Wigan Album
Backyard studio
6 Comments
Photo: dk
Item #: 19425
This dog is not the dog that was previously described as having developed a deep canine love for a bit of tripe and cow heel from Sutcliffe's down the backs. In fact, Bimbo, - it was no doing of mine - was meant to be a cure for all the previous, failed adventures with mongrels and strays. 'It doesn't moult', mi Mam said. 'It's not going on the other end of the lead from me!' I'd replied. And there the matter rested.
It wasn't a bad pooch at first; in its puppy days. The little, sharp, snappy teeth made an early show of play but didn't cause a problem. But, I mean, look at it. It is in no way, shape or form a suitable dog for a boy to take over the Wutchy, or up the cut without people thinking: 'there goes one of my Aunt Mary Jane's lads'. It never happened.
One day, it grew up. It went from a semi-reasonable pup that you could play with in the house when no-one could see you to a miserable, stubborn, bad-tempered little bggr that would take the end of your finger off as soon as sniff at you. The dog took to the habit of wetting the carpet in the same corner and not bothering to cry at the backdoor. This didn’t go down at all well with mi Mam: ‘Train it,’ she said. I rubbed its nose in it, liberally; once. As games go, the dog didn’t take to this one. Despite keeping up the habit of stinking the carpet out it would never submit to inspecting the puddle with its other end again; never. We could easily spend twenty minutes in a cornered stand off with me bleeding and the dog growling and snatching. I tried to wait it out. We would still have been there today. Pepper and disinfectant was sprinkled about. The dog moved ablutions to another corner. Then, it started snapping at mi Mam for no reason. Ultimately, we had to give it away to someone because it just couldn’t be trusted. All told, |I was far happier wrestling a daft, tripe-covered, thrice-removed cousin of an Alsatian than dealing with this miniature demon. My nerve had gone and I stood half a chance of winning a snot and slaver battle.
It was a good place to sit though; the petty step. I had four paper jobs at fourteen: mornings, nights, pinks and Sundays. Because I had a bike, of a fashion, I got the Lower Ince bit chucked in my round which, as well as a few in the Grove, included a Guardian in Winifred Street. It seemed a long way to Winifred Street from a papershop halfway up Belle Green Lane. In summer, I’d wake Doreen in the shop when the papervan dropped so that I could get done early and get back. I used to sit on this step and brew a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and perch here reading the paper back to front and supping the sweat back in before school.
It’s funny how things turn out. I still covet those two quiet hours early of a morning with no-one else up and I asked Father Christmas for a puppy last week as well. I got a fountain pen. I love the pen but it doesn’t bark. It could have been worse. I could have got a poodle.
An enjoyable memory from the past.A good read.
dk, i love your story ,well not so much story its real life actually and i can so relaite to it we had a petty like that in yard,my hubby alan lived in coniston ave and he did papers,for little albert over rose bridge this would be 1964 and he had to come all way down ince green lane for one in violet st,he did mainly hr ince mornings evenings like you dk, he did dinner time out of school only for observer he even went up walks early morning,and me and him were courting of a fashion then and i told him the story of kitty bowt head,well it frightened him to death as she was supposed to haunt round there, and one day when going up there his tyre popped and flirted a stone on the fence and made a ping noise ,well he thought someone was shooting at him and the fear of kitty made him fly ,his bike clacketting all way back,ha ha untill he reolised he had a puncture.
We had one too, dk. My friend, (now sister-in-law),Mary, lived at the other end of the row from me, and her grandma, who she lived with, used to cut newspaper into neat squares which were hung tidily on a string on the back of the door. In ours, my Dad had hammered a nail the size of which would do justice to the Tower of London into the door, and the newspaper was just rammed onto the nail in one piece; however, it meant that I could sit and read all the scandalous stories in The News of The World, which puzzled me if I'm honest.....children were innocent for longer in those days.....and which were't really meant for my tender eyes; in Mary's toilet, you had to search through all the neat-and-tidy squares for the next juicy instalment! Andrex has a lot to answer for!
My Grandma lived at the top of our street,and she like everyone then used to save every piece of paper to hang in the outside lavatory..however if anyone is old enough to remember going for some pepper from the grocers and getting it in a little cone shaped piece of paper...well, my grandma of course would use that as well..one day my Grandad came in from the backyard and said "b***** h*** my a*** is on fire" can you guess what he'd done?.
I always remeber our outside toilet being called the cosy hole & reading room,becauce in summer you could sit there with the sun comming through hearing the birds singing enjoying your little self doing as my mother would say a good deed for your self, & then in winter when you had put parafin heaters in to stop the pipes from freezeing up we used to put a small round in under the bowl,& hang a lantern up so you could read the evening paper,good bye cosy hole.
I'll happily concur with you, GP, in the summer months, but it was grim int winter. We had an old tin lid in the corner on the floor and were allowed to light one eighth of a firelighter - cut up by mi Mam - so it didn't give you a lot of time; it certainly wouldn't run to a chapter. Had it not been for the syrup of figs we could've easily frozen to death.