grandparents.
Lets start with my mother’s father. Firstly, because he was the last to die so I knew him longer; secondly, because it was his house I lived in for most of the
first year of my life and thirdly because I have been told I am most like him. This picture shows him in about 1945, with his beloved cat, Timmy. When grandfather
moved out of his house in 1955, Timmy came to stay with us but sadly ran away after a week and was never seen again. There is a story that my sister threw a teddy
bear at the cat but this may be apocryphal. Anyone who has since played any ball games with her will know that if she did, and she hit the cat, it was an accident
as had she been aiming for it she would have missed. She now owns about 10 cats herself; maybe as a penance.
Grandfather was born on 20th September 1885 in Kingswear in Devon. He was christened George Herbert and was the source of the name I used for the stories
I wrote for my children about Herbert the Chunkle. For all my lifetime though, he was known as Bert, another example of using the second name. I have no idea
what his parents did nor how long they had lived down in Devon. I do know that some of his family continued to live there for many years, well into my lifetime,
and that somewhere, in a church in Kingswear or maybe Dartmouth, there is a stain glass window as a memorial to someone. Would you like me to be any more vague
than that? On our first coastline trip we actually found the church, so the two of you who were involved in that epic venture may remember more than I.
Grandfather had at least one brother and two sisters. I say at least, because I cannot be completely certain about this. One sister, who I knew and was
also my godmother, was called Freda, was a teacher and a spinster all her life but lived with her very close friend, a fellow woman teacher. In our modern
world, I might be able to tell you more about that but, despite hints from mother, nothing was ever said. A second sister, pictured, died in 1921, having been,
as I was told, run over by a car. She was walking home, late one evening, and a car failed to see her. She was older than my grandfather by about five years,
so was 41 at the time of her death. My mother, who was only five at the time, always had fond memories of her.
My grandfather’s brother had his name etched into history; the name, William Richard. I think he was a sea-captain, as my mother used to tell me she had dreams of
me following in his footsteps or, more accurately, his tidal wake. He died on 4th March 1946 and there is no doubt that I was named after him, mainly because he
was named in the 1880’s but also because I am called William Richard. He, too, used his second given name and was known as “Uncle Dick”, in the days when this
didn’t matter.
Sometime before 1910, grandfather moved to London and, at the age of 25, set up, or bought, a laundry business. You must remember that in those days people
did not own washing machines and, those that could afford it, would send their washing away to be washed, ironed and returned, usually the following week. Until
1963, my own mother did this with bed linen and towels, having them collected on a Monday and returned, in a lovely box, all pristine in appearance, the following
Monday. For those interested, she used the Watford Model Laundry. I know because it said it on the box.
On 26th March 1912, funny that Jennifer, grandfather married my grandmother, sorry my future grandmother, and they lived in a house in Strode Road in
Willesden Green in London. The laundry, as I understand it, was at the back of the house. He did not see active service during World War I, but was
part of some home-based volunteer regiment, based in London. It was, according to mother, the only regiment allowed to march through London with bayonets
fixed but I stand to be corrected on that, on mother’s behalf.
Their first child, Walter Herbert, carelessly known as Walter, was born in 1914 on 17th September. Two years later, to the day, your grandmother,
Edith Mary, obviously known as Mary, was born and in 1920 a third child, Kathleen Julia, but known as Kathleen, entered the world.
I will tell you more about them a bit later when covering other relatives. The two pictures, though, show grandfather with his youngest daughter in 1938, when he
was 53, and again in 1964, when he was 79. His style of dress, with winged collar, handkerchief in top pocket and waistcoat, altered little. I should point out, at
this stage, that I always called him Grandpa but I pronounced the first syllable grand so that it rhymed with bond.
Grandpa was, it would appear, very much a man’s man in so far as he enjoyed the company of his male friends at various clubs and would pointedly leave the house
if any of granny’s relatives came to visit. These were not gambling clubs but social, often slightly religious, meeting places. Owning his own business meant
that he seemed, according to my mother’s diaries, which are the sources for a lot of this, to have a fair amount of spare time to spend as he chose. Obviously,
in the beginning he may have worked all hours to set the business up but, by the time the diaries begin, in 1929, he seemed to be a fairly relaxed laundry
proprietor, making pretty good money. His mode of attire, in a slightly hazy photo in 1932, when on a beach holiday, was, perhaps, interesting to those of you
who live in modern times. As we move later into this epic, you will see that change was slow and, for some, the sixties was not that different from the thirties.
In 1920, the family moved out of their Strode Road house to Chatsworth Road, still in Willesden Green. As this was where I stayed for the first few months of my
life, I will tell you a bit about it. It was a 4-bedroomed detached house. To my young eyes, not then but in later years as I grew up and visited my grandparents,
it seemed enormous. There was a large dining room at the front of the house with a massive table. The table could have a couple of leafs added and was then at
least 12 feet long and probably four or five feet wide. There were large high-backed chairs around it. There was a large black-wood sideboard, which made the room,
from memory, seem quite dark.
The hall was the size of a good room these days. In the centre, there was a large circular table, everything was oak or mahogany, about seven-foot in diameter.
To the back of the house, off this hall were two doors. One led to a kitchen, the other to a massive sitting room. Large windows opened on to the garden and,
in the corner, was a baby grand piano. The garden was mainly lawn, two sloped pieces, very good for rolling down, were at the top, near the house, while behind
the photographer was ……………………… an air raid shelter. This house was their home from 1920 until it was sold in 1955. I checked out its current day value and it would
seem to be way in excess of £1 million.
In 1931, my grandfather sold his business. He was 46 and several of his friends had recently died and he feared he would have a heart attack if he continued
working and having the stress of his own business. From then until 1963, he lived off his savings and his investments, being quite a prolific, and obviously
successful, player on the stock exchange before the war. His time was spent with those remaining friends and taking holidays around the UK, mainly in Devon,
Norfolk, Weston-super-Mare and Margate. To my knowledge, he had never had a real hobby or interest.
From 1949 he obviously became a part of my life, or maybe I became a part of his, and so you can find out more about him in the yearly pages that will follow.
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