I grew up in the shadow of war. Born in 1954, the second world war was not long over, bread was still rationed and I had aunts and uncles who had been there or were still career army men and women and they were part of the narrative of my growing up. James running off underage and ending up in Italy, Nina meeting Bob, Michael meeting his German wife Erica during the tidy up, loads of stories of watching bombers flying over and tracer bullets in the sky, blackout windows, rationing, and you can imagine what it was like being a child growing up with these stories, especially as they left the horror ones behind. And they merged into other stories of Leerie the lamplighter (because the streetlights were still gas) football matches that lasted a whole Sunday, my Dad going to the pit at the age of 14, my mum working at the brewery and the chemist, dancing on Saturday nights to live bands, real fifties dance bands. They were mostly told on a Saturday when we would gather at my Granny and Papa McKenna's in Dalkeith (Widburn to be precise) eat the never ending soup that was on the stove and play cards - Canadian Rummy. I know not how it ended up as 'Canadian' Rummy, I don't think we knew any Canadians, but that's what I remember playing at home too while listening to the radio on a Sunday. Goodness but we have travelled from then and sometimes its good to remember how we got here. I always liked this tune and although I hate the jingoism that seems to follow Elgar, that is no reason for not hearing it again as I sit in the kitchen, drink in early grey, contemplating another rainy morning, with the cats sitting at the back door, hating the weather as much as me:
