Memories to
Savour, Blog 1 - July 2012
How I came to
write a Biography
In 2007, ‘retirement’ seemed the best word in the world and ‘retiring to
live in France’ had to be the most beautiful phrase ever spoken. I practiced it
in front of the mirror, enunciating each syllable as if I was Laurence Olivier
on some Shakespearian stage many years ago. At the time we had no worries about
retirement and scarcely a few with France. I had French ‘O’ level, we already
owned a house there, so it was good-bye drudgery, hello paradise.
Amazingly the ‘France’ bit has been successful. Some joker once told me
that the only problem with France was the French. What drivel! We could not
have asked for a nicer welcome and, language apart, the locals here are
certainly no different from our previous neighbours in East Lancashire.
Obviously there are those we find more attractive to be with than others, but
is that not just the norm?
Only once have we witnessed antagonism but that is easily explained
away. Café de France in Issigeac, the 2007 Rugby Union World Cup semi-final,
England v France. The magnificent left
boot of Jonny Wilkinson, England frenziedly withstanding ten minutes of French
pressure to win fourteen - nine. Too much ‘vin rouge’ on the part of the
Frenchman, an old guy from Denmark celebrating with us……… and crash!! Juergen
the Dane was smashed into the bar and the assailant’s mates dragged their man
away. Massive sympathy from the packed café, a free Armagnac from the
proprietress and we were quickly friends. Seven days later, we were all
together again watching the final against South Africa. No problems that time.
A far greater problem has been 'retirement' itself. You have a lot more time in which to spend your money, but (unless you want to dig deeply into your savings) you have less money to spend. We were extremely naive, assuming that because the exchange rate was 1.50€ to £1.00 in early 2007, it would always remain at that figure. We were in a complete state of shock when the rate plunged virtually to parity by the end of the first year. It has taken five long years to creep back towards the low one-twenties and our savings have been massively hit. Therefore we have had to look at ways to increase our income as well as rigorously controlling our expenditure.
The British who most prosper in the Dordogne are generally those where the man is either extremely 'handy' or has had a trade to fall back upon. With thousands of ex-pats over here who prefer to employ workmen who speak their language, they are on a winner. If you are an ex-teacher (French graduates apart) and have the DIY skills of a hedgehog, you have little chance of forging a new career. I have taught some English, we have had Saturday employment in the summer, changing over gites and cottages which are rented out to holiday makers and I have even laboured for friends. I think they paid me out of the goodness of their hearts because my lack of upper-body strength and pedestrian pace make me far from marketable in that field of work. We have earned ‘beer money’, but nothing like the amount we needed to change our life style.
It is only when you retire that you realise the bonus that work brings to your life. Money apart, it places you in challenging places. It offers you an opportunity to show your worth, to earn respect and gives you a raison d'etre to rise early, bringing a focus to the day. If you are not careful, retirement can decelerate your life and instill bad habits. Fifty years ago, the retiring sixty-five year old was probably ready to ‘put up’ the old feet, slow everything down and try to enjoy the last few years of life. Now the retiree may have another thirty years to look forward to, is probably both mentally and physically fit and still extremely capable of holding down employment. Thus in retirement, it is now so important to stay as active as possible, looking on life as a challenge and even being sufficiently proactive to create your own hurdles to leap over. My wife, who is regularly riddled with pain from a sciatic nerve which refuses to behave itself, has metaphorically said 'sod it' and taken up horse riding again. She has somehow taken ownership of an old gelding and even though she spends much of her time grooming and 'pooh picking', she loves it.
So with all of this floating round my brain, I pulled myself out of bed one April morning and shuffled into the bathroom. I 'pointed Percy at the porcelain' as they used to say in the sixties and the idea hit me. My mother is ninety-two and when she goes, she will take with her so much information about life over the last century. Not so much the great events; they have been well chronicled, but the everyday things of which the younger generations know nothing. Leaving school at fourteen, her first flirtatious flings with lads, the difficulty of living through a war, raising a family in those days of austerity, holidays on coaches, a first car, so many deaths around her; the story of her life in a nut shell. She is now too frail of course to remember all of the details but would it not be wonderful for those a little younger to have their biography written for them whilst their brains are still active? Not to be sold in shops but given to friends and families; stacked full of stories and photographs to be passed down through the generations.
Jumping into the shower, I realised that this was something I could do. I can write, in fact I have almost finished a novel, but it lacks the invention and twists of evil to really engage the modern reader. It will no doubt stay on my lap top forever, but you do not have to be a Robert Ludlum or a JK Rowling to write a biography. The story is already there. You just need the skills to put it into words and maybe tweak it a little bit here and there to make it interesting. I threw some clothes on (didn't want to shock her too much) and rushed back into the bedroom to reveal my new project.
An idea is one thing, putting it into practice is another. Good friends generally give good advice. Ian has published poetry and short-story books and he was a great help with the detail. Then there was Tania. An illustrator and book publisher, her confidence is infectious. Like Ian, she loves to listen and try to help. Best of all, she introduced me to her mother. If ever there was a person who had a story waiting to be told, it was Mandy. We spoke on the phone and I journeyed to the Welsh borders to meet her.
