tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70541425204613907552024-03-13T09:01:35.434-07:00The Taxi Drivers SonDave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-85737922239063409122017-07-29T22:55:00.001-07:002017-07-29T22:58:03.512-07:00Another smashing photo of Arthur Weldon and the Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Typically, my dad Arthur, at the front with his tie loose, does not have his teeth in for the big photo.</div>
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Top Row. Brian Walton, Anne Walton (nee Lewis) and their sons Gary and Colin Walton. Middle Row, Leslie Prescott, Mr Moss who was Alda's neighbour, Bob Lewis, Alda Lewis (nee Weldon), Mrs Moss, Dorothy Weldon (need Edwards) and Front Row, Margaret Prescott (nee Lewis) and Arthur Herbert Weldon.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-40757173328388549642015-05-20T11:18:00.002-07:002015-05-20T11:19:49.066-07:00The Taxi Driver's SonIt's been a while, but I have been rather busy writing the book and updating other blogs, and on occasion, just so the blogger system won't kill this thing, I'm sure I need to add a post or two here.<br />
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The deadline for the book was my older brother's sixtieth birthday in October 2014. The previous 18 months were spent transcribing the family tree research, sourcing and improving photographs and filtering all my stories from the various zones of my blogosphere.<br />
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The result was a 600 page soft cover book that has almost all my research in, the history of Arthur and Dorothy Weldon and the family and a good chapter on a lot of my own personal stories from my youth. It was published in time and arrived within the deadline.<br />
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I plan to republish the book in a decade (if I am still around) once the 1921 British Census becomes available.<br />
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Hopefully there will be still some family left to send it to.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-78522337069994757362012-12-18T16:07:00.000-08:002012-12-18T16:11:32.138-08:00ChristmasI may have written about some of these things before, but nevertheless, I'm writing about them again because they are fresh in my memory one more time.<br />
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This is from the early 1970's era when I was fast approaching teenagerdom and thoughts were veering away from such concepts as father Christmas and sweet baby Jesus. This time of year was not quite as special as it was when I was younger, now that I was "so much older" at about a dozen years under my belt, Christmas was becoming about other things.<br />
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I could not wait until that Thursday a few weeks before Christmas, my granddad would bring home the TV Times and (BBC) Radio Times holiday specials, two weeks of extra special programming, great articles and the expectation of great stuff on those British TV channels.<br />
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All three of them.<br />
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So, how did we change from excitement about what was on with three channels with today's total apathy about what is on in the universe of three hundred? - beats me, but at twelve years old I could not wait for some of that holiday faire, maybe because it was all so fresh back then.<br />
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Morecambe and Wise Christmas special, the Two Ronnies, the fantastic Variety shows on ITV and the BBC and of course, the Christmas films.<br />
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No Christmas could have been right without at least one of the Bob Hope and Bing Crosby "road" movies, Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin and at least two Carry on Movies. Of course, the less used Alistair Sim in the Charles Dickens masterpiece "A Christmas Carol" was always welcome.<br />
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The season was not all about the telly, mum would be in full swing with the two fake trees we had in the house, one sat on top of the telly, the other would be in the front room or "the best room" or the "lounge" whatever it was being called at that moment. In the lounge mum would have her stash of Cherry Brandy, Malibu and other tempting Christmas tipples, dad's would be nearby. I know he liked the occasional whiskey but it seemed like it was his way not to drink in front of the kids.<br />
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No such rules for mum!<br />
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And what else?, satsumas, dates, turkish delight, crystalized ginger (or ginger in syrup), Thorntons Special Toffee and lots of other Christmas goodies. The nutcrackers would resurface and dangerous shards of brazil nut casings would fly like shrapnel about the house.<br />
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And the Christmas Cake.<br />
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In those days, Mum would always buy her cake from Marks and Spencers, but would buy the marzipan separate and make her own icing. It would always harden if it was left too long, however, in a house full of boys and men, Christmas Cake was an endangered species.<br />
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In true traditional TV style, I'll call this "end of part one" Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-2759997581840059182012-11-14T10:30:00.001-08:002012-11-14T10:34:57.261-08:00Record and PlayDo you remember a time when you would sit and watch a TV show and when it ended, that was it?<br />
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A good pair of examples, for the Bwitish amongst us, would be the weekly "Top of the Pops" or the late night "Old Grey Whistle Test" hosted by the late, great, John Peel.<br />
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The show would start, and if you were late to the late show, no-one would wait and there would be no rewinding the tape to review what had already transpired. That was if you were lucky enough to have one of the first Titanic sized VCRs from the wayback years and also if you had the immense wad of cash for a spare tape that did not have your mothers "Rumpold of the Bailey" recorded.<br />
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If there was no VCR, the transient show would pass and could not be accessed on some mysterious interweb type arrangement, in the late 1970s, when a music show was gone, it was gone and all that would be left would be discussion or a scant review of the events in the next copy of the Melody Maker or the New Musical Express.<br />
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Yet, here we are many moons later, drowning in excess nostalgia (often at a price) and of course, for those who have long lost their videotapes, buying opportunities and repackaged versions of the stuff that we missed abound.<br />
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I listened to UmmaGumma for the last time a week or so ago. I say that because I believe that I don't think I can take those four sides of undirected noise once again, funny really as I never experienced the album in my formative years as I was one of the Dark Side of the Moon generation and never had the excess cash to back fill my library with previous offerings from the flavor of the day.<br />
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Luckily.<br />
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I digress, let me return to the original topic and that man John Peel.<br />
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In 1975, late in the night, John Peel instructed me over the airwaves to press "record and play" and it was not on the yet to be affordable VCR, it was on my Philips radio cassette unit. This late night radio show jockey had the pleasing habit of playing entire albums, and that night when he kindly told me he was about to put the needle down, the record he was playing was Ommadawn and forty-five minutes later my compact cassette was filled to the brim with Mike Oldfields latest creation that I played a hundred times in the following months.<br />
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They said that home taping would kill music.<br />
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I think not.<br />
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Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-29217418936812698952012-02-25T11:02:00.000-08:002012-02-25T11:02:12.892-08:00A wall of memoriesThe photo below shows a fractional portion of memory items, I will quickly run through a few and maybe we will talk about them more at some later date.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfVR3sokkckR3OjT_xiAA1ygVZRJA-ijYGMRL0DyA3AWS9244HUPpvK8Ixxd8Aq6NKq_zK_4P4fncsxoqfGQlNc5rDNd5p5TaLxtieZ5n9tI-Huo2YXF1cpe7mYNWhDvQznnWUYiVwB4/s1600/IMG_0529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfVR3sokkckR3OjT_xiAA1ygVZRJA-ijYGMRL0DyA3AWS9244HUPpvK8Ixxd8Aq6NKq_zK_4P4fncsxoqfGQlNc5rDNd5p5TaLxtieZ5n9tI-Huo2YXF1cpe7mYNWhDvQznnWUYiVwB4/s400/IMG_0529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Right at the top, Clogs we bought mum in Amsterdam, some clippers and a pair of mum's hairdressing scissors, Matchbox Models of Yesteryear No.Y9-1-11A Fowler Showman's Engine and the Beware of the Dog sign from the garden gate of "Korner" the house in Rhyl, next row down, the guy who jumped off the diving board from my childhood mouse trap game, a watch key and a Test + badge from my Switzerland trip when I was fourteen, a huge nappy pin and some loose change, my mum's brass stepladder that used to adorn part of the fireplace mantlepiece along with a lot of other brass, a padlock, a bottle opener and one of my dad's many AA (Automobile Association) keys.<br />
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All have some specific, good memories for the Taxi driver's son.<br />
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Next row down, a centre disc from our modern portable record player from 1967, with a 45 rpm disc push in piece, three cubes from a game of "Instant Insanity" bought during a holiday in Wales. A gillette razor from dad's bathroom cabinet, a Liverpool Silver Blades Ice skating rink and a Blacklers Grotto badge. A Raleigh Chopper, Toffee hammer, coins and an enameled pendant I made in Metalwork forty years ago. At the end, a Dinky Traffic Light from the Meccano company and a Youth Hostel YHA pin.<br />
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I could write a book on some of these things, such is the vastness of a series of memories.<br />
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The last row, real tiddley winks and dice bucket that probably slept in our clubhouse above the shop fifty years ago, a tiny spirit level and a small collection of Butlin's badges. Mum on her wedding day, the cocktail set that she would let me play with when I was four years old and waiting for my eye exam at St.Pauls eye hospital in Liverpool, a bunch of keys to long lost locks.<br />
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The last two items, a Lancashire Watch Company watch, the Weldon's and Prescot watch companies had quite the relationship and there to close it all, a Churchill Crown that my grandfather bought me in 1965.<br />
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About two square feet of a fraction of it all.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-43078690909326690912012-02-13T19:41:00.000-08:002012-02-13T19:41:15.757-08:00White Star LineIt's been a while since my last post on this blog, but I have been active on the others.<br />
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The web is indeed world wide as I recently heard from a reader from the UK and on the family tree blog, a reader from Indonesia, in fact, the latter was actually a second cousin of mine.<br />
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The news from Indonesia came after a week of sadness and reflection in January, my dad's sister. Margaret, died at the ripe old age of ninety-nine and three-quarters, amazing that she was born eleven days after the Titanic sank, an event that probably reverberated around her home town of Liverpool, the Titanic of course was registered in Liverpool along with several other White Star line ships.<br />
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In the week in 2004 when we cleared out mum and dad's house in Rhyl we found a couple of wooden coat hangers from Butlin's, one from my mum's childhood, with her maiden name written on it and a White Star Line emblazoned hanger. Arthur probably acquired it during his wood polishing days on the Cunard ships, although Dorothy also had her time associated with cruise ships, hey, I can make up a lot of stories about a coat hanger.<br />
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The family tree blog brought several new family members together, at a time when my interest has been raised once again, hopefully over the next few months, new stories from distant branches of the family will be included here and on the sister site.<br />
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weldonweb.blogspot.comDave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-21926211502114405572010-12-28T22:59:00.000-08:002010-12-28T22:59:51.790-08:00Same Place, different TimeLlanrwst 2010.<br />
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The same tea shop car park, 52 years later and the pub is still there.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-81820735635382108372010-12-28T22:41:00.000-08:002010-12-28T22:46:50.694-08:00Five DecadesThis picture, taken in early 1958, is the author at a little tea shop across the river Conwy from the Pen-Y-Bont pub on Bridge Street, Llanrwst in Wales.<br />
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We were on holiday, either staying in Llanrwst or down the road in one of mum and dads favourite places at Betws-y-Coed.<br />
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I wasn’t impressed back then, but I am now, of the coachwork of these old prams. The front part is hinged and I believe one of my earliest memories of this life was looking out through that portal when the hood was up. In the picture I’m holding a star shaped rattle. What can’t be seen is the two point leather harness that was often used to hold seven month old babies captive in these tanks. <br />
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</div><div>This was my best Winston Churchill impersonation.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu5tHf1WHny43fAFewULzFwJplgGn5I0D6d6PlXtpewxlVvEb7ZPb1mHG0vPO2oHIRs68VMtz2o4HJyRcEqAfmf5ZfvnMM3k99d3yxWX73ulzfiMwBcT2SxRXca0tXfw3ZHaa_lkC_iQ/s1600/a0072a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu5tHf1WHny43fAFewULzFwJplgGn5I0D6d6PlXtpewxlVvEb7ZPb1mHG0vPO2oHIRs68VMtz2o4HJyRcEqAfmf5ZfvnMM3k99d3yxWX73ulzfiMwBcT2SxRXca0tXfw3ZHaa_lkC_iQ/s400/a0072a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-44848824548662347512010-10-19T09:25:00.000-07:002010-10-19T09:28:17.211-07:00DecadeJune 2010 passed without fanfare and sometime in July I realised that the tenth anniversary of my father's death had slipped by without a thought.<br />
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I wasn't so shocked that I had not celebrated or mourned the event, moreover a slight chill at ten years of my life passing by, along with everyone else on the planet, ten years, wow.<br />
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I had chipped a tooth on my short visit to the UK when dad died, a daily reminder of a week that was full of emotion and nostalgia, a house trapped in aspic in North Wales with thousands of the tiny things that made up who my mum and dad had been, a house full of memories with, sadly, no-one to share besides the two brothers who sorted through the bricks to arrange the funeral.<br />
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Mum was still alive though, yet she was trapped in her own world of disjointed and fabricated memories, something that during that week of mourning provided a silver lining as her partner of over fifty years was laid to rest.<br />
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This may seem like a sad entry to the blog, but it is not, I run my tongue across my chipped tooth and memories flood back of that week, the kindness and cooperation of people who were involved in the funeral preparations and a commitment from two taxi driver's sons to "keep more in touch" which was a promise, on ten years reflection, that has been kept very well.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-61807941834049602762009-10-13T05:03:00.000-07:002009-10-13T05:36:38.332-07:00Practical JokesThe Magnet Toys and Fancy goods store, at 179 Wavertree Road in Liverpool, sold an amazing array of stuff. In this post I'll just list off some of the jokes they had for sale.<br /><br />As you entered the shop, to the left, was a display cabinet, on top of the counter, in there the numerous jokes were stored, some benign and some downright trouble.<br /><br />The most trouble, were the stink bombs, a packet of three in a little cardboard box, these thin glass vials usually smelled like rotten eggs when broken and were very popular amongst young lads. The occasional bomb would "go off" in the front of the shop and usually it didn't take much reasoning to work out who did it.<br /><br />I liked the fake things, which were many, there were fake rubber/latex fried eggs which seemed almost real, something to place on your grandads plate and giggle, fake food items like bacon, sausage and seagull poo. The latter not being a food item of course could be placed on a car windscreen, other car jokes included bullet holes that could be applied.<br /><br />The list was amazing, cigarettes that glowed and puffed out smoke, which was fine talc, little, round cardboard containers of sneezing or itching powder (which was usually finely chopped hair) and of course, the exploding snake in a can.<br /><br />I think a lot of these can still be bought today, such is the longevity of a good prank, although some, like the rubber pencil, would be difficult to fool someone with, or the little camera that squirted water. I think kids might see through stuff like the fortune telling fish that curled in your hand due to heat and I would expect that schools have long since banned the whoopee cushion.<br /><br />The more distasteful items, such as the fake dog poo, that actually looked very realistic, fake boils and spots that could be stuck on your face, and I believed, as a kid, that the nail through the finger item, especially with the bloody bandage, was one of the more horrific items.<br /><br />The list could go on, of course, there were more expensive items that I never had, but could play with in the shop, like the laughing bag or the hand buzzer, and then there were items that I would have liked to use, black face soap, red face soap, floating sugar cubes and melting teaspoons, but, pocket money would only stretch so far.<br /><br />And I only, really needed those stinkbomben...Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-38181796080268620352009-10-01T06:06:00.000-07:002009-10-01T06:27:58.897-07:00Ice Cream<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzVw7vSE5hR9W_uPNKljpPcGox2xf_CZXJwwHqjXKodj81EDt4GrfKAxTFbyGWEVc1COBb-3an6YtoBWfCR1IUc04XC_oAFCzoysGGHiYcv6zUvupNyXzlmeWhFRAmHuTugVsyKBoIxY/s1600-h/icecreamvan2a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzVw7vSE5hR9W_uPNKljpPcGox2xf_CZXJwwHqjXKodj81EDt4GrfKAxTFbyGWEVc1COBb-3an6YtoBWfCR1IUc04XC_oAFCzoysGGHiYcv6zUvupNyXzlmeWhFRAmHuTugVsyKBoIxY/s400/icecreamvan2a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387622608467182946" /></a><br />The Ice Cream van was a daytime distraction for my dad, taxi work was always busy in the evenings and he was looking for something to make money with during the day.<br /><br />In Whiston, mum and dad had a shop on Milton Avenue and mum would look after that during the day while dad was out on the Ice Cream round. Occasionally I would help out in both places, although the van was far more exciting than the shop.<br /><br />The van was equipped with a soft serve machine, so it had to be loaded periodically with industrial sized portions of the mix, that was subsequently cooled and then extruded through the taps. I think the machine had the ability to do two colours but it was never loaded that way, so ice cream would be made more exotic with crushed nuts and raspberry or chocolate syrup.<br /><br />The options were cone or cup, and of course, in addition to those toppings the deluxe version would include a Cadbury's Chocolate flake, called a ninety-nine for some reason, the occasional mega deluxe version would include two flakes, not sure what they were called (besides expensive).<br /><br />The end of the shift would be marked with the extraction of what was left in the soft serve machine into a big stainless steel bowl, and, what the family did not want was always a treat for our alsation dog, Sooty.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-11444250818504622152009-09-04T10:19:00.000-07:002009-09-04T10:20:10.782-07:00Unproductive NostalgiaWhile I was growing up in the house, there was a drawer in the kitchen that was filled with stuff, all sorts of articles that could not find their own place on the planet, besides a drawer full of similar lost and unused orphans.<br /><br />In there, medals, an eyeglass, an old pocket knife, a cigarette case, an ammeter, ronson lighters with no flints, emery boards, a map of Liverpool, an AA key or two, a magnifying glass, an assorted medley of Yale keys, a padlock without a key, chains and old broken watches, knobs and buttons, lost years and dreams, secret wishes and dashed hopes, smiles tears and heartache, love.<br /><br />I always found those medals, I think they were my dads, he was in the war you know, well, when I was my age they all were.<br /><br />In Palestine, my dad probably never thought that one day he would have a medal for driving his half track around the Middle East, a force of British Men far from home and their loved ones, shocked by the hardships and horrors of the preceding seven years of war and the ongoing bombings at hotels full of civilians.<br /><br />The King David Hotel. July 22nd, 1946.<br /><br />Those medals, I believe, meant nothing to my dad, he threw them in that drawer, after keeping them in another drawer, in our previous house in Liverpool, a long time after the Ministry sent him his wartime parting gifts along with an ill fiiting demob suit and a cardboard suitcase.<br /><br />Thanks.<br /><br />Medals in drawers through time.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-92223818526325909582009-09-03T23:36:00.001-07:002009-09-03T23:36:44.336-07:00Rain DanceThe weather tonight was perfect for our walk, it had been raining all day and it decided to stop, well almost, for our half hour walk. It was like being back in Britain, back to those miserable days when the light rain would eventually soak you to the skin, grey skies and the exotic scent of dampness, bronchitis and dysentry.<br /><br />The memories of youth with wet Crosville buses full of drenched smokers with steaming anoraks and parkas, the happy feeling of finally being in a mostly dry vehicle with that warming second hand smoke filtering through your nostrils and the thought of mum cooking liver and onions for tea and perhaps a slice of apple pie and a cuppa to wash it all down.<br /><br />The rain became such a part of my early life that I enjoy the stuff, I stroll through the car park while other people run, I love mornings when it has rained overnight, the feeling of life and the freshness of the air, a long way from those smoke filled Crosvilles.<br /><br />There is no real negative to rain, and a lot of very good memories can be had in those bygone rainy days.<br /><br />The early trips to Butlins when the weather wouldn't always cooperate and we'd all have to go indoors for plan B and maybe stuff matchboxes or watch the redcoats performing or presenting our fathers with their trousers rolled up for the knobbly knees competition.<br /><br />The afternoons spent sat in the back of the Vauxhall Victor estate with our I-Spy books or magnetic disguise kits, the rain pattering on the roof while thermos flasks of hot tea filled the car with steam and spoilt our view of the seaside.<br /><br />In my teens, I cycled with my brothers road club on a Sunday, and it probably rained, we'd cycle across the bridges of the Mersey and end up at Two Mills for a pint cup of tea and the best beans on toast on the planet. Then on to Colwyn bay and more rain, more tea, probably more beans and then a long cycle back. The exhausted, soaked David being helped along on the way home by his older brothers mates (seldom by his older brother who was always at the front of the pack).<br /><br />Happy times.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-2473298439113630732009-09-03T23:34:00.001-07:002009-09-03T23:34:48.192-07:00Match Box StuffingIt's been a while since I blogged about Butlins, the British holiday camp that my mum and dad took us to every one of our formative years, well, it seemed like it at the time and we didn't complain.<br /><br />How could a kid complain about endless days, massive swimming pools, different nosh and pirates.