The Haunted Wood - bringing a 70s childhood to a 21st century child

I was born in 1974 (I know - you're all stunned). This post looks back to the 70s. Those of you who remember a 70s childhood will hopefully be taken back to your own  infanthood and those who are too young will be briefly and magically transported to those crazy times.

A few weeks ago I was going to Leeds with O to meet friends. Unfortunately, I had no change for the parking, so we popped into one of the local charity shops to get some. I told O to look on the toy shelf and pick something under a pound so we could get the change. He was about to suggest a slightly scuffed toy car when I saw the following box tucked away at the bottom of the stand.

How my inner 70s child rejoiced! We had to have it! I knew this was the ideal opportunity to share cosy, yet slightly sinister aspects of my girlhood with my son. We children of the 70s were subjected to all manner of creepily alluring images in our books, our TV programmes and our comics. Why should the 21st century child miss out on such treats?

On our return home, I opened the Haunted Wood box, and to my great excitement, the box revealed many unsavoury and downright alarming delights. Unused to the vagaries of such a gem, O spent an age inspecting the game board with a very puzzled look on his face. What on earth was going on in the early seventies that made adults subject poor, innocent children to the following images? It's like something from Hieronymous Bosch's Garden of Heavenly Delights...

Ah, the traditional 'evil pointy nosed caterpillar with legs and a bun' lurking ominously by a tower. I often wonder why I used to gallop down the stairs to my parents, racked with the most horrific nightmares. Surely it can't be the games I played with or the books I read...






Ooh, look! A rabid orange dog, apparently without a body, and a blue faced...THING...with a penis-shaped blue nose. Nothing strange there. Move along now...

A lunatic - up a tree with some strange Inspector Clousseau types scuttling along underneath. A typical woodland scene, I'm sure you all agree...

*is speechless*

Watch out, little 70s children. There's a wonk-faced pirate with an enormous hand just above you and an aadvark-style monster about to nibble on your ankles. But - quick! You'll be fine on that swing. Daddy put it up - with some old nails and a dodgy bit of rope. It won't fall down and maim you for life....





A flashback

"Now come on, Melanie! Get back to bed. What are you talking about - scary blue and grey men in a bush? There's no such thing - why don't you go back up to bed and read your 365 Days Nursery Rhymes book to help you drop off?"

"OK, Mummy...."

"JUST DON'T TURN TO PAGE 105!"

I don't think I've ever fully recovered....

Silent Sunday - L O L A - Lola...

Silent Sunday's over at Jay's. Ssssh....





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Meat theft, the Co-op Cat and Elvis the parrot...

I love my village.It's just a little place outside Bradford, but to me it's home and there are a few little things about it that make it special.


1.  Purdie the cat. He does not spend much time at home. This is Purdie near the automatic door and lounging in the window of the Co-op, on his favourite spot on top of the ice cream cabinet. Purdie used to be chased from the shop, as he spent quite a lot of his time lurking by the cooked meats section, but I think the staff have finally given up and let him enjoy the warmth and comfort of his spiritual home.

Purdie, the Co-op lurking cat

2. Meat theft. This poster appeared in the window of the Co-op a couple of months ago.

There was confusion as to whether the culprit was Purdie or whether Jay at Mocha Bean Mummy (aka @cosmicgirlie) had been in town, prowling for bacon...


3.  Elvis the Parrot. Elvis used to fly freely around the village, screeching wildly, visiting the children in the village school and landing on roofs.He would squawk 'Elvis'  and the odd swearword at passers-by and generally entertained the good people of the village.



But Elvis had a dark side - a penchant for pulling slates and fittings from village roofs and occasionally dive-bombing the residents. Some folk in the village were not happy about Elvis' naughty antics and he was reported to Bradford Council. Elvis was subsequently monitored by the antisocial behaviour officer and he narrowly escaped being issued with an ASBO. He was sent into exile in Shropshire, but now is back, although sadly, he is caged and now living in the garden centre.






I love living here. When I worked full time before O was born, I didn't feel part of village life, as I commuted and spent most of my time away in the city. Maternity leave and part-time working, plus a year of sick leave allowed me the time to get to know the people and the place and to involve myself in the life of the village. My life and my family's lives are enriched by this sense of belonging and the friendships of the people we've met. Now that I am working more days and O is at school, I realise how lucky I was to have that gift of time to be part of the daily fabric of my local community.

