The twelve posts of Christmas...day eight. There is no boxing on Boxing Day.

When I was a lad, I would wonder why Boxing Day was called Boxing Day? 

No one in my family had an answer to it. 

I came to what I thought was a logical conclusion at the time that it must be named after the sport of boxing. But I also wondered why it was that on Boxing Day there was actually no boxing on the television. Not only that, but I would just be laughed at if I asked what time the boxing was on.

Then one day at senior school, in England a Secondary Modern, I was in the library, but not because as a young teenager I had any great interest in books at that age. No, the librarian was a rather attractive German lady, who had short blond hair which may or may not have been natural. She also wore short dresses, the mini skirt being quite popular back then. 

The library was often quite busy when she was on duty. 

On this day, I plucked up the courage to ask her the Christmas question that had been on my mind. Well, it was on my mind every Christmastime. 

The conversation went something like this.

“Miss, can you tell me why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day?”

She gave a friendly smile, got up out of her chair and said, “follow me.”

How could I refuse?

The twelve posts of Christmas...day seven. When you get the writing itch, you have to scratch it.

So, it's Christmas Day, and I'm writing a blog post. 

It will just be a quick one today, because if you feel the urge to write, then you just have to. This happened to me last night, Christmas Eve, but not for the blog, for a story that I am in the process of writing, my first attempt at fiction. 

Here's what happened.

I fell asleep last night after an early evening carbohydrate rush took over. I woke up around ten and pretty soon I wasn't sleepy at all, I started to think about something that had been on my mind about the story that I am writing. That was the opening line and first few pages. I've read that it should be dramatic, set the scene for what's to come. I looked at the first page and the opening line of fiction books that I owned. They all had a fairly dramatic start. Authors on Twitter X comment on this occasionally, and I looked at what I had written so far. The start wasn't that dramatic, I would even say it was mundane, I needed something better.

The thought that suddenly came to me, late night Christmas Eve, was around a character that I had planned to introduce later in the story. It occurred to me that it would make a good opening to the story, so I got writing. Several hundred words later, I think it works. Time will tell.

I also discovered something else recently about my own writing. I watched an interview recently with the author Cheryl Strayed, who described herself as a binge writer. She is not one for writing every day, she seems to write better when the inspiration is there to do so, and I suppose when the ideas are ready to flow. Others require the commitment of writing every day. I think I am more of a binge writer than the latter, although I try to mix both. Science says that binge writing is bad for you, who would have thought?

Binge writing

All I know is that when it comes to having ideas, I work better when they just come to me. I struggle when I try to force things. 

It was the same when I was at school.

 

If I get the urge to write more today, like an itch, I just might struggle to resist the temptation to scratch it.

Merry Christmas!

 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: Day Six. Working For the Man.

My first job, other than doing errands and helping out at home for pocket money, was a paper round.

That's not me in the picture, but I remember the cold dark nights and early Sunday mornings, out in all weather delivering to even darker places.

Then during my final school year, I got a real job at a working men's club. Just like this one.

My job? I can't remember the job title, but it was working as a glass washer and general dogsbody in the main concert hall bar. I mostly worked weekends when it was really busy and a little rowdy at times. Furthermore, I must have been earning at least 70 new pence an hour.

At the end of each weekend shift, it gave me one of these.

Which meant I could do more than just look at things in my local toy shop.

In reality, I was never a big spender, but it did help me buy one of these.

The TV was black and white, had a very small screen, and had an indoor arial that was not always reliable. 

I think I bought it from Comet.

Thanks for reading!

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: Day Five. Marshmallow or Book?

 A while back, someone posted the image below on Twitter X. It speaks for itself.

We live in a world where you can buy a book, new, for a few pounds or less. Self-published are often offered for free. Buying a book could well be one of the cheapest forms of entertainment around at the moment. You can spend £5 to £10 on a magazine these days.

Then I came across this picture.

A marshmallow for £3.95? I'd rather buy a book, or maybe two for that. Then there is the bargain-basement, or charity shops, car boot sales, flea markets…

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: Day Four. Andy Pandy is Coming to Play.

Amazingly, this is my most viewed tweet on Twitter X in 2023 and for a brief period, a few weeks after posting, it was trending.  It has 7200 views. Go figure.

Andy Pandy. pic.twitter.com/xeZTauSFc6

— Lost In Words (@LostInWords2023) November 9, 2023

Andy Pandy (1950)

Each episode began:

Andy Pandy is coming to play, la, la-la, la, la-la,
Andy Pandy’s here today, la, la-la, la-la.

And ended:

Time to stop play, just for today,
Andy and Teddy must now go away.
Time to stop play, just for today
Andy is waving goodbye …, goodbye …, goodbye.

If you grew up in the 1950s or 1960s, this was most likely part of your childhood. Not that there was much to watch on television. Andy Pandy is coming to play. Don't have nightmares.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: Day Three. A Billion Kindle Unlimited Reads

Just to say right at the start of this Christmas post, the billion reads on Kindle Unlimited does not refer to my book. I wish! No, it refers to a tweet I came across on Twitter X yesterday (I'm still going to call it a tweet regardless of what Elon says). 

Here's the tweet.

That is over one billion reads, which is remarkable.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: Day Two. A Load of Rubbish

Back in the 1960s and 70s, every house in Britain had one (at least) of these. 

The tin rubbish bin. This was long before recycling and different bins collected on different dates. Everything went into this one bin, and it was small. It would be collected every week and occasionally would go missing. Sometimes there would be a heated argument between neighbours if they picked up your bin, which just happened to be newer or shinier. 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas: A Bit of Television Nostalgia.

Well, this will be ambitious. I came up with this idea, a blog variation on the twelve days of Christmas, ambitiously called the twelve posts of Christmas. Ambitious because so far I think the most number of posts that I have done in any month is five. I will have to see how it goes.

So, here's the first one.

The Christmas Radio Times seems to be a tradition for many households. It gets bought even if no one reads it. Here is a selection over the years.

1940. 

With Hitler planning his invasion of Britain, which thankfully never happened, The BBC offered its Christmas Radio Times for two old pence.

1957.

Seventeen years later, and the price had increased by a penny.

Wild by Cheryl Strayed: A Book Review

I finished reading Cheryl Strayed's book Wild a few weeks back and have been meaning to write about it, a review. As often happens, other things got in the way, so I thought it was about time that I did that review, because it is a good book. 

 

Wild is a memoir that describes her adventure as she hikes the Pacific Crest Trail. The book is subtitled From Lost to Found and starts off by giving us some of her background history. The author is very open about her own flaws, her failed marriage, drug use and relationship with her family, especially her parents. Her mother died young of cancer, a battle that did not last very long. Her mother's death had a big impact on her life. Strayed embarked on what becomes a journey of self discovery.

It has been a long time since I read a book that started with a prologue, and Wild has a very good one that achieves its objective, which is to get you to read on.  Strayed tells the story of when she loses one of her boots over a cliff edge. Now, barefoot walking is a thing, but out in the wilderness, in the middle of nowhere, with stones, sharp rocks, rugged terrain, you are left wondering, what is she going to do now? No spoilers, you will have to read the book!