Southend U3A

October 2024

Open Day

Oh, I do like...

There they were, just sitting. Just the 2 of them. Just sitting, admiring the view. A new place, so different from their normal view. A view of grey slate rooftops, chimneys and aerials. Interesting but not really cheerful, even on a bright sunny day. Their window was small, rarely really clean and with a dark brown frame. All the rooms in this bedsitter were small, all the windows small and dull. They were in the attic of an old Victorian tenement building, in a street, an area of similar buildings. Even on a Summers day if you were out, the small view of the sky was shadowed by the buildings. But there they were, just sitting. Together looking out at the view. So different, so amazing almost unbelievable. Not a building in sight, they were sitting in the dunes with the mountains visible in the distance, grey and blue with tinges of purple. In front of them the expanse of blue green water edges tipped with white as it encountered the golden sand. Each ripple coming in further then retreating leaving a darker patch of sand clearly defined. Seagulls’ cries heard as the birds flew overhead the swooped downwards, hunting for food.

Suddenly the peace and calm changes to sounds of happy children as a group of them appear, clad in shorts and t-shirts, carrying their shoes and back packs they rush across the smooth sand, leaving it dented by their footprints, to the edge of the water and start to paddle.

They are called back by the accompanying adults. Depositing the bags they delve in and without a pause they put their belongings around them. Then the struggle to change and soon back to the water. Shrieks of joy fill the air. Splashes of water are everywhere until all are wet. Many paddling, some braver ones swimming, always watched by the adults. Some have moved back up the beach and, with the help of buckets, spades and hands, buildings and pictures are formed.

There they were, still just sitting but watching, amused by the antics, joy, laughter of the youngsters. It brought back memories of when they were that age and free from commitments, free from jobs and bills.

Freedom, so important. But then we can have freedom with memories. We can gain freedom by making even small changes. We just have to make the first step.

There they were just sitting, still taking in what they could hear and see. The tide was coming in, the children were changing back to shorts and t-shirts, playing games on the beach together having fun.

There they were sitting with pad and pen making a list of things they needed to do, to organise. Yes, this was the place for them. This was the move they needed. The 2 flats they had looked at earlier were worth a second visit. Each were bigger then where they lived. Each were affordable. Each had bigger rooms with bigger windows. Each had a better view. It was just a case of which one to choose.

There they were sitting looking at each other and smiling, let’s go, she said.
Diane Silverston

A Strangers Tale

The stranger ran, fear thumping his heart and pumping his legs.

Whistles, shouts and heavy boots echoed behind him.

Why was I so stupid?

Strong, sweet gin and the lovely Nell enthralled by his wondrous tales of tall machines and strange landscapes.

Woken from a drunken slumber by truncheon-wielding policemen, he panicked. I need to reach my craft. I can’t be trapped here. He leapt through the window.

‘Can I ask you about the stranger?’ A young reporter asked Nell.

‘Who are you, and what’s it worth?’ she demanded.

‘Herbert George Wells,’ he smiled, dropping a shilling into her palm.
Lynn Gale

Needs Must

So much traffic.

I can’t be late, not today.

Impatient horn tooting added to angry voices.

‘What’s happening, driver?’

‘Demonstration ahead, Sir. We won’t be moving for a while.’

‘No! I must arrive on time.’

‘Perhaps you should walk?’

‘Walk! It’s too far.’ Sweat seeped slowly into my new suit.

A bandana-wearing rider zig-zagging through traffic stopped by the car.

‘How much for that scooter?’

‘It’s a rental, man.’ He laughed, taking the offered money.

‘How do you stop this thing?’

Crashing into a notice board, ‘Ban e-scooters. Meeting today’.

‘Maybe an inappropriate mode of transport, Councillor?’

My opposition smiled.
Lynn Gale

Seaside Conch

I found a conch shell on the sand.
The sand I brushed off with my hand.
As I cleaned the shiny shell
a genie from inside it fell
onto the beach beside me there.
All I could do was stand and stare.

The genie stretched and grinned at me.
‘What will my master ask of me?
I’ll give you wishes - one, two, three.
The price is that you set me free.’
I shook my head and asked myself,
‘What shall I ask for; fame or wealth?’