<br /><br />Yep, that pesky pirate that the redcoats finally captured at some point and made walk the plank (high dive board) and take his come-uppance in the pool. Hurrah!<br /><br />It must have been a break for mum and dad as well, most of the time me and my brother Rob were being baby sat by those same redcoats, lots of activities to tire the kids out during the day, games, treasure hunts (pirate stuff again), rambles and of course the all rides are free amusement park. in the evening there was the chalet patrol, a mobile babysitting service, while mum and dad enjoyed time in such exotic locations as the Gaiety Ballroom, the Continental or Blinkin' Owl bar.<br /><br />If you corner me, and get me started about it all, my eyes will glaze over talking about the fountains, late night donuts, a famous childrens entertainer called Mr Pastry and long soaks in the Olympic size pool with my multicolored rubber ring stuck underneath my armpits and fingers and toes that were pickled by water.<br /><br />There's a website called Butlins Memories and the old memories indeed come flooding back. I'd forgotten about Radio Butlins, the local propaganda station, the so called "social cycles" that had four wheels, Puffing Billy, the train that puttered around the streets delivering happy campers to glamorous granny competitions, afternoon variety performances and beautiful baby contests.<br /><br />How did I forget about match box cramming?, where the eager Butlins Beavers would rush off and find as many things in half an hour to cram into a matchbox, the winner being the one with the most unique items in theirs.<br /><br />It was a great time, it may all seem pretty naff to todays kids, with their internet, Nintendo, minivan dvd systems and big screen five point one everything. It certainly wasn't back then, it was magical and it was core family fun that will stay in my happy memory storage files until the hard drive gets busted.<br /><br />God bless you Billy Butlin.<br /><br />God Bless and thank you mum and dad.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-56381559764274813212009-09-03T12:40:00.000-07:002009-09-03T12:43:44.390-07:00Best Birthday EverOctober 13th, 1969.<br /><br />As an eleven year old boy with a great need, my mum and dad had played on my emotions in the weeks before my birthday. There seemed to be many “off camera” conversations relating to the facts “they could not get one anywhere” or that “even the wholesalers have no stock” and “nobody knows when they will get one in”.<br /><br />It seemed like it was the only thing I’d ever wanted, well, besides football boots with screw in studs that is, and here in the eleventh hour, with my parents, networked, ex-toy shop owners with connections, giving it their best shot, it was all falling apart.<br /><br />No it wasn’t.<br /><br />They were having me on, the rascals.<br /><br />The psychological process was complete, my mother and father had worked their mind games on me and I was primed for the event.<br /><br />October 14th, 1969.<br /><br />I came down the stairs and it was there.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHHW9fZI5_SbICdp7VM-JsNNhHlX_ZCZ9KQOIHDDYJxz59x9H9WZEfvYb6Jgu8zK3Q2J8xzgCiaJnZziII71ux_HSXxxEdsnr2ROKl61sHP2DlEXyibCHTEwjUqBwd5qc8trozUCiMV0/s1600-h/choppermk1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHHW9fZI5_SbICdp7VM-JsNNhHlX_ZCZ9KQOIHDDYJxz59x9H9WZEfvYb6Jgu8zK3Q2J8xzgCiaJnZziII71ux_HSXxxEdsnr2ROKl61sHP2DlEXyibCHTEwjUqBwd5qc8trozUCiMV0/s400/choppermk1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377328680562884866" /></a><br />The Raleigh Chopper. <br /><br />It was the best bike I ever had.<br /><br />It was cool, trendy and a joy to ride and show off with.<br /><br />Three speed stick shift gears, brilliant orange paint, big handlebars and a comfy seat. It was destined to be customized with mirrors and multicolored tassles and for a couple of years there it was the focus of my young life.<br /><br />Thanks Mum and Dad for the best birthday present ever.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-60145787590610593392009-09-01T21:55:00.000-07:002009-09-01T22:00:49.969-07:00The Sweet Spot<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h_ZkYU9_4SpDRC1YkEmm1RmmzLeAmah8E1j5h_t3iirgvmG9n-0KFuOLFOq553PB_aB08mK5lUbsL7p5RlbOG600ptGW_z1MjA3AJQoQLKtTUXZp7jg-QjFjzL2L7VJRx3P7QbDNYPM/s1600-h/potterylane3a_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h_ZkYU9_4SpDRC1YkEmm1RmmzLeAmah8E1j5h_t3iirgvmG9n-0KFuOLFOq553PB_aB08mK5lUbsL7p5RlbOG600ptGW_z1MjA3AJQoQLKtTUXZp7jg-QjFjzL2L7VJRx3P7QbDNYPM/s400/potterylane3a_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376730482518478754" /></a><br />It was back in 1971, I was thirteen and a bit, had a brand new orange Raleigh Chopper bike, complete with handlebar tassles and an air horn, had a best mate called Joe Haines and I was in love with a lovely young thing called Yvonne Blakemore. The summer was long and my older brother, Rob, was off with the Prescot road club, cycling time trials around Ormskirk and Kirkby track, cycling across the Mersey every Sunday, breakfasting at two mills, supping beer at the Liverpool arms near Conway Castle and still making it home for Sunday night tea and toast. <br /><br />My younger brother, Paul, affectionately nicknamed "totty limejuice" by mum (or was it Auntie Alda?) was tracking around the house, most of the time on his potty, dragging his stuffed dog around and making trouble, destroying my Dinky toys and Action men and generally being a regular little toddler. <br /><br />Mum was working up at the shop on Milton Avenue during the day, making crab apple wine and apple pies at night and enjoying being a mum again, the garden was huge and time consuming, the kids were home and life was good. <br /><br />Dad was being dad, had fingers in every pie available, taxi cabs, wedding cars and the famous ice cream van. It was the moment when his social life was changing, with Freddy and the Masons, selling tomatoes to the customers and of course, fresh, free range eggs from the chickens at the bottom of the estate. <br /><br />And grand-dad was also busy in that garden, planting carrots, potatoes, raspberries, building chicken pens, sheds, composters and generally making himself useful in his retirement. <br /><br />Even our dog, Sooty, the black alsation with the patch of white on his throat was there, his back legs were good, he was getting his "Shapes" every day and his "Pal" mixed with "Spillers" and he was lapping up whatever was left from Mister Whippy’s drip tray every night. <br /><br />Nobody realised at the time, but coincidently it was the best moment of all our lives.