TASHY DID - A LIFE
1950
1950 began with us still living at my grandparent’s house in Willesden Green. From my mother’s dairy, I can tell you that on 4 January 1950 I slept through
the night without my 10pm feed, cut my first tooth a week later and a week later had my first taste of egg. Whether I licked the shell, smashed one and ate it raw
or, more likely, had it boiled or scrambled, I cannot confirm.
On 23 March 1950, we moved to our own home in Oakington Avenue in Rayners Lane. Checking things through, at today’s prices it is worth about £500,000. It was a
detached 3-bedroom property and had a lounge, at the front, and a dining room, at the back. As I remember things, all rooms seemed quite dark by the standards I
know today. The back garden seemed enormous, I guess it was around 150ft long. Right outside the dining room was a paved area, which I learned had been a pond but
mother had insisted it was drained and paved, in case I fell in. Years later I did succeed in falling in a pond, like so many of my accidents, riding a bicycle.
At the end of the garden, where we had some fruit bushes and a vegetable patch, was the Metropolitan Line and I would, a few years later, lie in bed at
night and watch the lights from the trains flash across my room. Hidden among the fruit bushes was another air raid shelter, which was, for a time, a great
place to play. The two boys I used to play with also had air raid shelters in their gardens but, a few years later, there were stories of a snake being seen in
one of these shelters and I was banned from entering any of them again.
By the end of April, I was on three meals a day and have been ever since. It was then, so the records say, that I sat up alone for the first time and began to crawl.
I suppose it is possible that I sat up alone, fell over and had to crawl to pretend I meant to topple.
I stood up unaided in May 1950 and walked, pushing my pushchair, in June. On 24 June 1950, mother was so accurate, I went into my own room at night. My first shoes
were size 5½, Startrite if you want to know. I obviously made full use of these when, on August 27 1950, I walked alone for the first time.
At nine months, I could say Dada, Mama, Baba ( presumably baby not black sheep), Nanna and Ta if I was given something, as long as it wasn’t infectious,
although I had been vaccinated in April. I could also understand where the tick tock was, the lights, the telephone, music (the wireless) and my rusk. Rather
worryingly, I could pull my own hair when told to (is this child abuse?), feed myself to bread and butter and stand up in my high-chair, which I assume was a
design fault, and push my playpen around the room, which, again, shows a flaw in its design I would guess.
By twelve months I was racing on. I could say puff-puff ( I told you the Metropolitan line went past the bottom of the garden), bow-wow, meow and, rather
appropriately, oh dear. I could say yes and no, a trait I soon overcame when I realised yes or no was better. I called my cousin Linda, leila, and my Aunt
Kathleen, Tath Tath, although I could say Hoover. This was also when I called myself Tashy. I could say car but called an ambulance a tuddy car for reasons
far too complicated to explain here, even if I did know them. I also, as you can see, began my own driving career and did in fact originate the “one finger”
idea that Mr Vettel copied later. I, however, put mine in my mouth and would, so mother writes, happily bite anyone else’s finger that was put in my mouth. I
am driving on the old pond, mentioned earlier and by then paved over.
My mother was extremely proud of my blondish hair and, while looking through her belongings, I came across these locks which were from my very first haircut,
sometime in 1950. It would appear, as you will see later, that the sudden, and mildly distressing, knowledge of an intruder into my peaceful world, this being
the birth of my sister in 1953, caused my hair colour to change. I do find it quite amazing that the hair you can see in these photos is over 60 years old and
has quite obviously stood the test of time far better than the body from which it was shorn. That could certainly do with being pressed flat in a book for a while.
By the end of the year I had 14 teeth, all my own. I was christened or baptised, I don’t know the difference actually, on 1 October 1950 by the Rev John Hornby
at St Alban’s Church in North Harrow. Presumably it was a “00” gauge font and most of you won’t understand that, thinking I have gone off on another track.
The clues are all there. Twelve people were present, which seems a poor show unless you assume they were actually my disciples and I had one godmother and two
godfathers, all of whom were relatives. I am not sure I now agree with christening at such a young age but it was, and is, convention so it happens. I would
rather the child waited until they understood what it was all about. I may well have already done so, as I screamed the whole way through.
And so we leave 1950 but before we go, a word or two about my maternal grandmother. She was born in Harlington, west of London, on 24 January 1882,
making her three years older than my Grandpa. I know much less about her life but in the photo on the left she has been marked by the cross, her
by the circle and my great-grandmother, who I never knew, is the older lady above the arrow. This photograph was taken at the start of the century, the
twentieth century that is. It is quite fascinating to look at the styles of dress, and indeed hair, of the people in the photo.
Whilst I know little about her life, her family records do provide me with some amazing photos. The lady on the left is Mary Passingham who was either
my grandmother’s grandmother or even her great-grandmother. As you can see, she died in 1877 at the age of 87, which means she was born about the same time
as the start of the French Revolution.
But, however fantastic I find that to be, the picture below beats it hands down. It is clearly the same lady and shows
her with, I would imagine, her daughters or granddaughters. Sadly, we will probably never know. But these prints are actually on glass not paper. How they were
done I have no idea but, to me, it is quite incredible that they are still in our possession. They are at least 135 years old if not more.
At the time of her wedding, in 1912 if you remember, my grandmother was noted as a seamstress. Once she married my grandfather she essentially became a
lady of leisure. She always had a maid, they had a live-in one at Chatsworth Road until just after the Second World War, and after that there was a lady who
came in twice a week to help with housework etc. That is not to say my grandmother did nothing; she was a very fine cook and also played the piano. Much of her
time, once she had children and they were at school, seems to have been spent around the house, taking and fetching the children from school by train, they
in Willesden Green and the daughters (my mother and her sister) went to school in St John’s Woods, four or five stations away, and entertaining her friends. She
would also go “up west”, as my mother puts it, to go shopping. The picture is of her in 1950.
This last photo shows what the ladies wore at the beach in the late thirties. My grandmother carries her parasol and is flanked by her daughters, my mother on the
left of the picture. My mother’s brother’s wife, (with me?) is the other lady present. I think, though could be wrong, that this photo was taken somewhere on the
North Kent coast. My guess, educated as I have the diaries to consult, would be Cliftonville or Margate. Maybe someone will see this and tell me if I am correct.
Finally, this may be the side of the family from where the creative, artistic genes have come. These drawings were done by my grandmother some time before the
start of the 20th century. Her son, and subsequent generations, have been more creative with the written word than pictures. If anybody recognises the locations, I
would love to know.
1950 began with us still living at my grandparent’s house in Willesden Green. From my mother’s dairy, I can tell you that on 4 January 1950 I slept through
the night without my 10pm feed, cut my first tooth a week later and a week later had my first taste of egg. Whether I licked the shell, smashed one and ate it raw
or, more likely, had it boiled or scrambled, I cannot confirm.
On 23 March 1950, we moved to our own home in Oakington Avenue in Rayners Lane. Checking things through, at today’s prices it is worth about £500,000. It was a
detached 3-bedroom property and had a lounge, at the front, and a dining room, at the back. As I remember things, all rooms seemed quite dark by the standards I
know today. The back garden seemed enormous, I guess it was around 150ft long. Right outside the dining room was a paved area, which I learned had been a pond but
mother had insisted it was drained and paved, in case I fell in. Years later I did succeed in falling in a pond, like so many of my accidents, riding a bicycle.
At the end of the garden, where we had some fruit bushes and a vegetable patch, was the Metropolitan Line and I would, a few years later, lie in bed at
night and watch the lights from the trains flash across my room. Hidden among the fruit bushes was another air raid shelter, which was, for a time, a great
place to play. The two boys I used to play with also had air raid shelters in their gardens but, a few years later, there were stories of a snake being seen in
one of these shelters and I was banned from entering any of them again.
By the end of April, I was on three meals a day and have been ever since. It was then, so the records say, that I sat up alone for the first time and began to crawl.
I suppose it is possible that I sat up alone, fell over and had to crawl to pretend I meant to topple.
I stood up unaided in May 1950 and walked, pushing my pushchair, in June. On 24 June 1950, mother was so accurate, I went into my own room at night. My first shoes
were size 5½, Startrite if you want to know. I obviously made full use of these when, on August 27 1950, I walked alone for the first time.
At nine months, I could say Dada, Mama, Baba ( presumably baby not black sheep), Nanna and Ta if I was given something, as long as it wasn’t infectious,
although I had been vaccinated in April. I could also understand where the tick tock was, the lights, the telephone, music (the wireless) and my rusk. Rather
worryingly, I could pull my own hair when told to (is this child abuse?), feed myself to bread and butter and stand up in my high-chair, which I assume was a
design fault, and push my playpen around the room, which, again, shows a flaw in its design I would guess.