‘Don’t delay; the genie cried,
‘you’ve little time span to decide.’
I dithered and I dallied more.
I couldn’t say that I was sure
this was reality or not.
A vision? Dream? I knew not what!

Too late my view began to clear.
The genie was no longer here.
An angry voice came from the shell.
‘You fool, too late your wish to tell.’
The turning tide crept up the beach.
The shell had floated out of reach.

This is the only time I’ve shared
this sorry tale; my soul I’ve bared.
The moral is don’t hesitate
when handed riches on a plate.
And if you find that conch one day
- make three wishes right away!
Marie Day

Limericks

There was an old man on the pier
Who visited Southend every year.
He’d walk there and back.
Beside the train track.
At the end he needed a chair!

There was old woman from Leigh
Who loved to swim in the sea.
She bobbed up and down
When she visited the town.
Before she went home for her tea.

There was young man who loved rock.
He ate all the shop’s sticky stock.
With a munch and a crunch
He chewed through his lunch.
His teeth couldn’t cope with the shock!

A gluttonous lady called Flossy
Was known to be rude and quite bossy.
All the ice cream she takes
And all the milk shakes.
So, she’s banned from entering Rossi’s!
Marie Day

Safe Harbour

The waves crashed onto dampening sand.
Sounds like thunder filled the land.

The air full salty, freezing spray.
Above these waves my mind could stay.

But what is happening down below,
Deep in the oceans mighty flow?

In my imaginations spark
I let my thoughts push through the dark

And swirling depths of sea and waves,
To ocean pit and murky caves.

Creatures I might never see
Their lives played out so far from me.

A movement; SCUTTLE - what was it there?
A crab so small, alone and bare.

Stirring sand, he casts his gaze
For cover, safety. In the haze

He sees a perfect place to dwell
A tiny, curling, vacant shell.

Across shape-shifting, shale strewn floor
The crab moves forward, claw by claw,

Shifting quickly, creeping slow
One eye watching for a foe.

Grasping shell in pincers thin
A twist and turn to climb within.

Sheltered from the raging foam
A new, tight-fitting, brand-new home.

My thoughts away from waters draw;
My mind returns to waves and shore.

Stinging spray attacks my face,
Drags me back to unlit place.

Leaving pounding sea and surf
To speed towards my own safe hearth.

Settled like the crab; secure.
Light of my own home is sure.

Tossing waves and thundering roar
Are left behind. They are no more.

Against the darkness and furore
The crab and I have sealed the door.
Marie Day

I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside...

Southend on Sea has always made memories for my family...

The SOs and 60s when I was a child saw my family visiting regularly. My Mum and my Aunt Mary brought my cousin Michael and myself to the beach. We’d dig deeper and deeper until . . . we struck oil! I know it happened but when I look at the beach now, I wonder where the oil went?

My grandparents holidayed here every year except for the war years. I remember one year meeting them from their coach. Apart from a suitcase my grandfather had under his arm a huge, China Cocker Spaniel he’d won on the pier. That China dog occupied a space beneath Mums dressing table for may a yearlong after my grandparents were gone.

My Mum’s brother, my Uncle Bill, had a car. Not many family cars in those days. We’d visit Southend on Saturday afternoons and evenings to visit Peter Pans Playground and the pier. On Monday at school in those days we wrote news of what we’d done at the weekend. When Mum and Dad read my book at parents evening, I had written that I’d been on a boat when we visited Southend. Mum came home and told me I should always tell the truth in my news book. My 5-year-old self insisted that I had. The next time we drove down the road along the sea front they realised what I meant. All along the side of the pier were bright lights and the bulbs were in the shape of a boat.

Six decades later I still like to be beside the seaside even if my arthritic legs find the strolls along the pier more limited and more of a problem!
Marie Day

A Morning Walk

My walk to work, so recently a tedious trek in rain, snow and other weatherly delights thrown at me.

Now the walk takes on a different aspect, springtime, refreshing.

Strolling along, trying to avoid the occasional weed struggling for life in the cracks of slab and pavement, I glance at the houses each one offering a different façade for humble appraisal for those interested.

