The family quiz was a spectacular success. I used all 12 rounds and since we had four minutes to spare before Sean had to log off at 9pm, I slipped in the alphabet round. Son (26) is a veteran of quizzes and he gave me the idea. I had gone for a walk in the afternoon to clear my head but when I got home again, I was so addled trying to ensure that the Zoom invitation reached everyone, I abandoned the project. Son (20) took up the mantle. As agreed, he quietly and efficiently kept a running tab on the scores while at the same time, he used Google on his phone to compile answers to satisfy every letter of the alphabet. ‘U’ to describe the encounters of Leopold Bloom, ‘Y’ a slogan used for ‘Not for Girls’ and ‘Z’ the name of the footballer who got red carded in the 2006 world cup final.
It was neck and neck between Catherine and Stephen the whole way through but Sean won it by a nose. The ‘Who Am I?’ rounds were a triumph. I gave ten clues in descending order of value. If they got the answer on the first clue, they got ten points, if they got it on clue two, nine points and so on. Catherine guessed Michelle Obama on clue three earning her a whopping seven points which shot her into the lead, but Sean guessed Wayne Rooney on clue three which catapulted him into top three. It took them until clue seven before Stephen guessed Graham Norton. If the clues are true but vague you keep them suspended for longer. The rapt attention with which they listened as I slowly read out the clues was like the stillness of an anaconda hypnotising its prey before it strikes. Mum did well, she got Winston Churchill on question clue seven and only once did Catherine feel the need to help her.
I was woefully under dressed for my walk. After the glorious heat on Saturday, I kept my clothes light and was nearly blasted away by the wind which never ceased. Everyone else on that walk seemed similarly caught out. When I got home, Son (22) told me a storm was on its way. I’ve neglected to watch the news since Friday. It’s not like me not to have a finger on the pulse of the weather situation at all times. The walk did the trick. The cobwebs were blasted away and my limbs pleasantly tired. I finished Amy and Isabelle. The ending is so unsatisfying, I’ll have to read it again. There are gaps in the story where I fell asleep and it’s still a whole two weeks before the book club are due to meet again.
Mum called up unexpectedly. I slammed the lap top shut should she see the questions but that was not the purpose of her visit. Since 1987, the residents of Endsleigh Estate, where I grew up, have held an annual dinner dance. A few years ago, they started to invite the next generation even though we were no longer resident. The dance part had long been abandoned and in its place, Theresa Bracken, the organiser warned each table to come up with a song. I first attended three years ago, and it was a hoot. I can’t sing so I told a joke. Fortunately, as I enacted the actions of the joke to give its fully flavour, I inadvertently moved the mic away from my mouth as I delivered the punchline. Only the man sitting directly in front of me heard it. Two years ago, Dionne Long, attending for the first time, read out a piece she had written of her memories ‘Growing up in Endsleigh’. She managed to mention most people in the room, and it was funny. It was a huge hit. She planned to do the same again this year but of course, it got cancelled. That gave Brendan Bracken the idea that if all the residents of Endsleigh submitted a memory, he would compile them and with the help of Ruth Kearney, he would put together a book. “So,” said Mum, “they want all your generation to contribute too.” She then laughed nervously and said, “I could write loads about you.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“How about the time, when you were two, you crawled out the upstairs window in the rain. Mrs Kearney spotted you and rang the doorbell. Tommy, (then five) stood below to catch you but I managed to grab your nappy before you fell.” Just then Son (20) walked into the kitchen and said, “She what?”
“And the time,” she continued chuckling. Now that she had an audience, there was no stopping her, “you dragged a basket of groceries, as big as yourself, puffing and panting all the way home.” Turning to Son by way of explanation, “The Thompsons were very posh, and they used to have their groceries delivered once a week. Your mother, at two, was no bigger than the basket but managed to drag it six houses away to our back door. I was so embarrassed having to bring it back.” She turned back to me with her eyes shining with mirth, “Or about the time Stephen and Brian Jones climbed through every back garden starting from the Jones’ house all the way up to the Sorenson’s without touching the ground.”
