Turning the Clock Back

Many of my readers will be pleased to read that this post is not all about politics.  Perhaps surprisingly, other things too have been happening this week.  It being Easter week, I spent some part of it, as I usually do, visiting my cousin ... although we didn't spend the time munching chocolate eggs. We both recognise the danger that that poses to our health!

Instead, on Monday, we paid a visit to a preserved section of the Midland Railway at Butterley, not far from her home.  Weather-wise, this was not the best day of my break but, since it was sunny, we decided to seize the opportunity.  Unfortunately, some of the attractions were not open to the public and, in the face of a chill wind, our stay wasn't so long as it might otherwise have been.  We did indulge in the fare at the station buffet, however, enjoying a cob and a drink before leaving.

This was the first of a number of reminders this week of the effects of advancing age.  When I was young, little thought was given to a chill wind, just so long as the sun was shining ... or so it seems now, looking back through my proverbially rose-tinted accessories.  More was to come in the same vein, after I'd returned home.

Wednesday saw an outing of the church men's social group to a local ten-pin-bowling facility.  Thirteen of us assembled, and took over two lanes for the evening.  I think it was a fair bet that I was the oldest of the party, and I think the last time I did any bowling could have been before some of my friends were born!  Based on such a record, there is little surprise that my performance was the least prodigious of them all but that didn't diminish my enjoyment of the occasion.  A great part of the fun derived from seeing the style and achievements of my friends - not to mention their reaction to their own successes and failures - as the evening progressed.

When I had returned home on Wednesday afternoon, I found awaiting for me on the doormat one of two books I had recently ordered.  This was a series of autobiographical anecdotes of a former Yorkshire vicar who is now a Welsh bishop, which I had ordered on impulse after hearing a radio interview.  The following day, the second volume arrived, and I couldn't resist the temptation to begin reading one of them on Thursday afternoon.

Despite the thrilling content, fatigue won the day and at one point I found myself rubbing my eyes, looking at the clock and wondering where the last hour had gone!  I got up to make a cup of coffee and realised that my body was aching in any number of places.  One friend was amused when I confessed to having used the previous night muscles that hadn't been called upon for many years; another, less sympathetic, reminded me that I was no longer 40.  Ouch!

As I reflected on the week's events, I did pick up on one aspect of the news reports.  The matter of expenditure on new grammar schools had been raised, whereupon it had been claimed that more of these would provide the opportunity for more children to overcome the disadvantages of being born to less well-off parents.  As the product of a grammar school myself, it might be expected that I would agree with this attitude.

In fact, the reverse is the case, despite being just the sort of pupil that this policy is designed to help.  I considered myself fortunate to have gone there and have lost count of the times I've been grateful for having studied Latin for a year.  But long before those days, I had become painfully aware of the consequences of my lowly birth.

At the age of six or seven, I had responded to a classroom invitation to undertake an ear-test as a preliminary to joining violin classes.  Once successful in this, I was asked to bring some money the next week for the music book.  When, in all innocence, I told my mother of this seemingly simple requirement, her reaction took me completely by surprise ... and has stayed with me for sixty years and more.  "Where do you think I'm going to get 2/6 for a music book?  Do you think I'm made of money?  You can go and tell them tomorrow that you won't be doing any violin lessons.  I can't afford any music books."  This went on for several minutes, making me squirm at every outburst.

So, has the grammar school helped me to rise above my natural class?  Not at all, although it did give me a few ideas above my station.  I've perhaps become more aware of the disadvantages, when I compare myself to some of those with whom I learned, and I've developed ways of coping with these when meeting, dealing and socialising with people who have not been subjected to them.  But as they say about one's birthplace, in my experience the same is true of class: "You can take the boy out of Norfolk, but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"

I've never had a music lesson from that day to this.  Like many other things, I've managed to teach myself, from books and through practice, to a standard that will get me by.