'A Living Doll' by Jan Lloyd

It was difficult to sleep, especially next to my Gran who would rise several times in the night to use the chamber pot under the bed. My brother was in the "Z" bed alongside us and I could hear him starting to giggle when our Gran rose for the umpteenth time. I had drawn the meterphorical short straw so it was me who had to share the hugh feather bed with Gran and endure her bedtime habits. The false teeth in the cup on the bedside cabinet, watching her as she removed layers of clothing and strange corsetry and under garments and of course the "chamberpot"!
It was Christmas Eve 1960 and my brother and I were awaiting the arrival of Father Christmas hoping he'd received the letter explaining that we would be staying in South Wales at Gran's house.
The main present I wished for was a doll which I'd seen in a magazine. The advert read, "A real life, walking, talking, living doll". As I sank into the warm feather mattress my imagination of what to expect took over and then started to dream of this new modern doll I was to have which, according to the advert, came from America, even more exotic I thought. My brother had asked for a Hornby train set and I could've sworn I'd seen the box amongst our belongings as we boarded the train with our parents to travel to South Wales. Maybe not but I was beginning to have doubts about Father Christmas's existence having overheard my friend Brenda telling my brother that it was really our Mums and Dads that bought the presents. At aged seven I was prepared to prolong the fantasy a little longer so eventually closed my eyes as, one thing I was sure about, he wouldn't arrive until we were asleep.
After what seemed like an eternity I awoke hearing my Gran getting dressed and replacing the layers of clothing she had not long ago removed. She was a very sombre woman and didn't display very much emotion but despite that I could see packages and a stocking hanging at the foot of the bed and couldn't stifle my squeals of delight any longer. My Gran went to make porridge whilst my brother and I started to rip into our presents too impatient to wait for our parents to wake up. I tore open the wrapping of a bix box and saw the picture I recognised from the advert. It was the doll I'd longed for. As I took her out of the box I began to see that it wasn't quite how I'd imagined. She was made from brittle plastic and her hair was stiff nylon stuck into little holes in the scalp. The only way she could walk was to hold her by the shoulders and manipulate a shuffling motion and the action of walking or simply moving forward. The talking came from a record inside the doll which was operated by turning a handle in her back and the noise emanated from holes like a small speaker situated around the handle. I turned the handle and tried to decipher what she was saying. Instead of the claim that she spoke like a real life baby all I could hear was a whiney, scratchy noise as I tried in vain to listen for "Mama", "Pick me up", "Love you". Well I didn't love her but did my best to look pleased as my Mum and Dad appeared. Despite my disappointment I did my best to show my gratitude and pretended to love it and said I would call her Mary but really deep down I hated it's ugly and artificial appearance and certainly wasn't the real life living doll I'd dreamed of.
I soon forgot my disappointment over the so called "Living Doll" and my favourite present that year was a hair slide which I found buried in my stocking along with a tangerine and a chocolate soldier in a sentry box. The slide was tortoiseshell and encrusted with diamonds or so I thought, it was probably no more than a shilling from Woolies but I proudly wore it as I played with my brother and his Hornby train set for the rest of the day.

