The Writer's Life: The Writer As An Observer of Life - A Hospital Visit

 

A writer rarely enters a room without quietly taking notes. Not with pen and paper; that would be too obvious, but with something far more instinctive. I find myself observing what is going on around me, and the potential for a story forms in my mind.

A writer notices the way a conversation develops or stalls, the glance that lingers too long, and the sigh that says more than words ever could. The looks on the faces of everyone in the room, friendly or grumpy, hostile even, every room has its own look and character.

I was in one such room last Friday, when I had to pay a visit to a local hospital. A hospital waiting room is not a place where most people would want to be. Uncertainty about our health takes most of us there, unless you were in support or there to assist someone.

The hospital was busy; they always are, but the first thing I had to do was find the waiting room. Report to Ward 34, I was told by my local surgery. I diligently wrote down the details, including a long abbreviation that must have been code for something. It was the only writing that I had done for a few days.

Ward 34? I began to wonder about all the other wards (33 of them), and then how many more there were after 34. The hospital was a big place. I arrived at the main reception, where I noticed someone, who looked like he might be a volunteer, advising others on where to go.

“Do you know where you need to go to?” He asked.

“Ward 36.” I replied, without realising that I had given the wrong number.

“I’ll take you to the lift. From there you go to the second floor and turn left, and the waiting room for Ward 36 is at the end of the corridor.”

The Writer's Life: When Illness Strikes - The Art and Fear of Being a Writer

 

I recently caught a winter cold, which turned into an infection,  or it came with it, just before Christmas. It was just a cold, or so I thought.

The common cold had taken a backseat in recent times, as COVID-19 got all the headlines. But it has been around a long time; there are about two hundred strains of it. It was just waiting its turn, or a new strain was around. Old or new, I got it from somewhere.

And it was a lingering cold.

A continuous cough is not just something that comes with COVID-19; mine from this simple cold lasted three weeks, and I’m still not over it. The cough pounds away at the rib cage — it’s like going ten rounds with Mike Tyson at his peak.

It all meant that I struggled to write. That’s the way it is when I’m ill. I might have good intentions, that having all that time,  I will write. In reality, that doesn’t happen. Being ill drains any desire to do anything, other than to get over it.

You eat a meal without tasting a bite. You read a message twice and still don’t absorb it. Watch a YouTube video, without taking it in. Somewhere along the way, you forget to write. The hours drag on.

And this is where writing lives.

To be a writer is to exist half a step removed from the world, constantly translating experience into language in a way that, hopefully, someone will like and understand. The writer is always watching, listening, and storing fragments away in the mind for future use. Even in moments of rest, or illness, thoughts are working, shaping sentences, rehearsing conversations, rewriting endings that never happened.

This is the art of it.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: A Time When Missing a Programme Could Mean Missing Out Forever

No repeats, no recording — and the pain of missing an episode.

In 1960s and 70s Britain, television was often an event, but it was also unforgiving and fleeting. If you weren’t at home when a programme was broadcast, you simply didn’t see it. There were no streaming services or catch-up options, and until video recorders arrived in the seventies, once a programme was broadcast, that was it. There wasn’t even a reliable repeat. Miss it, and it was gone.

Sometimes, it was gone forever.

In the early days of television, many programmes were not recorded. It was broadcast, often live, and no record remained, as there was no copy. There were many reasons for this, including cost, but at the time, the idea of building an archive for future reference and reuse was a low priority. A big event might be recorded, but most were not.

In the home, television schedules were rigid, and families planned around them. Evening routines might be changed to fit the broadcast times of favourite programmes. Meals were hurried or delayed. A raised voice from the living room would annouce, “It’s starting!” This sent everyone racing for a seat.

The television would be in the main room of the house, known as the living room, and most homes only had one ‘telly’. In the sixties, the television looked like a large wooden box with a small screen. Turn it on, and it could take several minutes to warm up and produce a picture, which was in black and white.

By the seventies, sleeker television sets, offering a bigger picture, arrived, as well as colour. But there was still one thing that you had to do, and that was to get up to turn the set on or off, change channels, or the volume. The remote control was still a few years away.

The TV Schedule

The Radio Times and TV Times weren’t just magazines; they were essential guides, unless you were happy to rely on a newspaper. There was something else about these two magazines, in that they only gave details of their own programmes. The BBC had the Radio Times, while commercial television had the TV Times. You had to buy both to get the complete picture of what was on for the week ahead.

My parents didn’t buy them, except at Christmas, so we relied on the local paper and memory. I suppose that it helped that there were only three television channels, BBC 1 and 2, and a commercial station that showed adverts, which, in the region that I lived, was ATV.

One Chance Only

Most programmes were shown once, and once only. Popular shows might be repeated months, sometimes years, later, but that was never guaranteed. As a child, if you missed an episode of your favourite programme because you were out, ill, or late home from school, you had to rely on friends to tell you what happened. Sometimes, they would make it up, especially football results.

Once you had missed a programme, there was no way to catch up. You either saw it, or you didn’t. This made television, and your favourite programmes, something to be remembered. Each episode carried weight. Cliffhangers mattered, because if you missed it, you might never find out how they were resolved.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: A Time When You Got Paid To Return Fizzy Pop Glass Bottles

Pop bottle returns and the excitement of reclaiming a few pennies.

Long before plastic bottles, ring-pull cans and multipack deals, fizzy drinks in Britain came in solid glass bottles. In the 1960s and 70s, every bottle of pop carried a small return deposit, usually a penny or two, which you could reclaim by returning the empty to the shop. For a young boy (or girl), those bottles were far too valuable to throw away.

It was a simple system, but one that shaped a childhood routine. It could make a difference to pocket money economics. There was also the thrill of walking into a shop clutching a bag of empties, which would soon turn into a pocketful of pennies.

A Local Shop For Local People

“Where did you get them from?” The shopkeeper might ask.

I would try not to look guilty. Sometimes, I would take them back for neighbours, having agreed that I could keep the pennies. Often, I would find them. To the shopkeeper it looked like we drank a lot of pop, little of which had been bought from him.

The shopkeeper would inspect the bottles, count them, and either hand over coins or deduct the amount from whatever you were buying. A big haul could go towards sweets, crisps, or, maybe, another bottle of pop to start the cycle all over again. A few bottles might buy a comic.

The local shop was central to this system. Many had wooden crates stacked by the door, out the back, or behind the counter. The shopkeeper knew exactly which bottles belonged to which company and which were acceptable for return. Some were stricter than others. A bottle from the “wrong” brand might be rejected with a shrug. Others took them all. It depended on the shop, the supplier, and if your parents were a regular customer.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Twelve: A Brief History of the Twelve Days of Christmas

 

For many, Christmas ends on 25 December, or the day after Boxing Day. The decorations come down, television schedules return to normal, and attention turns to the celebrations for the New Year.

Yet traditionally, Christmas is not a single day at all — it is a season. At the heart is the Twelve Days of Christmas, a period with its own history, symbolism and tradition.

In mediaeval and early modern Europe, this twelve-day period was a time for celebration, feasting, music and social gatherings. Work was often suspended, and each day held its own significance within the Christian calendar.

Twelfth Night: The Final Celebration

It begins on Christmas Day (25 December) and ends on Twelfth Night (5 January), which just happens to be today.

The beginning of the Twelve Days of Christmas can be misunderstood. It is often assumed they lead up to Christmas Day rather than beginning on it. It’s hard to imagine that there was a time when the celebrations of Christmas carried on into the new year.

In earlier centuries, however, Christmas Day was the start of the celebrations, not the finale. Decorations traditionally remained in place until Twelfth Night, after which it was considered unlucky to keep them up.

Twelfth Night, on 5 January, was historically one of the most important nights of the Christmas season. It marked the end of festivities and was often celebrated with parties, plays, music and the sharing of a special Twelfth Night cake. The cake sometimes contained a hidden bean or coin. Whoever found it would be crowned “King” or “Queen” of the festivities for the evening. The tradition of role reversal — servants becoming masters, rules being relaxed.

Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night takes its name from this tradition of misrule and celebration.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Eleven: New Year's Day - A Day Of Superstition.

 

It was New Year’s Day, sometime back in the late 1960s, and my school football shirt was dirty and needed cleaning. I had a big game coming up, and I only had one decent football shirt. In my schoolboy mind, it was a matter of urgency.

I asked my mother if she could put it in the washing, as I needed it as soon as possible. I expected that it would soon be washed and ready again.

“No, not today,” she replied.

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

It seemed to me to be a reasonable question, as she always seemed to be doing some washing. There was a never-ending supply of laundry that needed to be washed. Why not today, I wondered? 

“I’ll tell you why,” she replied. “It’s New Year’s Day, and you don’t do any laundry today, as it will bring bad luck.”

“What bad luck?” I wanted to know.

“If I do it today, it will bring bad luck. That’s what they say. Have you not heard of washing a loved one away? You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

Now, I didn't want that to happen, but surely washing my football shirt was not going to cause a death in the family?

The superstition that doing the laundry on New Year’s Day could result in the death of a family member is one that is widely held. Many seem to believe it, or at least observe it, and for some it is extended to not doing any house cleaning on New Year’s Day.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas — Day Ten: Christmas and the Sanity Clause

 

The Marx Brothers used to be on television over Christmas all the time when I was growing up. Their films, A Night at the Opera, A Day at the Races, Duck Soup, were just some of the best known. Years later the first two becoming names of Queen albums in the 1970s.

My favourite Marx Brother was Groucho, false mustache and funny walk. 

This is genius.