The Gallery - Expressions

It's Tara's Gallery once more and this week the demand is 'Expressions'. My entry is created via a marvellous iPhone app called Pocket Booth. I was introduced by Laura on a boozy night out in the Fighting Cock (we're so sophisticated). It recreates the photobooth photo strips of old. I love this app - it is so pleasingly retro.

My boy has an alarmingly rubbery face for one so cherubic. I often wonder whether a Lee Evan-esque career awaits him...

Finding solace in the woods- Silent Sunday

One picture, no words. Pop over to Mocha Beanie Mummy for more...

Ninjas - The Gallery

It's Gallery time again. The theme is Children - I can't wait to see the photographs submitted.

I've picked these two ninjas. The curly boy is O and the lovely girl is Laura from Are We Nearly There Yet Mummy's 6yo. We were camping in the Lakes and the children were ninjaing wildly by the side of a beautiful lake...

BRCA1, BRCA2 or none at all? Me and Doreen...

I never met my great grandmother, Doreen. She died before I was born, a big, happy woman, but troubled with some ill health. My dad's beloved gran, he always speaks so fondly of her - she was Mop, and his eyes shine and he smiles as he mentions her. Mum and Dad have a photograph of Doreen up on the wall. She's young, in her late teens, dressed up in a frilly dress and bloomers, with a bonnet and parasol - and the very strange thing is she looks like me. Even the same expression. How funny that you can look at a picture of someone you never knew and see yourself staring back.

Legacy, likeness, family trees, the past - how these things have whirled around in my head these past two weeks. I look at the picture of Doreen and I wish I could speak to her. We have more in common than our wayward dark curls, brown eyes and smiles (and love of frilly parasols).

Doreen was 34 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was 1939. In those days, the treatment for breast cancer was brutal. A radical mastectomy, lymph nodes and muscles out from under the arm and I imagine some horrendous radiation treatment too, although that is conjecture on my part as Dad doesn't know. He remembers her terrible scars though and the fact that she couldn't play the piano due to the pain and constricture of that scarring. I have thought a lot about Doreen since I was diagnosed at 33 - did she feel the same fear that I felt? What was her experience all those years ago? Doreen beat her cancer and carried on with life. She died of something completely unrelated at the age of 68. I have often looked at her photograph and smiled - she was a survivor, she was a talisman.

When you are diagnosed with breast cancer at a relatively young age, it is suggested that you investigate the possibility of a hereditary link, a genetic thread running through the generations. I had my clinical genetics appointment on the 13 January. I knew about my great gran's breast cancer, but she is the only other sufferer apart from me in my entire family. I expected to be told that it was just one of those things, random, just chance - all the things that people have been telling me since that fateful day back in 2007.

The shocking reality for me is that because Doreen had breast cancer at 34 and there are only males in the direct line between me and her (my grandad and my dad), two genetic consultants have put me in the high risk category for having a genetic cause for my breast cancer and I have some stark and difficult choices ahead.

It is possible that I carry either the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutation, which would increase the risk of my breast cancer recurring and give me an increased risk of ovarian cancer. I can decide not to have the genetic testing and take my chances or have the test and deal with the consequences of a possible positive result.

I don't like uncertainty. I'm going to have the test. I really fear a positive result. It will mean choosing again between screening, touching wood and crossing my fingers, or preventive surgery - a double mastectomy and an oophrectomy (my ovaries removed). At the moment, I'm scared, angry, frightened, consumed once more with the overwhelming headfuck that is breast cancer. I have really had enough. Yes, actually I'm really bloody angry that it's taking me back to hospitals and appointments and uncertainty and worrying. I was slowly getting away from all that.

But then, I know that it's never really going to leave me anyway. This is one more obstacle in the race I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd ever have to run. I did do it once, I can do it again. It is stripping me down to the quick, but I've proved I can get through and smile and live. I am wounded by breast cancer - there's no denying it's left its mark on my mind and my life, but at the same time, what point is there in getting through if I'm going to weep and moan and give up?

So - bear with me. I am going to be a pain in the arse. I am going to cry and sulk and be a hermit. I'm also going to be a normal mother and a vaguely normal librarian. I'm also going to rail and scream and worry and fret.

I might get that negative result - I pray and pray that I do. But I look at that photo of Doreen and her parasol and all I can think at the moment is that we're linked. Her face is my face and her genes just might be too.