Son (20) was impressed. “How many houses was that?” he said.
“Let’s see we’re No. 14 and they are at least eight houses further on, so it must be 20 houses.”
Son nodded approvingly, “That shows some ingenuity,” he said.
“It does, it does. So,” and there she paused and turning back to me said, “What are you going to write?”
“I’ll stew on it and come up with something,” I said
“You won’t write about us, will you?”
"You write what you want. I won’t edit you and you don’t edit me."
“Oh, it’s just that you were such an amazing child.”
“That’s not what you said about me at my wedding or my fiftieth.”
She then turned to Son and said, “Do you know she set my bed on fire while I was still in it?”
Son’s mouth fell open. I said to him, “Don’t mind her, I was two at the time.” Mum then brooded some more her brow furrowed in concentration. “I must ask Stephen for more details on the back-garden story,” she concluded.
“That’s another thing,” I said, “Brendan is asking for our memories. That’s not your story, it’s Stephen’s. What do you remember?”
“I remember we moved in a month before you were born. That the house cost £2,000 pounds. The mortgage payments were £16 a month and I couldn’t sleep with the worry of how we were going to keep up the payments.”
“That’s perfect. That’s living history. That is what our generation want to hear.”
“O’Hanlon’s next door cost a £500 pounds more because it was detached. The green out front was pure mud and we saw all the other houses go up brick by brick.”
I was woefully under dressed for my walk. After the glorious heat on Saturday, I kept my clothes light and was nearly blasted away by the wind which never ceased. Everyone else on that walk seemed similarly caught out. When I got home, Son (22) told me a storm was on its way. I’ve neglected to watch the news since Friday. It’s not like me not to have a finger on the pulse of the weather situation at all times. The walk did the trick. The cobwebs were blasted away and my limbs pleasantly tired. I finished Amy and Isabelle. The ending is so unsatisfying, I’ll have to read it again. There are gaps in the story where I fell asleep and it’s still a whole two weeks before the book club are due to meet again.
Mum called up unexpectedly. I slammed the lap top shut should she see the questions but that was not the purpose of her visit. Since 1987, the residents of Endsleigh Estate, where I grew up, have held an annual dinner dance. A few years ago, they started to invite the next generation even though we were no longer resident. The dance part had long been abandoned and in its place, Theresa Bracken, the organiser warned each table to come up with a song. I first attended three years ago, and it was a hoot. I can’t sing so I told a joke. Fortunately, as I enacted the actions of the joke to give its fully flavour, I inadvertently moved the mic away from my mouth as I delivered the punchline. Only the man sitting directly in front of me heard it. Two years ago, Dionne Long, attending for the first time, read out a piece she had written of her memories ‘Growing up in Endsleigh’. She managed to mention most people in the room, and it was funny. It was a huge hit. She planned to do the same again this year but of course, it got cancelled. That gave Brendan Bracken the idea that if all the residents of Endsleigh submitted a memory, he would compile them and with the help of Ruth Kearney, he would put together a book. “So,” said Mum, “they want all your generation to contribute too.” She then laughed nervously and said, “I could write loads about you.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“How about the time, when you were two, you crawled out the upstairs window in the rain. Mrs Kearney spotted you and rang the doorbell. Tommy, (then five) stood below to catch you but I managed to grab your nappy before you fell.” Just then Son (20) walked into the kitchen and said, “She what?”
“And the time,” she continued chuckling. Now that she had an audience, there was no stopping her, “you dragged a basket of groceries, as big as yourself, puffing and panting all the way home.” Turning to Son by way of explanation, “The Thompsons were very posh, and they used to have their groceries delivered once a week. Your mother, at two, was no bigger than the basket but managed to drag it six houses away to our back door. I was so embarrassed having to bring it back.” She turned back to me with her eyes shining with mirth, “Or about the time Stephen and Brian Jones climbed through every back garden starting from the Jones’ house all the way up to the Sorenson’s without touching the ground.”
Son (20) was impressed. “How many houses was that?” he said.
“Let’s see we’re No. 14 and they are at least eight houses further on, so it must be 20 houses.”