'Christmas Gloom Or Boom!' by Jan Lloyd

Lets face it we've all experienced that sense of disappointment when we've excitedly ripped open a beautifully wrapped present only to find a bright red acrylic jumper with white polka dots. Usually it’s two sizes too small or with arms down to your knees. Then there’s the third glove and scarf set in colours that don't match anything on this earth from Aunty Mo and Uncle Fred. We smile through gritted teeth and, for fear of offending, refuse to take the receipt from them should we wish to change it.
Year after year we all put ourselves through the same torture, none of us able to be honest regarding the over priced and tasteless presents bestowed on each other. Despite my hints and even blatant pleadings with my mother she still insists on buying each member of the family a box of biscuits and a selection box so I end up with four of each in our house. Once in the house my resolve not to over indulge starts to crack and I start stuffing myself silly until the last crumb is devoured - yes even the pink wafer biscuit and the Curly Wurly!
Well that was all in the past! As my mother has refused to listen to me for the last twenty years and I'm determined not to put any more weight on the biscuits and chocolates are distributed amongst the people who are far more needy than myself.
Charity shops are my first port of call as they will readily accept unwanted gifts and it does make you feel the presents are being put to good use and at the same time gives you a warm glow that your donation has provided an all round, helpful solution.
Hospitals and old people's homes are always grateful for donations. The sell by dates usually give at least six months grace so can be stored away until a party or a social event would benefit from the sweetmeats.
Unwanted clothing can be successfully recycled. I have a very thrifty friend who transforms jumpers, scarves, gloves etc. by redesigning them to her own unique style including forming them into framed pictures. She then sells them at craft fairs or redistributes them as presents. You could dispense with the redesigning bit and just save them for future presents remembering, of course, to note who gave them you so you don't put yourself in an embarrassing situation by returning them to the aunt or uncle who gave them you in the first place.
Failing all that we could all be that little more plucky and bravely accept the receipt when it's offered. That's of course if you can be bothered to join the endless queues of other people in January, all in the same predicament, returning their unwanted gifts! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!

'Dirty Laundry' by Barbara Chapman

What a beautiful morning! Beryl Brightwell allowed her lips to curve in the merest hint of a smile as she nudged the backdoor shut with her hip. Gripping the laundry basket more securely, she set off down the garden ignoring the meandering curves of the path, and striding purposeful and straight towards the rotary line discretely concealed by a bower of trellised clematis towards the bottom of the garden. Annoyance at the impracticality of the path imparted sharpness to each footfall which, had it not been cushioned by lawn, would have reverberated with displeasure. How typical of Brian! A simple task – a path to get from A to B – and he turns it into a landscaping project. He must have used three times the amount of materials. And for what? Well, she didn’t need to be led around in circles to appreciate the placing of the flower beds. It made mowing the lawn a nightmare.
Thoughts of her husband snagged tighter on irritation as she remembered he had her car. His was in for repair. Trust him to pick that particular spot in the supermarket car park! She’d told him not to park next to the trolley return point. People are so clumsy. But no, he hadn’t listened; too lazy to drive a bit further and find a better space. So what happened? When they got back there was a huge ding in the bumper and no one to claim against. So that was £250.00 down the drain.
Beryl placed the laundry basket on the ground next to the line and gripped the hem of its cover, sliding the sun-warmed plastic up and off in one smooth movement. A pigeon exploded out of the clematis, wings flailing the air as it fought to gain height. Flying rat! Her cold stare followed the bird as it disappeared over the fence.
She snapped the arms of the rotary line open, hooked the peg bag into place and bent to remove a bed sheet. The damp cotton was dazzlingly white, an effect she found particularly pleasing against the unordered colours of the garden. She might be marooned at home but the day would not be wasted. Beds stripped, laundry done, she would drop into her neighbour’s coffee morning. What was it in aid of? Brow creased in concentration, she couldn’t recall the cause. No matter, she would take a packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. Gwen would be grateful for her support. In fact she ought to get a move on; Gwen wasn’t the greatest organizer in the world, so the sooner she got there the less likelihood that the event would degenerate into a shambolic gossip session.
The last pillow case pegged into place, Beryl was turning away from the line when the voices reached her. Drat! People were arriving already. It sounded as if they were setting up outside. She’d have to get a move on. That was Sally Jones she could hear, and the burst of high-pitched laughter was from Nancy Ryan. At the thought of the gleamingly manicured Nancy, Beryl’s mouth tightened and it took a few seconds before she caught the thread of their conversation:
'...really? As blatant as that?'
'Yes, he made no attempt to hide it. Said “Hello” and actually introduced her.'
'And how did he introduce her? As a work colleague?'
'No, he didn’t and their body language said it all. They could hardly stop themselves holding hands.'
'What’s she like? Younger, I bet!'
'I’d say about the same age, though it’s hard to tell.'
The clatter of a tray descending onto a table was accompanied by Gwen’s voice: 'What’s all this about? Who are you two tearing to shreds now?'
'Us!' The tone was aggrieved. 'Gwen, whatever do you mean?'
'Umm.' The monosyllable was heavy with mock sarcasm. 'So go on, who are you dishing the dirt on now?'
In the pause that followed Beryl became aware that she was clutching the empty laundry basket like a life preserver.
Sally’s response when it came was almost a whisper, 'Brian.'
'Brian? You mean....?'
'Yes. Your neighbour Brian.'
'Whew... there’s a turn up for the book.'
'By the way, is Beryl coming this morning?' This from Nancy.
Gwen’s voice was distracted as she observed, 'No, she’s out. Car’s gone. So when was this?'
'Tuesday evening at the Royal Oak.'
'The Royal Oak! That’s virtually on the door step.'
'Yep, as bold as brass.'
'And what was she like?'
'Early 50’s, trendy dresser, big boobs – that’s the first thing my Ted noticed of course,' Sally chuckled.
'Well, good luck to them I say.' Nancy’s voice was harsh.
'Hang on, that’s a bit rough. I know Beryl’s not exactly a close friend...'
'Too right! She couldn’t get any stiffer if you rammed a poker up her arse. From what Brian’s let slip to my Ted, she shut up shop way before the menopause – separate bedrooms, the lot. So can you blame the poor chap? I mean there’s no pleasing that woman. If she was here this morning the cups and saucers’d be in ranks and files and we’d be lining up for biscuits!'
'Sally!' Gwen’s admonition was lost in a burst of laughter.
'No, I’m with Sally there,' Nancy chimed in. 'From the way things seem to be going I think he’ll make the break. If he doesn’t tell Beryl soon, someone else will and that’ll be that, as they say.'
'Cooeee. Where are you?'
'Oh, it’s Hillary and Pat. Down here - down here at the end of the garden.'
Gwen’s call jolted Beryl into life. Her gaze took in her hands clenched on the laundry basket, the knuckles as white as the plastic.
A sudden scrabbling drew her eyes to the fence. The pigeon teetered there, gained its balance. Bloody flying rat! The laundry basket left her hand, flung clumsily towards the wooden boards. Fixing her with a beady glare, the bird launched itself as the basket struck home. It rose into the sun, seemed to hang suspended above the washing for an eternity then released a stream of berry-mottled excrement that arced down with unerring precision onto the white sheets waiting like virgin canvas below.