An approaching garden, visually attractive from a distance, offers a vivid display of peonies, early roses and wallflowers. A charming vista but spoilt by trailing lines of rampant bindweed choking and squeezing the sap from their struggling hosts.

I’m tempted to help, leaning over to snap and pull but a blackbird clutching his favourite arial greets me with his liquid call.

Yes, my friend, I know you well, many a morning I enjoy your song.

Sing sweet bird but beware the greedy cat for he would appreciate your company too.

There is a pleasantry that I do look forward to, that of a lavender bush which sits astride the garden wall. As usual, I give way to temptation and crush a few of its spikey flowers in my hand as I pass, the delicious peppery fragrance fills my nose and makes me sneeze, perhaps the revenge of a now nearly bald lavender bush.

Looking upwards to catch sight of a newly formed vapour trail, its stark formation in perfect contrast against the beautiful spitfire blue of an early morning sky.

As I watch, mischievous invisible winds gambolling, swirling upon high, pluck and tear at the at the snowy feathery trails, gradually they disperse until the next occasion man and his puny machines sport with the forces of nature.
Malcolm Fyfe

The gift from the Garden

On my left, small piece of wood from my garden, lies unformed and earthy. I pick it up, my hands earthy from my efforts to roll back nature’s persistent efforts to alter my supposedly tidy garden.

A few grains of soil clinging like ants to the wood. I place it on the bench wondering if I could salvage something from this fragment of a once beautiful tree, its best days have gone, the rough bark once giving grip for a scampering squirrel, stripped from the pale wood.

I start, pick up a knife and sit on stool, an idea forming; yes, I could do that, I think. So, I work my steadily when my eye catches sight of my chicken clock, its, beak rising and lowering in a rhythm. The yellow eye of the painted bird watching me, remind me that two hours have drifted by in acute concentration.

Can I finish it before her return, a need to progress but with hurried care, no mistakes. I must put it down, take a break, my anxious hands stiff with effort.

As I stir my tea, I’m conscious of it still unfinished and so, willingly we resume our tussle.

Ah, now it breathes, taking a form that will fit around her wrist.

Give a chance, wood does that, taking on a life of its own as you work it.

Tomorrow I will polish and present it. I care that she likes it.

I have given of my best to both my love and the tree.
Malcolm Fyfe

Sunrise

When is the best time to visit the seafront at Southend? Everyone asked would have a different view, would give you a different answer.

Myself? There is no doubt in my mind, no doubt whatsoever - it is in the summertime - at sunrise.

To a policeman working in Southend, Friday and Saturday nights could be pure hell and it was not until the wee small hours when the - for the purposes of acceptability let us call them ‘troublemakers’- had left and gone home.

It was only then that I was free to park the patrol car up along Western Esplanade facing south, the sun slowly rising, spreading its glow across a millpond sea and watching as the seagulls swooped on anything vaguely edible.

Compared with the earlier part of the shift, these moments were truly precious. It was time to make a few comments in my pocket book to round off the day.

One morning I heard a voice through the open window. ‘Good morning, Officer.’

I snorted myself awake and saw that the last word on my pocket book page ended with a long squiggly line.

It took me a few moments to recognise the world worn face peering in - it was Tommy, one of our habitual drunks - only that morning he was completely and utterly sober. We had an easy and interesting conversation before he finally bid me a good morning and left me to reflect on the tragic life of an intelligent man.

I can still remember that morning after thirty - or maybe forty years - and I can still remember the sunlight gleaming on the smooth surface of the sea.
Pete Norman

There’s a boat in our river, dear Lisa, dear Lisa
There’s a boat in our river, dear Lisa, a boat

That’s normal for a river, dear Henry, dear Henry
That’s normal, dear Henry, dear Henry, its normal

But it’s sunk on a sandbank, dear Lisa, dear Lisa
It’s sunk on a sandbank, dear Lisa, its sunk

Then ignore it, dear Henry, dear Henry
Then ignore it, dear Henry, dear Henry, ignore it

But its full up of bombs, dear Lisa, dear Lisa,
But its full up of bombs, dear Lisa, bombs

Then run, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then run, you silly bugger, run like hell!
Pete Norman