30 Anecdotes of the Second World War Peter Starling War had been declared and an “air-raid Shelter” was dug at the bottom of the garden. The warning siren would sound and we would run for the shelter. For night time visits, Mum had made me a siren suit like Churchill’s out of an old eiderdown. It was warm and snuggly. The only problem living in the shelter, was that Mum, my brother John (6 years older than me) and me, had to listen to a running commentary from Dad about what was going on, giving a description of the planes overhead, the dropping of bombs and the horizon ablaze with flickering lights. On leaving one night after the ‘All Clear’ siren had sounded, I saw that the garden trees and some of the houses up the road were lit up with flickering and shimmering flames across the slates of the roofs. The enemy had dropped a whole series of phosphorous bombs. It was like fairyland! Our next-door neighbour decided he would do a good deed by walking down the back lane to where there was a Market Garden growing tomatoes, lettuce and flowers where another phosphorous bomb had landed. He spread earth over the area which was aglow with phosphorous. He came back and was chatting to Mum and Dad when his trousers burst into flame. He rushed around the garden, jumped into a rain butt, much to the amusement of both families. He was crafty though, because he went into house, found an old suit, splashed phosphorous over it, burnt holes in the jacket and trousers, then took it to the war damage people and claimed a new suit, which he was duly given. I can also remember the first of the V1’S (doodlebugs) coming to London. Dad was on Fire Watch duty and was away for the night. My 31 brother and I were getting ready for bed when we heard an aircraft fly overhead and it sounded very low. Suddenly, the engine cut out. Mum decided to investigate and crept out of the back door into the garden telling my brother and me to stay indoors. She had a shock when she turned around and found both of us behind her. Then we heard a swishing noise overhead, followed by very loud explosion about half a mile away. The flying bomb had hit a block of flats. We learnt the next day that there had been a fatality – Dr Edith Summerskill’s secretary was the victim. On another occasion, Mum was in hospital and Grandma was looking after Dad, John and me. Dad and John were sleeping in the middle room in twin beds and I was sleeping in the double bed with Grandma in the front bedroom. In the early hours of a Thursday morning, I woke up with a heavy weight on top of me. My grandma had previously woken up, felt that something was wrong and pulled the eiderdown over us. Then there was an explosion and the plaster and lathe ceiling fell on top of us. Dad rushed in, barefooted over the glass and rubble, grabbed me out of the bed and told Grandma to get out of bed now. She replied. “I am not getting out of bed until you close the curtains” to which Dad responded with, “There are no bl…y curtains and there are no bl…y windows!” That was the first time I heard Dad swear. Grandma got out of bed very quickly after that. Surprisingly, Dad did not cut his feet even though he walked over the broken glass. We then spent the rest of the night clearing the mess. The Bomb damage team arrived shortly afterwards to ensure the houses were safe, glass cleared away and windows boarded up. For a few quid in their pockets, the men would put a semi-opaque covering over the window instead of black asphalt roofing felt to give us more light. I did not go to school on that Thursday because we had to wait until late evening for the gasmen to check the street for any leaks and then we could have a bath. Friday morning came and I was sent to school. “Miss Sewell,” I said, “Dad said that he coudn't send anote explaining my absence from School yesterday as he could not find any clean paper, but you can have one on Monday.” My teacher looked at me and said “You have a good reason for not coming to school in the morning but you played truant in the afternoon. Hold out your hands.” She then proceeded to cane me – two whacks on each hand. I had great difficulty in writing that day. I 32 went home for dinner to my Aunt’s who lived next door and she put my meal on the table. I had difficulty in holding my knife and fork. “What is wrong with your hands? Show me! How have you done that?” commenting on the red wheals across the palms of my hand. I told her what happened. Time to go back to school. Auntie Muriel decided she would walk back with me as she said she had some shopping to do. On arrival at school, I joined my class but my aunt disappeared. About 20 minutes into the lesson, the deputy head teacher came in. “Hello Miss Sewell,” she said, “The Head wants to see you in his office. You had better take all your things with you as you maybe sometime!” She never returned.

The Password Game Suzi Rice

Windows: Please enter your new password User: cabbage

Windows: Sorry, the password must be more than eight characters User: boiled cabbage

Windows: Sorry, the password must contain 1 numerical character User: 1 boiled cabbage

Windows: Sorry, the password cannot have blank spaces User: 50BLOODYboiled cabbages

Windows: Sorry the password cannot use more than one upper case

character consecutively User: 50BloodyBoiledCabbages ShovedUpYoursIfYouDon’tGiveMe AccessNow!

Windows: Sorry, the password cannot contain punctuation User: ReallyPissedOff50BloodyBoiledCabbagesShovedUpYoursIf YouDontGiveMeAccessNow

Windows: Sorry, that password is already taken

33 Money? Now there’s a good idea! Richard Walker

Many of you may remember my enthusiasm for the work of the Israeli historian Yuval Harari, who cites the unique human attribute of imagination, as the reason we have become the predominant and most powerful species on earth. The idea of money was the product of some clever imaginative thinking, probably as long ago as 7000 years. It was preceded by the idea of barter, swapping something I have for something you want, but how do you assess any sort of equality of value? The idea then advanced to the idea – “You owe me a unit of something!” Aristotle made his contribution to the development of the idea by stating in the “Politics” – “every item has two uses – its original purpose and as an object to sell or barter.” Barter was replaced by money around 5000 years ago. It is thought that the word itself comes from the Roman Goddess “Moneta” who was a daughter of Juno, and whose name means “to remind”; remember what you owe me! Paper money was invented by the Chinese sometime in the 7th Century, and was known as “Flying Money”, presumably because it blew away in the wind if you didn’t keep a firm hold on it. The first European nation to develop paper money was Sweden in 1661. Today the mighty dollar is pre-eminent amongst the world’s currencies, and the first plates to print banknotes following the revolution were engraved by Paul Revere, he of the famous ride through Concord and Lexington summoning the militia to oppose the British at Charleston. It was not much of a success, and he later produced the dies to produce silver coinage. The American mint was established in 1793, but the dollar as we know it was first printed in 1862 during the Civil war, and bore the signature of Salmon Chase, the Financial Secretary in Lincoln’s Government. So how much are we talking about? The latest figures from American Federal reserve estimates that globally there is around $80.9 Trillion (a trillion is a thousand billion) in coins notes and the contents of savings accounts. That however is a drop in the ocean! To understand money we have to invent a new word – the Quadrillion. A Quadrillion dollars looks like this - $1,000,000,000,000,000. Most of the worlds money is tied up in something called derivatives; contracts based on an 34 underlying value of an asset; property, an index, interest rate, or commodity. This idea is not new; the Greek thinker Thales invested in a derivative based on the future value of olives, and made a profit when the price of olives went up. Aristotle again! The value of derivatives in the world is estimated to be $1.2 Quadrillion. Money is a commodity and is traded like any other asset, and this produces another aspect of money called debt (remember Moneta!). Average household debt in the UK is around £10,000, but it is the size of the national debt that makes the eyes water. It’s around £1.6 Trillion, which based on a population of 65 Million amounts to around £24,900 each (Daily Telegraph June 21st 2016). If you assume that the average U3A attendance is 100 members, their share of the national debt is around £2,490,000. The cost of servicing this debt is around £43 Billion every year. In the coming tax year I will contribute £302 to paying the interest. If you want to know your share, have a look at the tax summary on your tax return. At one time currency (money) was backed by something valuable, and no prizes for guessing it was gold. However that no longer applies. The Americans finally abandoned the gold standard under President Nixon in 1971. Since then the dollar is backed by “the full faith and credit of the United States Government.” It is, like all currencies “fiduciary” which simply means taken on trust. The National Debt of the USA currently stands in excess of $13.62 Trillion, which represents a lot of trust! Is there another product of human imagination that has had such far reaching consequences for us homo sapiens?

35

The Gift Rosalind Davies

From the start the ‘Gift’ was an embarrassment. Of course they were very grateful to them but it was so awkward, so large and such a funny colour. The artificial flowers were beautifully made, they actually seemed real and they would virtually last forever. Secretly that is mainly why she could not stand them. They were always there, never sprouting or fading or dropping their petals. Every time she looked they were exactly the same. And where could they put the thing? It would not fit on the hall table and it was so large that it cut off most of the light if placed on a windowsill. Nevertheless it must be displayed when they visited on Sunday. Perhaps if they changed the hall table for the bigger one that usually stayed in the shed? They just managed to wedge the larger table into the space in the hall, tho ugh Davie damaged his knuckles badly man oeuvering it through the door. The ‘Gift’ fítted easily on top and they were just admiring the effect (as much as they were able) when the table gave a sudden lurch, the wonky leg had failed, they had forgotten why it had been banished to the shed. The ‘Gift’ went sliding towards destruction. Ros rushed to its rescue but as she caught it in her arms she badly bruised her eyebrow and sprained a wrist. Dave managed a ‘temporary fíx’ on the leg and assured Ros that it would be O.K. so long as no extra weight was put on it. Cousin Henry was delighted when he arrived on the Sunday with Jenny. 36

‘How our little gift sets off your hall,’ he gushed, ‘but how did Ros get the black eye? I hope you have not been swiping her,’ he joked to Dave.’ I see that you have banged your knuckles.’ ‘Now then, let's forget any little upsets. I have brought an extra present to complete the celebration and to go with the beautiful meal I know that you will have cooked.’ From a large bag he drew out a magnum of champagne. ‘There I will place it here on the Hall table beside our other Gift and Jenny will take a photograph. Before Ros or Dave could stop him he plonked the large bottle of champagne down beside the ‘Gift’ and stood back to admire the effect. At first there was only a slight ‘click’ then the top of the table sloped downwards as the leg collapsed and ‘The Gift’ together with the champagne started their rush towards destruction. The champagne bottle shattered fírst, spraying champagne over Jenny who had been standing nearest. Cousin Henry ran forward to help her and was caught by the heavy, glass base of the gift as it hit the tiled floor and split into two lethal sharp edges. These sliced across the calf of his leg. Luckily Dave’s army training had given him a knowledge of First Aid and he was able to largely stem the flow of blood while Ros phoned the ambulance, urging them to attend as soon as possible. It was decided that Jenny had better go to the hospital also as she was soaked with champagne and spattered with slivers of glass. It was not until the ambulance had left for the hospital and they were sweeping up the broken glass that Ros remembered the lunch. Of course it was ruined, the chicken dry and wizened and all the veg mushy. They did manage to make a scratch meal to keep up their strength after all the work of clearing the hall. Relations with cousin Henry never really recovered from the disaster. What he seemed to resent more than anything else was the fact that they did not seem sufficiently distressed about the loss of ‘The Gift’. 37

Early One Morning Margaret Blake

I opened my eyes to a strange eerie light. The air was diffused with a mysterious green tinge. A moment later, my brain cleared. It was the morning light filtering through the thick canvas of our tent. I rolled over. There lay Big Sister, burrowed down into her sleeping bag, still fast asleep. I lay there for a few moments longer. Then ‘nature’ called. I slid quietly out of my sleeping bag and wriggled gently down to the tent door. Quietly, I unlaced the opening. (No zips or built in groundsheets in those days!) I pulled my wellies on over my black woolly tracksuit and stepped forth into a brand-new day. Then followed a brisk trek across the field to the distant earth closet. Long, dew-wet, grass brushed against my legs as I moved, releasing an aroma of freshness: a promise of good things to come. A few minutes later my seven-year old self re-emerged from the all- pervading stench of that rough wooden shack. I breathed deeply of the clean air and surveyed the scene before me. Our three tents clustered together like an early frontiers encampment: Mine, Parents, and Family Friends. All circled together in the midst of a large unkempt field. No- one stirred. Silence enfolded all. I walked across the grass to the rusty iron pump. Swinging hard on the handle, I managed to extract enough water in which to wash my hands. Now what to do? I felt too wide awake to go back and lie on my bed. No-one was around; no company to entertain me. A walk beckoned. I strolled across the field to the unmade lane which led towards the lake. That wide expanse of water was my destination. As I walked, I was aware of the avenue of trees on either side. High in their branches, birds twittered and fluttered. I saw no-one. Heard no-one. All was still. Even the very air held a sense of ‘otherness’ within it. The world was mine! A Garden of Eden. A new beginning. I walked on. In front of me a timber building now came into view: the lakeside restaurant. I paused awhile in front of its massive water tank, some eight feet high and twelve feet long. Behind the glass, a countless number of fish and freshwater eels wriggled and swam in a never-ending ballet. So entertaining! But I knew that a sad end

38 awaited them. They were there for the benefit of customers who would point to their chosen prey. A bare arm wielding a net would swiftly corner the victim, which would then be carried triumphantly to the kitchen and its eventual destination: a serving plate on one of the rustic tables. The Serpent had entered my Garden of Eden! With a little shudder, I left my disturbing thoughts behind with the fish. I turned the corner. There it was. A massive sheet of water stretching to the horizon, gentle ripples tickling its surface. My favourite lake: Dummer See. I wandered along the wooden jetty, past the row of sailing dinghies for hire. Now safely locked up, they awaited their release later in the day. I sat down, legs dangling over the edge, and peered into the murky depths searching for the darting movement of minnows. Then I gasped. A warm orange glow was lightening the horizon. Slowly. Majestically. The sun rose over the water, throwing pathways of golden glints before it. There was silence. There was beauty. And there was me! A privileged witness to the wonders of creation. I drank deeply, letting it soak deep inside me to the very core of my being. It seemed to fill my life and my world. How long I sat there, I do not know. Long enough to watch the dawn break fully. At last, though, my thoughts returned home. Time to go. I retraced my steps, still without seeing anyone. At the campsite, no-one had yet surfaced from their canvas cocoons. I lifted the flap of my tent. Big sister still slept. I perched on the end of my air bed, feet stuck out through the doorway, and waited. Then. A movement. The Parents’ tent door opened and out stepped my mother. She seemed surprised to see me already awake but otherwise greeted me in her usual fashion. Before long, everyone was up and about and life was full of bustle and normality. But deep inside me I cradled my wonderful secret: a golden kernel. Beauty had entered my soul and would live there for ever. 39 The Demise of the Plastic Bag Gill Roberts I was in Spain on a campsite and a Dutch lady was selling small baskets that were very attractive. The inside was cut from the bottom of a 5 litre water container and the outside had been crocheted with plastic. I looked at them and asked the lady how she did it, she would not explain how it was done. I thought hard about it and decided to try and see if I could do something like it. My first attempt was awful – I had knots everywhere. So start again! I finally found how to connect the cut strands of plastic together without knots. The picture shows some of my baskets. I progressed in leaps and bounds, from making baskets to peg bags, handbags, shoulder bags and shopping bags. I was addicted to crocheting plastic! I wanted to make more and more and I did. I even managed to cover nicely shaped bottles and jars. Then I was sent a brochure from the Royal Welsh Show stating what ideas were asked for in the competitions – any unusual objects in any media. Of course, I could do that, but what should I make? I decided on a shopping bag, the proportions were 14 inches long, 12 inches wide with a 6 inch gusset all the way around. The bags used were Sainsbury, orange and Marks & Spencer, green and white. It worked out well but what sort of handle? I had a pair of wooden handles that were just right and so I crocheted around them. A friend of mine was assisting at the show and kindly submitted my item for adjudication. I don’t know how many were in this particular section so I was apprehensive. But, wonder of wonders, I was given First Prize! I was extremely pleased, what an honour!

40

My shopping bag is still in use, 8 years later. But sorry to say I do not crochet with plastic anymore because the plastic of today is BIODEGRADEABLE, it would not last, just disintegrate.

Oxymoronic! An oxymoron is defined as a figure of speech in which contradictory terms appear in juxtaposition – the classic is ‘The same difference’.

The following oxymorons are common in Britain today:

Government Initiative Within budget Punctual train Democratic decision Financial transparency Customer service Windows spellcheck

Can you add to the list?

