Once upon a time, when I was 4, there was a Harvest Festival at school. I should mention at this point that I went to a little Catholic primary school and we celebrated things like this with a service. There was one priest called Father O'Reilly, or as we liked to call him, something along the lines of, Father PickNails O'Reilly. Mainly because he used to pick his nails. He had a really wet voice. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. He was probably involved in this festival. I may feature him later.
So, there was a teacher called Mrs Tin*. I have a vivid memory of a royal blue jumper she used to wear with white bears on it. She had a pair of glasses to go with every outfit. She was one scary lady. I'm sure she was a nice lady but she could be fierce. She shouted at me once because I hadn't brought the pictures of monkeys in magazines from my tidy drawer to the green seats. Obviously scarred me because 20 years on and I still can't let it go. Why we needed pictures of monkeys I will never know.
I had only been at school a month and proud mummy Cotton had come to watch the Harvest Festival in which her little lovey was featuring. I'm pretty sure when I say I was featuring in it, I mean that at home, my mum put together a little basket with tins of baked beans or something in it and then we all brought them in and put them in the school hall to give to the poor and/or needy. We raised money for a charity called CAFOD but I think the poor and needy who got the baskets were just old people who lived round the corner from the school and so we bestowed our charity upon them whether they liked it or not.
Well I cried and cried during the service. (When will this family ever get a good reputation?) Afterwards Mrs Tin came up to me with my mum and said, 'What's to do poppet?'** And I said 'I don't like Harvest Festivals'. Although this is a pretty irrelevant anecdote it could lead to some interesting points.
1. From a young age I had a discerning palate for festivals? I was clearly advanced for my age
2. I was a fussy little madam? Moi?
3. I don't like giving stuff away? True, but I don't hold tinned products close to my heart
4. Father PickNails scared me? No comment required
5. I'm not so much into the religious festivals? Or maybe I'm not so much into sitting cross-legged for hours at these religious festivals, watching a wet man pick the dirt from under his nails...
Here is a tenuous link. It is Lent at the moment. Ha. Told you it would become relevant. (ish).
Lent starts with Pancake Day according to the general public. At school, it began with a Holy Mass. Shrove Tuesday - eat all your crap from the fridge ie pancakes. Ash Wednesday - have a big fat Mass and get some ash put on your head. Give something up.
For about five years in a row I was sick on pancake day. I didn't even eat the pancakes as I wasn't mad keen. Family Cotton happily munched them and I had spaghetti bolognaise. I can still, all these years later, visualise the contents of that toilet bowl, (my mum should have cut the mushrooms into smaller pieces. And possibly i should have chewed more...) and cries of 'go away mummy, you're making it WORSE'
So...the next year I was sick again which was probably a coincidence because I'm pretty sure I still didn't eat any of the pancakes. And then it became a joke. Oh it's pancake day, she's going to be ill again!
If there is anything you might have learned from this blog, it is that I have a good memory. But for bizarre things.
I gave up Pride & Prejudice, the 1995 BBC adaptation, for Lent once. Hats off to the people who give up chocolate and crisps and alcohol. I say it's good to be original though. This time round, I have decided to give up worrying. My friend has taken up doing something different each day. The other day, he took an empty pram and a female friend around London and they pretended to be parents for the day.
This is not really a blog post. Nor is it particularly interesting. It is more of a musing on Lent.
What's to do poppet? I ask myself. I am tired and below par. So I will pipe down now. Goodnight.
*real names are not used in this blog post. Well... aside from Father Picknails.
** to be read in a Lancashire accent. Classic Mrs Tin.
So, there was a teacher called Mrs Tin*. I have a vivid memory of a royal blue jumper she used to wear with white bears on it. She had a pair of glasses to go with every outfit. She was one scary lady. I'm sure she was a nice lady but she could be fierce. She shouted at me once because I hadn't brought the pictures of monkeys in magazines from my tidy drawer to the green seats. Obviously scarred me because 20 years on and I still can't let it go. Why we needed pictures of monkeys I will never know.
I had only been at school a month and proud mummy Cotton had come to watch the Harvest Festival in which her little lovey was featuring. I'm pretty sure when I say I was featuring in it, I mean that at home, my mum put together a little basket with tins of baked beans or something in it and then we all brought them in and put them in the school hall to give to the poor and/or needy. We raised money for a charity called CAFOD but I think the poor and needy who got the baskets were just old people who lived round the corner from the school and so we bestowed our charity upon them whether they liked it or not.
Well I cried and cried during the service. (When will this family ever get a good reputation?) Afterwards Mrs Tin came up to me with my mum and said, 'What's to do poppet?'** And I said 'I don't like Harvest Festivals'. Although this is a pretty irrelevant anecdote it could lead to some interesting points.
1. From a young age I had a discerning palate for festivals? I was clearly advanced for my age
2. I was a fussy little madam? Moi?
3. I don't like giving stuff away? True, but I don't hold tinned products close to my heart
4. Father PickNails scared me? No comment required
5. I'm not so much into the religious festivals? Or maybe I'm not so much into sitting cross-legged for hours at these religious festivals, watching a wet man pick the dirt from under his nails...
Here is a tenuous link. It is Lent at the moment. Ha. Told you it would become relevant. (ish).
Lent starts with Pancake Day according to the general public. At school, it began with a Holy Mass. Shrove Tuesday - eat all your crap from the fridge ie pancakes. Ash Wednesday - have a big fat Mass and get some ash put on your head. Give something up.
For about five years in a row I was sick on pancake day. I didn't even eat the pancakes as I wasn't mad keen. Family Cotton happily munched them and I had spaghetti bolognaise. I can still, all these years later, visualise the contents of that toilet bowl, (my mum should have cut the mushrooms into smaller pieces. And possibly i should have chewed more...) and cries of 'go away mummy, you're making it WORSE'
So...the next year I was sick again which was probably a coincidence because I'm pretty sure I still didn't eat any of the pancakes. And then it became a joke. Oh it's pancake day, she's going to be ill again!
If there is anything you might have learned from this blog, it is that I have a good memory. But for bizarre things.
I gave up Pride & Prejudice, the 1995 BBC adaptation, for Lent once. Hats off to the people who give up chocolate and crisps and alcohol. I say it's good to be original though. This time round, I have decided to give up worrying. My friend has taken up doing something different each day. The other day, he took an empty pram and a female friend around London and they pretended to be parents for the day.
This is not really a blog post. Nor is it particularly interesting. It is more of a musing on Lent.
What's to do poppet? I ask myself. I am tired and below par. So I will pipe down now. Goodnight.
*real names are not used in this blog post. Well... aside from Father Picknails.
** to be read in a Lancashire accent. Classic Mrs Tin.
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