By twelve months I was racing on. I could say puff-puff ( I told you the Metropolitan line went past the bottom of the garden), bow-wow, meow and, rather
appropriately, oh dear. I could say yes and no, a trait I soon overcame when I realised yes or no was better. I called my cousin Linda, leila, and my Aunt
Kathleen, Tath Tath, although I could say Hoover. This was also when I called myself Tashy. I could say car but called an ambulance a tuddy car for reasons
far too complicated to explain here, even if I did know them. I also, as you can see, began my own driving career and did in fact originate the “one finger”
idea that Mr Vettel copied later. I, however, put mine in my mouth and would, so mother writes, happily bite anyone else’s finger that was put in my mouth. I
am driving on the old pond, mentioned earlier and by then paved over.
My mother was extremely proud of my blondish hair and, while looking through her belongings, I came across these locks which were from my very first haircut,
sometime in 1950. It would appear, as you will see later, that the sudden, and mildly distressing, knowledge of an intruder into my peaceful world, this being
the birth of my sister in 1953, caused my hair colour to change. I do find it quite amazing that the hair you can see in these photos is over 60 years old and
has quite obviously stood the test of time far better than the body from which it was shorn. That could certainly do with being pressed flat in a book for a while.
By the end of the year I had 14 teeth, all my own. I was christened or baptised, I don’t know the difference actually, on 1 October 1950 by the Rev John Hornby
at St Alban’s Church in North Harrow. Presumably it was a “00” gauge font and most of you won’t understand that, thinking I have gone off on another track.
The clues are all there. Twelve people were present, which seems a poor show unless you assume they were actually my disciples and I had one godmother and two
godfathers, all of whom were relatives. I am not sure I now agree with christening at such a young age but it was, and is, convention so it happens. I would
rather the child waited until they understood what it was all about. I may well have already done so, as I screamed the whole way through.
And so we leave 1950 but before we go, a word or two about my maternal grandmother. She was born in Harlington, west of London, on 24 January 1882,
making her three years older than my Grandpa. I know much less about her life but in the photo on the left she has been marked by the cross, her
by the circle and my great-grandmother, who I never knew, is the older lady above the arrow. This photograph was taken at the start of the century, the
twentieth century that is. It is quite fascinating to look at the styles of dress, and indeed hair, of the people in the photo.
Whilst I know little about her life, her family records do provide me with some amazing photos. The lady on the left is Mary Passingham who was either
my grandmother’s grandmother or even her great-grandmother. As you can see, she died in 1877 at the age of 87, which means she was born about the same time
as the start of the French Revolution.
But, however fantastic I find that to be, the picture below beats it hands down. It is clearly the same lady and shows
her with, I would imagine, her daughters or granddaughters. Sadly, we will probably never know. But these prints are actually on glass not paper. How they were
done I have no idea but, to me, it is quite incredible that they are still in our possession. They are at least 135 years old if not more.
At the time of her wedding, in 1912 if you remember, my grandmother was noted as a seamstress. Once she married my grandfather she essentially became a
lady of leisure. She always had a maid, they had a live-in one at Chatsworth Road until just after the Second World War, and after that there was a lady who
came in twice a week to help with housework etc. That is not to say my grandmother did nothing; she was a very fine cook and also played the piano. Much of her
time, once she had children and they were at school, seems to have been spent around the house, taking and fetching the children from school by train, they
in Willesden Green and the daughters (my mother and her sister) went to school in St John’s Woods, four or five stations away, and entertaining her friends. She
would also go “up west”, as my mother puts it, to go shopping. The picture is of her in 1950.
This last photo shows what the ladies wore at the beach in the late thirties. My grandmother carries her parasol and is flanked by her daughters, my mother on the
left of the picture. My mother’s brother’s wife, (with me?) is the other lady present. I think, though could be wrong, that this photo was taken somewhere on the
North Kent coast. My guess, educated as I have the diaries to consult, would be Cliftonville or Margate. Maybe someone will see this and tell me if I am correct.
Finally, this may be the side of the family from where the creative, artistic genes have come. These drawings were done by my grandmother some time before the
start of the 20th century. Her son, and subsequent generations, have been more creative with the written word than pictures. If anybody recognises the locations, I
would love to know.
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