 Nothing more needs to be said.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

The Twelve Posts of Christmas — Day Nine: Did You Know… A Christmas Carol Is the Most Remade Movie of All Time?

 

The many faces of Ebenezer Scrooge and a timeless tale of redemption.

It’s that time of year. Christmas television in the UK would hardly feel complete without at least one version of A Christmas Carol appearing on our screens. For many, it has become as much a part of the festive season as mince pies, tinsel, and repeats of The Great Escape.

Every Christmas, A Christmas Carol will make an appearance.

Written by Charles Dickens in 1843, the story began life as a short novella. Set around Christmastime, it tells the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, an elderly and bitter miser whose only true love is money. Scrooge is rude, dismissive, and, regardless of whether it is Christmas, joyless. He treats everyone around him with contempt, especially those that he employs, his long-suffering clerk Bob Cratchit. 

Any stranger who dares to wish him a Merry Christmas is greeted with “bah humbug”, while those seeking charity donations are shown the door.

Over time, Scrooge has driven away friends and family alike, and he appears not to care. That is, until one Christmas Eve, when he is visited by three spirits: the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

Each ghost shows him different aspects of his life, his past, and who he once was, and the man he has become. The final vision is the most chilling of all. The spirit tells him that if he refuses to change, he will face a lonely death, unmourned. No one will miss him when he is gone, and many will cheer. Faced with the consequences of his past choices, he decides to change. The story, at its heart, is about redemption, compassion, and the possibility of change.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Eight: The Christmas Selection Boxes That Never Lasted Till Boxing Day

 

 

There are certain Christmas traditions that almost everyone who grew up in Britain during the 1960s, 70s or even 80s would experience. 

Let’s start with the once-a-year treat of turkey for Christmas dinner and turkey sandwiches for a week afterwards. Then there was watching the big film on Christmas Day, only ever seen at the cinema before. And once a year, the Radio Times double issue would be bought, and planning for Christmas viewing would begin.

Then there was something that every kid expected — at least one chocolate selection box that would never make it past Boxing Day. 

In many homes, it didn’t even survive Christmas afternoon.

Selection boxes were bright, shiny, and exciting. For adults, they were an easy gift. For children, they were a chocolate-filled treasure.

And for most of us, they were gone within hours.

Although, I have to say, the selection boxes did seem to be a lot bigger back then. Maybe being a child had something to do with that — after all, everything looks bigger when you are a kid. 

But shrinkflation hadn’t been thought of yet. 

The boxes were big and were full of the chocolates everyone loved. A Mars bar, Aero, Kit-Kat, the Crunchie, the Flake, a packet of Buttons, a tube of Smarties and Rolos, to name a few. You would get ten or twelve to a box, and they were all full size — none of this miniature-size, two-bites-and-they-are-gone nonsense.

You can only imagine the sugar high.

I was always convinced that I could pace myself. Every year I’d unwrap the selection boxes and list them from favourites to potential swaps. Inside, the sweets were laid out like jewels: the Flake you could never eat neatly, the Caramel bar that stuck your teeth together, and I was always disappointed if I got a Bounty, because they were difficult to trade. Adults seemed to like them, but they had nothing to swap.

And then there were the negotiations — somehow, I had to offload that Bounty.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Seven: When Snow Was Proper Snow

 

Will we have a White Christmas? Where I live, it looks like rain. 

There was a time when I remembered snow at Christmas.

There’s a saying you hear from a certain age group — “We had proper winters back then.” 

It’s usually said after a light dusting of snow causes the entire country to come to a standstill, or the occasional road hasn’t been gritted by the council de-icing trucks. And the telly weather forecaster on 24-hour news gets overexcited about “the possibility of flurries on higher ground”.

Whatever Happened To Snow?

But if you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that we didn’t need to be warned about flurries. Snow arrived with confidence, and it a white Christmas was expected, long before Bing Crosby had told us so. 

Christmas snow was a given. It didn’t tiptoe in overnight like it does now. It marched in, dumped itself in great heaps across every road, garden and playground, and hung around for weeks. It was nice until after a few days it turned to ice, and you spent a week or two looking like a candidate for Britain’s ice skating Winter Olympics team.

Of course, back then, we didn’t have the 24-hour weather news or apps sending red alerts to our phones on the hour. We had the local milkman. I think his name was Stan, whose arrival at the doorstep was the first sign of how serious things were. 

“Cold today, I’ve had to put my gloves on. You won’t need to put these in the fridge.” He said, as the snow fell, covering the top of his hat.

Which was good, because I can’t remember whether we had a fridge back in the 1960s. Many of those mod cons didn’t arrive for us until the 1970s onwards.

Proper Snow

For us, when it snowed, it changed the whole rhythm of life, especially if you were a kid. We wanted snow, as it meant building snowmen and snowball fighting. It was the usual romantic thinking: waking up to a world made soft and silent, other than the crunch of boots on fresh white powder and the breath clouds forming in front of your face.