41

Fear of Failing an Examination

Phillip Dey

My greatest fear was that I would fail my final year B.Sc. Engineering examination. If I did, that would be the end of a future professional career for which I had been working so hard to achieve. My eldest brother, who had been financing his own education, had warned me that I should get only one chance to succeed in my goal. If I failed to pass the examination there would be no more money to try it for a second time. I was a student at the engineering college of the Benares Hindu University. Most students, including myself, lived in two hostels some quarter of a mile from the college. The year was 1943 and the final year examination was scheduled to be held in April, before the hot summer set in, when temperatures could rise to 50 de grees Celsius. I cannot remember all the details but in mid January that year, an epidemic of a mild form of chicken pox swept through the university campus, affecting all the colleges and the students’ hostels. The Chancellor decided to close the colleges and the hostels and vacate them. I went back to my family home at Allahabad, about 70 miles west of Benares. Whilst waiting for the chicken pox epidemic to end, I carried on preparing for the coming exam at home. Also I became very worried. Would this break in the studies affect my presentation at the exam? Could it lead to me not passing the exam? And so on…. A few days after coming home I woke up sweating in the middle of the night. I had been dreaming what I had feared most had happened. I had failed the final examination for the engineering degree and all my hope of an engineering career lay in ruins. The dream was so vivid it took several minutes to convince myself that I had not even sat at the examination!

42

Fortunately, the chicken pox epidemic came to an early end. After about a month since the start of the epidemic the students were allowed to return to their colleges. Examinations took place as per original schedule, i.e. about mid April. I obtained a first class degree in electrical and mechanical engineering and had a long and interesting career in my chosen profession. However, the dream of not passing the examination occurred 3 or 4 times a year for several years. Every time I woke up, I was full of sweat and still feeling that I had not passed the examination!

Benares Hindu University where Phillip did NOT fail and now, well into his nineties, he remains an enthusiastic contributor who brings the flavour of India to the Phoenix.

Thank you so much Phillip! Editor

43

The Wye from My Window

Past my window, the mighty Wye Brimfull with February flood Flows slowly by Silently surging seawards. No cataracts here, no waterfalls But on the shining surface, glassy swirls Hide deadly currents.

All at once a sudden gleam Then orange, yellow, red and green Flitting across the turgid stream Canoes come dancing Sweeping swiftly round the bend Predicting Winter at an end Foretelling Summer.

Rosalind Pulvertaft 44

Kingfisher, Ink and Watercolour, Virginia Rowbotham 45 For Your Own Safety In today’s risk averse and litigious culture ‘health and safety’ has become something of a sick joke whereby getting out of bed in the morning exposes one to extreme danger. Seriously however, it is better to survive than not, so this reminder has been put together from previous articles by Virginia Rowbotham on medical identification tags and by Helen Thomas on stroke symptoms. Whilst some of our members are retired nurses or doctors and many others are fully aware of sensible precautions, a reminder that, as medical risks generally increase with age, information from a bracelet or necklace SOS tag on medical conditions and medication can be a lifesaver. These items are readily available at small cost – or high cost if you want a gold one! There are also a number of personal alarm services available at the push of a button.

A sudden collapse could be a harmless faint or a stroke. If it is the latter, the faster the person is hospitalised, the greater the chances of survival or faster recovery. Everyone therefore, should remember that if the patient becomes conscious almost immediately ask them to -

SMILE TALK Can the patient answer a simple question? RAISE Raise both arms together TONGUE Does the tongue extend crookedly or to one side?

Any failure of any of the above is a 999 call – and of course it is 999 if the patient remains unconscious. Editor

46 Satire –The Ultimate (?) Weapon ‘Machiavelli’ From Aristophanes to Ian Hislop, satire has been a mainstay of humour and freedom of expression in Western culture . It may be literary, as with Swift or Private Eye, graphic as with Gilray and Rowlandson or oral – the latter largely stemming from radio and television or ‘stand up’ comedy. Most satire originates amongst the middle and lower orders of society and is aimed at those in charge – often seeming to be the only way of expressing opinion publicly. In Western society it has become very much a part of the media and the subjects of satire have learned to either take it in good spirits or otherwise appear foolish. Some even proudly collect original cartoons of themselves. Not all the world however, has a Western sense of humour and a gentle jibe can be a serious insult in some cases. Loss of 'face' or dignity or poking fun at a deeply held belief can be catastrophic.