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-19469744716222244492009-09-01T21:43:00.000-07:002009-09-01T21:47:55.285-07:00The MagnetMy mum never gave away any of my Dinky toys, there was no need to as nobody would have wanted them anyway after us three boys had finished with them, I took a long look at the ravaged box of diecast a few years back when I was visiting my dad when he was sick and decided that it must have been my younger brother Paul that was the guilty party, after all, I always took good care of them, didn’t I? <br /><br />However, there was no trace of my Action Men. They were missing in action, absent without leave, taken by aliens, or the binmen... <br /><br />I'm repeating myself, but in the 1950s my dad, Arthur, was employed at the Meccano factory on Binns Road in Liverpool. His job of paint tester was basically quality control for the many enamel paints that were used on the Meccano construction kit parts, toy trains and Dinky cars. He’d spray paint onto glass and then monitor the drying time, consistancy and colour against existing charts. <br /><br />It was around this time that during lunch and tea breaks, he would sell shirts and ties to the many female employees. It was an inbuilt trait of my dad, to sell things, to make money from next to nothing, and to work hard. <br /><br />He used to cycle from Botanic Road in Liverpool 7 to Binns Road via Edge Lane on his old boneshaker, which would usually take 30 minutes or so, and was warned about his timekeeping, I also suspect that his bosses looked down on his barrow boy antics. After a bout of what he called dysentry, he was late one more time and was sacked. <br /><br />They did that back then. <br /><br />I think it was the best thing that ever happened to him and the family, in the short term the supply of Meccano and Bayko kits in the household dwindled, but my dad found his true calling and progressed from a paint testing barrow boy to a full fledged shop owner. In the early 1960s the "Magnet, Toys and Fancy Goods" shop opened at 179 Wavertree Road in Liverpool and if you could put a name to it, he probably sold it. <br /><br />I’ll try to list what the shop sold in a later blog, but, two of the most important toy lines that he started selling, much to the joy of his two sons, were, you guessed it, Meccano’s own Dinky toys and after a trip to a toy show in Bell Vue, Manchester, Palitoy’s Action Man. <br /><br />And so the first collection began. <br /><br />Without that first collection, how could there possibly have been a second? <br /><br />Thanks Mum, thanks Dad. <br /><br />xxDave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-22749487520862672782009-08-31T09:34:00.000-07:002009-08-31T09:36:06.857-07:00Chips and WaterLiving in Botanic Road, Liverpool 7 in the early sixties, my brother and I would make the journey to Picton Road baths, the nearest swimming pool. Mum would give us enough bus fair and entrance money, but we knew that if we walked there, or walked home a few stops, we could stop off at the chippy and grab sixpence worth of chips. I recall that a cup of hot bovril or hot chocolate was also affordable at the baths café. <br /><br />Simple days and simple pleasures, probably cost a couple of shillings (or two bob) for almost a day free of the kids. <br /><br />The baths had changing rooms either side of the actual pool, with swing doors and gaps under the bottom. The usual kit was a rolled up towel and a pair of swimming trunks, but often a valued set of full face goggles or flippers would be available, we could dive under the water and view the lower regions of some of the women, however, I think they always knew what we were up to! <br /><br />As kids we would spend hours in that water, well over the prune soak time, the subsequent showering and drying and dressing would be exhausting and the reward of a hot drink, a bag of crisps or a bag of chips would rejuvenate us all for the walk home, sometimes there were a few pennies left, these could be used to hop on a bus at a later stop or buy some blackjacks or fruit salad. They were eight for an old penny back then!Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-52608190125200058682009-08-31T09:22:00.000-07:002009-08-31T09:32:54.524-07:00Pwllheli<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aoRcxd_3BKoFhEfiOhyWfZ2dHscP2BHfy_rCpbiTfO_nAFnh42-ymOxlHg2pQYmFQET2BtbKhYXfP8cLEnBndggEHRCTpcncZQaBXRqhmrcNPyHwj6dFe5ztlQTn-D-cUF-7gRBFYaI/s1600-h/a0007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aoRcxd_3BKoFhEfiOhyWfZ2dHscP2BHfy_rCpbiTfO_nAFnh42-ymOxlHg2pQYmFQET2BtbKhYXfP8cLEnBndggEHRCTpcncZQaBXRqhmrcNPyHwj6dFe5ztlQTn-D-cUF-7gRBFYaI/s400/a0007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376164157856207122" /></a><br />There he is, top left is the Taxi driver, a few years before he was one that is, I would think this was proably around 1960. <br /><br />The Butlins adult scene included some responsibilities of sorts, Arthur volunteered or was coerced into various activities, here he is a member of Edinburgh House at the Pwllheli camp, mother is notably absent... <br /><br />At each end and centre there are the "redcoats" who looked after all of us at the Butlins camps, arranged activities and became minders for the kids during the day and kept the parents sanity intact at night.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-37800302983684868402009-08-31T08:51:00.000-07:002009-08-31T09:05:24.078-07:00ButlinsThe family holiday in the 1960s would be to one of the so called "Holiday Camps" from Mister Billy Butlin, a very special place for kids and somewhat of an oasis for parents.<br /><br />The Peter Pan railroad, Puffing Billy, huge water fountains and constant activities for the children, great adventure, games....and Pirates!!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXN7iIn_w5cdXEbg1WyT2oE_wi6mIGY-qDiOckK3DakM2ONRV177x7jFtlAYcPDeZqiYsFXjT-OBRkwl_uPaS3HBlYf7JbXD96qEqXeQwTbE_PRO_RSqgdVG7rrA_mgWNeyK6yhsLQE8/s1600-h/filey_night2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 383px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXN7iIn_w5cdXEbg1WyT2oE_wi6mIGY-qDiOckK3DakM2ONRV177x7jFtlAYcPDeZqiYsFXjT-OBRkwl_uPaS3HBlYf7JbXD96qEqXeQwTbE_PRO_RSqgdVG7rrA_mgWNeyK6yhsLQE8/s400/filey_night2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376157859100260354" /></a><br />The yearly trip would be remembered with some 8mm movies and a couple of badges, usually a Butlins Beaver membership card and badge and the yearly camp site pin. The above picture shows Filey camp at night, something that was magical about the place because it was always well lit.<br /><br />I can remember sitting under and to one side of a Butlins swimming pool, the area that ran along the length of the pool, but about five or six foot below the water. There were big glass windows that allowed you to see under the water, and of course the water always appeared to be sky blue. <br /><br />Sitting there, with mum, dad and Rob, mum would change us under our towels and I'd end up with dry pants and usually a matching shirt on, tired from what seemed like hours bobbing about in the water in my inflatable rubber ring. A glass of Milk or Tizer or some other wondrous substance in front of me and the prospect of a Mars bar, Milky Way or bag of Salt n'Shake crisps. <br /><br />It was an age of innocence, times when at night, the kids could be parked in chalets and looked after by the chalet patrol while mum and dad grabbed an hour of freedom down at the club.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-56349762645329660462009-08-31T07:58:00.000-07:002009-08-31T08:01:08.941-07:00SeptuagenarianI'm going to start cutting and pasting from a lost blog of mine "The Fool on the Hill" which since changing my email address, and subsequently retiring the old email, has become inaccessible.<br /><br /><br />Something I wrote for my dad when he was 70. <br /><br />Some say that A Mason is a Craftsman that Builds, <br />And in 1926 a great Craftsman was born, <br />Who, with time, built an Empire for himself, <br />This refers to, of course, the Septuagenarian, Arthur Weldon. <br />(Hey, sorry but this just isn’t going to rhyme!) <br /><br />Look at this man’s life, A tapestry, an Epic, <br />Starting from the time he took a wife, young Dorothy Edwards. <br />to this fine Day in September 1996. <br />He has truly made his mark. <br /><br />The Meccano Man who made wood shine, <br />Market Stall, “Barrow Boy” to Wavertree Road Fancy Goods Magnate, <br />And not forgetting Our favourite Ice Cream Man. <br />And of course Grand Chief Buffalo of the Ovaltinee’s. <br /><br />Huyton to Liverpool and almost Australia, <br />From Botanic Road, Pottery Lane and Kimnel Bay, <br />With thousands of miles as that “Taxi Guy”, <br />This man has driven to the moon and back. <br /><br />Vauxhall Victor, delivery Van, Wedding cars or Taxi, <br />All those times he took the time, to deliver all of us safely, <br />To Ainsdale or Butlins or just “down the M6 to Romford”, <br />Occasionally taking the Scenic Route, He always got us there. <br /><br />And along with Dot, his lifelong mate, like two swans in the pond of life, <br />They’ve seen and done more in their time, than most of us could wish for, <br />But one great wish from all of us, is that both of them will continue. <br />(And now that the house is insulated we can visit when its Cold...) <br /><br />A Great Big “Thank You Dad” from all of us, <br />We love you wherever we are, near or far, Earth or Star, <br />And lets cheer for whats gone and whatever will be, <br />Happy Birthday!! <br /><br /><br />September 1996.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-91500049353577447842009-08-31T07:34:00.000-07:002009-08-31T07:48:51.298-07:00The HairdresserMum and Dad moved to North Wales around 1978 and settled in to a coastal life, with an attempt at another shop, this time a little grocery store, however, as with a lot of small shopkeepers of that time they struggled against the introduction of the big supermarkets. In the case of Arthur and Dorothy, they had little chance of profit from the cash and carry "wholesalers" who were undercut by a newly built Asda superstore.<br /><br />Mum started cutting hair again, it was an ideal opportunity to get to know people in the new community. Just to show that you can't keep a good hairdresser down, Dorothy returned to her "roots", bought a moped with a carrier box and set off around Kinmel bay to quaff "doos". She was born in 1930 and was buzzing around Rhyl in 1982 (at the ripe old age of 52) to sort out blue rinses and split ends.<br /><br />Mum used to drink a lot of Malibu back then, but I don't think it's related to the following :<br /><br />It was exactly this time that, after an afternoon of cutting hair, she parked her moped in the front garden at the house (which was called Korner because it was on the corner) in Kinmel bay and uncontrollably dropped to her knees. Arthur found her passed out in the garden and rushed her over to Glan Clwyd hospital, St Asaph.<br /><br />I was informed by my boss at the time, Bob Morris of APPH, Speke that there was an urgent phone call. I rushed down to Wales to the Hospital where I found mum in bad shape, basically paralysed and unable to coherently speak. It was the nightmare situation and it was happening to my mum, it looked like she had a major stroke.<br /><br />There was some discussion and for some reason, the Doctors, who seemed clueless at that point, decided to do a spinal tap as they suspected viral meningitis (not normally done with supposed 'stroke' victims) - they did this and almost instantaneously Dorothy's power of speach returned, they rationalised that the spinal tap process actually released pressure on the brain. I tend to think that mum found the whole process so unbearable that she decided to not go through it again.<br /><br />In a miraculous fashion, A few days later she was shaken but fine. <br /><br />She never used the moped again...Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-92033141150351894122008-03-22T23:13:00.000-07:002008-03-22T23:14:05.169-07:00Distant BathsLate night memories… <br /><br />Unable to sleep, I am up at 4.30 am and typing while the kettle starts to hiss in the kitchen. <br /><br />I was soaking in the bath on Monday, off sick with some sort of flu, and I floated back to days when I was a very young boy, sharing a bath with my older brother, Rob. There’s a strange thing about memories because as time passes, things meld and become composite memories and sometimes when they’re analysed the component parts can be broken out. I had this memory of mum rinsing my hair, I was a fussy little boy and to calm me down she’d always lean my head back and pour the water over me head with a plastic jug, carefully avoiding splashing any in my eyes. This wasn’t good enough for me as I’d always be scared that some water would drip down, so I’d hold a flannel over my eyes. <br /><br />As I lay in the bath with the water drizzling down the overflow, I was transported back to a specific Sunday evening bath time, I was probably 13 years old and wallowing in an almost overflowing tub with “Top of the Pops” on the radio, there are two number one songs that stick in my mind, specifically listened to while my toes and fingers crinkled. “Without You” by Nillson and “American Pie” by Don Mclean. From those two songs I could find out the exact nights these memories relate to. <br /><br />Returning to the composite memories, I pictured me and Rob, in the bath and I was playing with the multicolored plastic plane, it had detachable floats. We also had a solid rubber ring (quoit?) that was a bath toy. Of course, it then occurred to me that this wasn’t the same bath tub, although the memory appeared to play out in the Pottery Lane tub, this wasn’t so. I was around 11 years old when we moved to Whiston and I don’t think the pair of us ever shared a bath there. <br /><br />So the bath was in Botanic Road, but I have no clear picture in my mind what that bathroom was like. The house was three stories tall and our bedroom was on the first floor, I suppose the bathroom was on the same floor. I have particular earlier memories of bathing in front of the fire, downstairs, in a tin tub I believe. Mum would put our pajamas in the cubby holes of the cast iron fireplace to warm, she’d have pans of water on the gas stove in the kitchen and would fill the “Creda” electric boiler. This was a wall mounted glass appliance that was to the left of the kitchen sink, it was filled using a rubber hose that connected to the tap and had it’s own chromed pipe and tap to empty it after it boiled. <br /><br />We’d actually both be sitting in this tin tub, facing each other and the last of the water would be poured in between us, often the backwash would almost “burn our willies” so to avoid this we’d cover our “teapots” with our hands. The water would be very hot to start and would quickly cool, then one at a time we’d be whisked out of the bath into a big towel and rubbed. With a swish of talc we’d be in our little warmed pajama’s and red dressing gowns (with the tassles) and be ready for some Ovaltine and toast. <br /><br />The pair of us would sometimes sing “We are siamese, if you please” the cat song from the Walt Disney movie Lady and the Tramp, both parading naked in front of the fire much to the delight of mum, I would have been around three years old, Rob six. <br /><br />So, back to the flannel, in the upstairs bathroom in Botanic road, mum would wash my hair, probably with baby shampoo but possibly with fairy liquid, then rinse my head carefully holding my head back at an angle. This would then signal the end of bathtime and the Rob and I would go through the motions of emptying out all the toys which had filled with water, the plug would then be pulled but I’d always want to stay in the bath until it was drained. Mum had a method where she’d say “You’ll go down the plughole!” which I partially believed, so I’d wait until the last few pints of water were gurgling out before having my panic and into the big towel, (most towels are big when you’re only three foot tall). <br /><br />All this in a bathroom I can’t remember!.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-36789112592861531972008-03-20T22:48:00.000-07:002008-03-20T22:56:33.713-07:00Derek HenninDerek Hennin, who was born on the 28th December 1931 in Prescot and died in January 1989, was an English professional footballer who played as a wing half. He was part of the Bolton Wanderers side that won the 1958 FA Cup Final against Manchester United.<br /><br />Hennin was a product of the St Helens Combination league, having left hometown club Prescot Cables for Bolton Wanderers in June 1949. He had to wait almost five years for his league debut against Tottenham Hotspur. He went on to make 164 league appearances for the club, with his first of his eight goals arriving against Blackpool in January 1957. <br /><br />The following season saw him help Bolton reach the FA Cup final, where he was selected for the 2–0 win over Manchester United.<br /><br />In February 1961 Hennin joined Chester, making his debut in a 2–1 derby win at Wrexham. He was installed as captain the following season but left the club at the end of the season after they again finished bottom of the The Football League. This marked the end of Hennin’s professional career, as he joined non-league side Wigan Athletic.<br /><br />Prescot cables by the way, was where my grandfather, Arthur Sandiland Weldon, worked as a splicer.Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7054142520461390755.post-81304955774214443822008-03-20T22:27:00.000-07:002008-11-06T21:35:32.089-08:00Maid of HonourThe lady who was a witness at my mum and dads wedding was Mary Wright, I'm assuming that she was a good friend of my mum, Dorothy, and I'm certain that she was a member of the extended Weldon family in Huyton Quarry.<br /><br />She was born in Tarbock, and later, still as a baby, the family moved to Huyton, which is when the family association began. The Wright family initially lived on Hall lane in a flat over a shop that was opposite our family Fish and Chip shop.<br /><br />In addition, when she was about two years old (around 1935) the family moved to St. Gabriels Avenue in Huyton, the same Avenue that my Grandparents, Arthur and Margaret, lived on. <br /><br />In 1954, a year or so after my mum and dad's wedding, Mary married a footballer called Derek Hennin.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYjHqEWD8zZppJcI63wEpRXRh3omVtH0z12XsCUEFUNicR-eg0QBWMRRtWVBOL-cDf2RkCQNWLWQpSVY6BfRBYApXwhE-DZvcGVMRACWs8BjnFYQBwXLu-Px3ZMdNZ4K73ChdEjJhrKd8/s1600-h/DerekHennin_MaryWright_a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYjHqEWD8zZppJcI63wEpRXRh3omVtH0z12XsCUEFUNicR-eg0QBWMRRtWVBOL-cDf2RkCQNWLWQpSVY6BfRBYApXwhE-DZvcGVMRACWs8BjnFYQBwXLu-Px3ZMdNZ4K73ChdEjJhrKd8/s320/DerekHennin_MaryWright_a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180066899586862690" /></a>Dave Weldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01357013129637467495noreply@blogger.com0