'Edifice' by Peter Hodges

I asked my father what was an edifice. A big question for a small boy.
My father smiled, gave his answer, and left me a riddle. I went into town with my mother. Maybe there would be something that would make me look up and say, yes, there is an edifice. My curiosity fired, I looked all the time. My mother said to mind where I was stepping. We came to the bus stop. The bus arrived. I shot upstairs to grab a seat at the front. But from here I looked down, not up.
On the street, I strode ahead, saw the church. Here was where my father once took me sightseeing. From the tower he showed me the landmarks. The distant hill, the woods, a large house. I asked was the hill higher than the church, and my father replied, yes it was. But I remember it never seemed that way. From there nothing seemed higher. Not when one was looking down.
My father is dead. I have my answer. It has taken long years. Like an old photograph without a name, it is only a passing that reminds. Perversity of death brings sudden clarity and understanding. Frailty of years, but always there was the smile: remember this, remember that. Only now do I see my edifice. All the time it was he.

'Ode to the Wrekin' by Angeline Wheeler

Upon your banks I first knew love
Soft moss beneath me, sky above.
As shadows lengthened and eve drew nigh
Your beacon, bright like a winking eye
In youth I roamed your paths for hours
I felt no threat beneath your bowers.
When night departed and dawn was due
The sun arose to give a glorious view
Upon your summit I felt like a queen
Years have passed and much I’ve seen.
Your beacon like my sight now is dimmed
Many trees have been chopped, Forest thinned.
Unchangeable though wherever I may roam
When I see you stalwart Wrekin, I know I’m home.

'Why Do You Mock?' by Rosie Pugh

I walk among you children of God.
Why do you not smile when all Gods beauty is around you?
Why do you complain when surrounded by Gods gifts?
Why do you mock and make fun of those who are different?
Can you not feel their pain just like yours?
Is it because they laugh and sing when they are sad and blue?
We all have our different ways to get through the day.
High in the sky the sun shines bright.
It sparkles on the sea below.
Here there are mountains that touch the sky.
Close by are the tall trees for birds to sit and sing.
Why do you not laugh and sing when all these are free?
Let the rain fall and touch your skin.
Feel the breeze in your hair.
Take a deep breath.
Run like a child, feel free for tomorrow is another day.
Let today be yours and sing.

‘The Saddest Thing’ by Elisa Hill

‘I was suffocating; an unbearable weight holding me - complete darkness except for one finger I could move. I moved it and gently touched another person. I knew it was a dream and was trying to get my husband to wake me up.’
For a few days back then my mum turned off the news and radio whenever I was around. I didn't remember this until years later when I met someone from this tiny Welsh village. Their whole family had moved away for work ,one of the few families to leave, and one of the only ones who did not lose anyone.
It was the anniversary, 30 years, and as we watched it on TV, they seemed to know everyone who spoke. My mother-in-law said wryly, "Everyone there is a poet."
"Evans the Shop” that was the name she had in the village. On that dreadful day, she had looked out of the window and watched as the village went by. The usual daily routine. The children had passed a while earlier on their way to school, pleased it was just to be a half day Half an hour or so later, the stragglers came: one little girl, who had felt ill - her mum convincing her that she could manage just for the morning. There goes the milkman, her son-in-law. The post man, delivery drivers, everyone waved at her in greeting. She was a fixture, accepted by all -comfortable and predictable. She had started the shop when the last of the cave-ins had happened, terrified her husband, a miner, would be lost.
There was that terrible rumbling again. It had gone on all night, thunder, miserable weather, misty and drizzling. Then there was a very large rumble - louder than before. It seemed wrong somehow, different to the rest. She went outside. It seemed the whole village were at their front doors, wondering. Then a child came running down the street covered in ash from head to foot. She was screaming, " The schools exploded, the schools exploded."
She looked at her grandson’s new wife, who was looking horrified, but trying not to show it. It was a Sunday afternoon, when the whole family got together. It was still on the TV. People speaking - those she had known since they were in prams
They never built the school again. Her grandchildren were taken by bus to a nearby town.
Her son-in-law, was talking; telling them about how he was one of the first to get there and how he started to pull out the ones near the edge. They had been taken to her cousins’ daughter’s house, just where the ash had stopped. Some were still alive, some died there. The saddest thing was the local doctor who had joined the line of men passing out the children. As he passed his own two sons out he had just paused, looked down at them lovingly and went on to pass the next child.
The mines had closed. Everyone from surrounding villages had come to help. It seemed as if time itself stood still. The miners had downed tools and come straight over to help.
Her daughter’s friend had brought home her new baby a few days before. Her daughter had passed and waved at her saying she would visit her the next day. Her house had been buried.
She looked over at her husband, who was sitting at the end of the large front room, hearing aid off, not wanting to see the T.V. She looked at his hands with the coal dust still in his skin - a deeply ingrained dust.

‘Aunty Nell’ by Joyce Hayward

My mother and her family had always cared for ‘Aunty Nell’- a tiny, quiet spinster who had joined my grandmother to help her bring up a family of twelve on a farm worker’s wage in the early 1900’s.
By wartime,1939-45, the children had got older and the youngest one was serving in the armed forces. So my ‘aunt’ left my grandparents and went into service for a rich farming family.
However, she still kept in touch and visited, in turn, members of my family to stay with them for her holidays or through periods of illness. She was always ‘aunty’ to us all.
My mother was the last one of her generation to die – but Aunt Nell outlived them all.
I used to take her shopping, have her round for Christmas dinner and generally try to help her. She was always very active for her age and quite capable of doing her own housekeeping right up to the age of 97 years old. But after that I started to worry.
My biggest fear was linked to the way she lit her fire. She would light it and then ‘to help to get it to go’ she would put a piece of newspaper over the front to draw it. Often the paper would catch light in the process and she would frantically stamp it out in the hearth. It seemed only a matter of time before her clothes might catch fire.
In the end I was unable to relax at night for thinking about this. I reluctantly called Social Services who arranged for her to be placed in a care home. She lived there happily until she died at the age of 106 years old.
It upset me at the end that, as I was not a blood relative, I was unable to register the death or keep her card from the Queen as a memento.