Now that media and individual communication has gone global, events such as the

Charlie Hebdo tragedy highlight the fact that satire can be very dangerous indeed and already Western humour is slowly being gagged by fear of retribution.

However, I will finish with a little satire of my own.

Look very carefully – who is this?

47 Archaeology –Beware of the Bull! Elaine Starling As a child and as a young adult, I was interested in Archaeology. At school, I had a brilliant history teacher who stated that if you could, it was useful to see the places where history was made. So, at university I was given the opportunity to study archaeology and the first major field course I went on was 6 weeks in length at Hadrian’s Wall. As part of the course, we visited sites along and around the wall and I always remember this temple to Mithras in the middle of a field with a bull. This was significant because the cult of Mithras is associated with the slaying of a bull. I was reminded of this as s few weeks ago, accompanied by two members from the “Dore Valley Heritage Group”, some intrepid members of our Archaeology Group walked in the footsteps of Rowland Vaughan across meadows, some of which had not been ploughed for centuries. Rowland Vaughan introduced an irrigation system in the early 17th Century which was documented at the time and had been researched since, The weather was mixed but the place was magical. However, there was a notice, “Beware of The Bull”! Certainly in one field with a herd of cows and calves, there was this magnificent bull. We carefully avoided confrontation. Most of our meetings take place in the Studio. We do follow up the talks with visits. The postponed visit to Neath Abbey with Bill Zajac takes place on the 19th September. If you would like to come, please sign-up. The third visit to the Ashmolean in Oxford took place in July this year. We looked at John Piper’s painting, the “Mughal Art” and the Watlington Hoards, the latter shedding light on Alfred’s Britain. I give notice that there is a Heritage Day on the 15th October in the Theatre organised by the National Park which will include much of interest. Please put a note in your diary. 48

Architecture and Landscape The Shell Guide to Breconshire, 1960

Mervyn Bramley

In the Architecture and Landscape SIG, we aim for subjects that members can relate to and that promote interesting discussion. My talk on ‘The 1960 Shell Guide to Breconshire’ achieved that by looking at familiar places as portrayed to the visitor 56 years ago. Long before Rough Guides and Lonely Planet, there were the Shell Guides. Starting in the 1930s, these Guides were aimed at helping motorists with their newly acquired cars to discover the British countryside, previously accessible only by foot, bus and train. John Betjeman, editor of the Shell guides, wanted the reader to get a real sense of each place, to be informed about landscape, architecture and local history but not to be bogged down in text. The Breconshire section of the 1960 Mid Wales Shell Guide describes 82 locations and is illustrated by 39 black and white photos or prints of buildings or landscapes of interest. David Verey the architectural historian wrote it and John Piper who is famous for his paintings and prints took many of the photos. Judging from the bare trees and snow in many of the photos, this was a winter job! So what does the Guide tell us? Breconshire is seen as ‘...a Border county with mountain country and two civilized and diversified 49 vales formed by the Usk and the Wye’. Brecon ‘…grew up as a natural agricultural centre, though now rather less so, but it still preserves the atmosphere of a country town with its Cathedral and Georgian houses. It is not yet industrialised and considering it is by far the most attractive town in South Wales it is much to be hoped that industries will be kept out, and that it will become a tourist centre. A new pride could be fostered with the institution of the National Park (1957) which includes some of the most beautiful mountain country in the British Isles.’ True, but still not quite there yet! The introduction makes some timeless observations and singles out a few places of excellence. ‘Quite good roads straddle the mountains. Magnificent views can be had from the Epynt looking north into Radnorshire and the road over the Black Mountains from Hay to Capel-y-ffin is unforgettable. Another area of character is to be found around Builth.’ However, ‘…this has its own rather wilder charm. Builth itself is a busy but rather ugly little town. There is a flourishing state school where history is taught with a local slant.’ Could this have been that the Welsh sometimes beat the English!

50

The Guide is blunt at times. ‘For the church-crawler the county is on the whole disappointing owing to the total neglect into which the churches fell in the 18th century that resulted in very extensive Victorian restorations. There are notable exceptions; one of the best is the simple church at Partrishow with its unspoiled rood screen.’ However, being a motorist’s guide, the church was seen as ‘rather inaccessible’! In fact many of the photos of buildings are taken from a distance, some through trees, and our Group decided that Shell probably regarded parking on the road nearby and sightseeing through the car window as sufficient to have ‘been there, done that’. As regards domestic architecture, ‘the county has no great country houses, with the possible exception of Penpont and Treberfydd, comparable with the great mansions to be found in almost every county of England.’ The Guide notes that ‘…many lesser houses and farms are of special interest’ and waxes eloquent about Tretower Court which was being restored by the Ministry of Works. Our conclusion? Today’s car users and guidebooks have changed, but the appeal of our local landscape and architecture is constant.

Treberfydd 51

Bookshelf Jean Hosie

About this time last year Kate Bosset asked if I would take over the leadership of Bookshelf as she felt after ten years it was time for a change and somewhat daunted. I agreed to do so – knowing that I had a hard act to follow! My life experience and my voracious reading do not equip me to bring anything like her insights and wisdom to the task but I have always enjoyed reading widely and long to share my pleasure with other people, and so I thought, here goes! I decided I would follow both Kate and her predecessor’s constraints on the choice of books, selecting those published in English in the 21st. century and trying to avoid reading more than one of any author’s output. I did explain that I would not follow this too strictly, but make it the general rule. Having heard discussions on radio of new books about to be published and so unlikely to be familiar to Brecon U3A members, I decided to start with a splash and offered the group “Golden Hill” by Francis Spufford, a writer acclaimed in the world of Christian theology who too, had taken a plunge and written his first novel. Written in the style of the eighteenth century, it tells of a young Englishman who with a substantial sum of money, arrives in New York in the late 1740s – just after the Jacobite Rebellion and when America is still a British colony. It follows him through a series of adventures, (a la Fielding’s “Tom Jones”) with the denouement saved until the last couple of pages. The group was enthusiastic about the book, which is beautifully written and afforded us a good many comic moments, as well as romantic and dramatic adventures in the course of his couple of month’s sojourn in the New World. Later I was delighted to find the novel was listed for and won a number of literary prizes - and felt Brecon U3A got there first! 52

My second choice was a novel translated from the French, “The Elegance of the Hedgehog” by Muriel Barbery published three or four years ago, and which had made the best-seller lists. Whilst I do not take this as a sign that it is suitable for a reading group, there was almost unanimous pleasure in the experiences of a very ordinary woman, a concierge in a block of upmarket apartments in Paris, self-educated to a high degree, deeply interested in Philosophy, History and Literature and of a much superior intellect to that of any of the residents of the apartments - until a charming widowed Japanese gentleman takes over a flat and recognises her quality and worth. The translation was excellent, never losing sight of the very French style of writing which was entirely engaging and again with moments of humour and insight. In the Spring Term we read “The Children Act” by Ian MacEwan which opened up the world of a High Court Judge grappling with extremely difficult cases of Family Law whilst trying to save her marriage. The Group had read Ian MacEwan before but not in the last ten years and I felt justified in bringing this suggestion as it is different from anything else he has written and for once, had no psychopath orchestrating events. In contrast, I suggested “Mr. Loverman” by Bernardine Evaristo, about the Antiguan community in London in the postwar period up almost to the present time. It meant getting used to the West Indian speech rhythms and attitudes and particularly to the situation of homosexual men in that community. I found it a ‘laugh-out-loud’ book and the development of the main character was almost a stereo-type developed by Lennie Henry – caught in the style and fashions of the 1950s with his gas-guzzling Cadillac and penchant for elegant tailoring of that period and, at the same, time a shrewd business man working on the shop floor at the Ford factory in Dagenham. It certainly opened minds and I think informed us about some of the new Britons we rarely see in mid-Wales. For the summer term we have read “The Reader on the 6.27” by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent – another French book in a very fine translation. Again, a man working at a boring, low-paid job finding himself through becoming, literally, “a reader” (aloud) on the commuter train – not of a complete book but of random pages he has rescued from the book