Son nodded approvingly, “That shows some ingenuity,” he said.
“It does, it does. So,” and there she paused and turning back to me said, “What are you going to write?”
“I’ll stew on it and come up with something,” I said
“You won’t write about us, will you?”
"You write what you want. I won’t edit you and you don’t edit me."
“Oh, it’s just that you were such an amazing child.”
“That’s not what you said about me at my wedding or my fiftieth.”
She then turned to Son and said, “Do you know she set my bed on fire while I was still in it?”
Son’s mouth fell open. I said to him, “Don’t mind her, I was two at the time.” Mum then brooded some more her brow furrowed in concentration. “I must ask Stephen for more details on the back-garden story,” she concluded.
“That’s another thing,” I said, “Brendan is asking for our memories. That’s not your story, it’s Stephen’s. What do you remember?”
“I remember we moved in a month before you were born. That the house cost £2,000 pounds. The mortgage payments were £16 a month and I couldn’t sleep with the worry of how we were going to keep up the payments.”
“That’s perfect. That’s living history. That is what our generation want to hear.”
“O’Hanlon’s next door cost a £500 pounds more because it was detached. The green out front was pure mud and we saw all the other houses go up brick by brick.”
"That’s what you write," I said, "The current residents, those who only moved in the last 15 years, would love all that."
She left happy eager to get started. She had come bearing gifts leaving me with three Nerines and a tall plant with white bell like flowers. She warned me that it looked delicate but grew like a weed. My kind of plant.
In the quiz last night, the most popular round was “Which is the odd one out” especially the last six questions where I personalised it for the family. Out of these four cars, Renault 5, Ritmo, Ford Cortina, Sunny Nissan, Stephen guessed the Sunny Nissan. Right answer, wrong reason. These were all cars my dad owned. The Sunny was the odd one out because it was the only one that didn’t break down. Now that’s an Endsleigh story. In winter, on particularly cold mornings, the Cortina wouldn’t start. Dad would roar up the stairs, “the car won’t start” and that was our cue. Whoever was dressed had to come outside and push the car around the green. Dad would be sitting in the driver’s seat frantically pumping the accelerator while Stephan, Tommy and I attempted to push the frozen metal arse of the car as it stuttered and jolted into life. After a few minutes, some of the neighbours, Ken Long and one of the O’Hare brothers would come running out and take over. That released me to return home and have my breakfast. By the time I reached out gate, I would hear the triumphant cries from the boys as the engine would finally catch and scream into life. For such a shy man, Dad was completely without shame when it came to his car. He’d circle around the green a couple of times revving the engine, waking everyone up, and then satisfied it was sufficiently warmed up, he'd stop at our gate and shout in the open front door, "Tell your mother the car is ready.”
In the quiz last night, the most popular round was “Which is the odd one out” especially the last six questions where I personalised it for the family. Out of these four cars, Renault 5, Ritmo, Ford Cortina, Sunny Nissan, Stephen guessed the Sunny Nissan. Right answer, wrong reason. These were all cars my dad owned. The Sunny was the odd one out because it was the only one that didn’t break down. Now that’s an Endsleigh story. In winter, on particularly cold mornings, the Cortina wouldn’t start. Dad would roar up the stairs, “the car won’t start” and that was our cue. Whoever was dressed had to come outside and push the car around the green. Dad would be sitting in the driver’s seat frantically pumping the accelerator while Stephan, Tommy and I attempted to push the frozen metal arse of the car as it stuttered and jolted into life. After a few minutes, some of the neighbours, Ken Long and one of the O’Hare brothers would come running out and take over. That released me to return home and have my breakfast. By the time I reached out gate, I would hear the triumphant cries from the boys as the engine would finally catch and scream into life. For such a shy man, Dad was completely without shame when it came to his car. He’d circle around the green a couple of times revving the engine, waking everyone up, and then satisfied it was sufficiently warmed up, he'd stop at our gate and shout in the open front door, "Tell your mother the car is ready.”
Yes, I have great memories of living in Endsleigh.
No comments:
Post a Comment