53 pulping machine (‘The Thing’) where he works. A succinct tale, beautifully told with memorable characters and demonstrating a depth of humanity and compassion; not too long for a summer read. Our last book this year is “The Children Of Dynouth” by William Trevor, first published in 1976 but recently re- issued, suggested by Ted Jacob who will lead the discussion towards the end of the Summer term. Having asked the group to bring forward suggestions for titles this is the first we have had and I hope others will feel emboldened to follow suit. The consensus on the Best Read of the Year was “The Elegance of the Hedgehog” by Muriel Barbery, and secondly “Mr. Loverman” by Bernardine Evaristo. I am of course, looking for suggestions for the next year and would be grateful to receive titles at any time. The Booker shortlist threw up several to which we may resort!

54 Contemporary Creative Crafts Pat Woolford During the autumn term of 2016 the group members embarked on a “portrait of my ancestors” and, using our old family photographs and memorabilia, they each designed and produced an applicator wall hanging to hand down to their families. The project involved printing photographs onto fabric, embroidering, painting and embellishing with medals, buttons, postcards old letters and documents from the past. Shared stories evoke much laughter and some mixed memories, so tears were sometimes very near the surface. The results were most indicative and moving and are now being appreciated by sons, daughters and grandchildren. In spring 2017 we embraced papier mȃ ch́e which involved lots of PVA glue, paint, newspaper strips and numerous layers of varnish. We made trays, bowls and some attractive ornaments for children. We use the layering method which is slow but can give a sophisticated finish and the items were lively and colourful. Before each course I produce a piece of work to illustrate the method and give an idea of what can be achieved. This time I hoped to use a method new to me, using rabbit skin glue and home produced clay bole, as introduced in a specialist book on papier mȃ ch́e. I involved Corinne Thomas in the venture and after I’d heated up the glue in a double saucepan on the Raeburn we each set about making a large bowl. We achieved 14 layers of paper strips but when I made up the clay bole it was catastrophic. Each layer applied to the bowl – and there were to be 10 – pulled off the previous layer. I phoned the company who produced materials and was advised by a lovely sounding young man that the instructions in the book were not correct and the use of bole totally unsuitable for the project. 55

“Use emulsion”. So after a trip to Homebase and a pleasurable time choosing colours and having them mixed by another lovely young man we finally got the results that we wanted. If I had good keyboard skills and had time and patience I would definitely be sending hate mail to the editor of the book perhaps even death threats as it cost me many wasted hours and a fair bit of cash. Anyway it saved me from the embarrassment of having six group members all experiencing the same fury and frustration this is why it is always advisable to have “one that I made earlier” My sincere thanks to Corinne and Hugh Thomas for hosting the group in their home. Thanks to Hugh for his invaluable help with printing photographs onto fabric and slicing up pages and pages of the financial Times for papier mȃ ch́e.

56 Creative Writing

Elaine Starling

I was browsing in the Hay Festival Book Tent and picked up Volume 1 of Short Welsh Stories written by a variety of Welsh Authors in English. It is a significant that every one of these stories explores a different aspect of culture and experience. A cursory glance reveals a multitude of styles and experiences. That is what Creative writing is generally about. It is not prescriptive but encourages the writer to explore their experience, thoughts and values. The secret of successful writing is in the revisions. This applies as much to short stories as it is to novels and poetry. If you feel that you would like to explore writing in a safe and non- judgemental way, please join us. Much of the writing of our group, both past and present is replicated in this magazine.

Classical Literature Elaine Starling

This is an occasional group which meets in the Autumn Term, usually in November. Last year we looked at the Aeniad. What was interesting was that the discussion that ensued reminded members of the influence of this text and others on Art and Literature through the Ages. This year the group leader, David Morgan, is visiting us on the 9th and 16th November. The provisional topic is ‘Greek and Roman Drama’.