For six hours on a rainy Saturday afternoon, she talked about her life. I listened, copiously making notes and interjecting occasionally when she threatened to go off track. The Chelsea-Liverpool FA Cup Final was on the television in another room, but I was hooked. I felt like a Michael Parkinson from way back when, drawing out the interesting facets of her life; a little prompt here, a tiny probe there. Fortunately there was no 'Emu' to attack me so I escaped unscathed, her words spinning round in my head as I drove north; story lines changing with every bend of the road.
I emailed each chapter to her; she perused it and sent it back with the occasional alteration. Every few days I received another forgotten story and that had to be fitted into the appropriate place. I used relevant words from popular songs to introduce each new chapter. I wondered if it would seem ‘tacky’ but Mandy told me that she could not wait to see which song I had chosen next. She had lived for sixty-something years, half of which were spent in East Africa. This was a period that spanned colonialism and independence, so I was able to link in contemporary historical events which had a bearing on her life. Sometimes she skimmed over seemingly crucial aspects and so I probed some more, trying to give her biography that extra edge; a touch of darkness, a hint of intrigue. At times emails were being exchanged daily and I was working for up to eight hours a day on the book. Talk about a focus returning to my life......
Twenty three chapters and close to eighty thousand words on, ‘Mandy, Mambas and Marathons’ was complete (or so I thought). I could not believe how difficult it was to proof read. I believed my spelling and grammar to be bullet proof, but found the occasional random full stop instead of a comma, the speech marks which opened a quote but which had not been closed. I edited it, Mandy edited it and the publisher edited it, but we still continued to find the odd mistake. Someone said that even the greatest literature will have a flaw somewhere, it is almost impossible to spot every one.
Mandy and her family produced almost two hundred photographs, some black and white, some coloured, each one with a caption which helped to bring the story even more to life. Tania (my publisher) is so accomplished in all things ‘book production’ and she went for landscape as opposed to portrait design. When I first saw the finished article, my mouth fell open. It looked so appealing, the photos drawing you into the text. Mandy was so delighted and friends have since commented on its professional appearance.
From my point of view, it is one thing to make a product look good, but did it read ‘good’? I took it to an American university lecturer and author with eleven published books to her name. She took it away and then sent me a literary critique; the full works. She picked up on all the things I had tried to do. The pace, the sensitivity, the focus on the story of a lady whose life had been totally fascinating, yet so difficult for much of its entirety. She noted that as a personal historian, I had recorded whatever was asked of me and written it in a totally non-judgemental way. I was pleased to receive the compliments, but it was even nicer to discover that I could achieve again.
And so where do I go from here? Friends have told me to find further subjects and write their life stories, because it is something that I can do. That is the reason for the web site and my plunge into twenty-first century technology such as Twitter, Blogs and Facebook. I do believe that I can complete in less than three months, with the customer certainly receiving value for money. It can be hard or soft backed, portrait or landscape and can include pictures.... or not. It can be produced electronically to appear on Kindle and the cost is obviously dependent on the chosen option.
But whether it is a son or daughter buying it as a special present for a beloved parent or a parent wishing to give the book out as a present to children, grandchildren or friends, one thing is certain. It will be an enduring testament to their life up to the present day; the life of someone who is much loved, probably thinks they are quite ordinary but who holds so much fascinating information of a time which is quickly being forgotten. Now what was the name of the village in Holland where my father was wounded by that piece of German shrapnel in 1944? If only he was still alive........ then I would really be able to savour the memories.
Michael J
Hodkinson
Memories to
Savour, Blog 2 – August 2012
The London
Olympics – reflections from across the channel
Sports’ statistics are usually the forte of the anorak. Find someone who
can tell you the England starting line up in the 1990 (Gazza crying) World cup
semi final in Turin, someone who can tell you Freddie Flintoff’s highest test
score or Seb Coe’s 800 metres world record time which stood for years and they
will all probably have something in common. Some would describe them as ‘sad’,
others would say they are probably somewhere on the autistic spectrum, whilst
‘boring’ would be the descriptive word of choice for many. Surprisingly, this
hard-core group of statisticians was joined by millions and millions as July
moved into August this year.
Predictably, as a ‘boring saddo anorak’ (my wife’s description, not
mine), I looked forward with relish to the first day of competition. As with
all international competitions, the table(s) is so important and I was absorbed
with the battle of the two goliaths for the top slot and by the even more
intriguing competition for third place on the final medals chart. Would Team GB
be able to withstand the onslaught from Russia, the French, the Aussies and the
Germans? Standing in the local boulangerie on that first Saturday morning, a
man whom I doubted would have known his drop handlebars from his bicycle pump
casually told me that ‘Cav’ would bring home our first gold. Several days later
he was waiting for yet another baguette. “I told you that Brad would set the
ball rolling, didn’t I?” he said. I smiled, but refrained from making the
obvious comment.
I was however quite shocked by the amount of sporting information that
so many of the ex-pat community digested in the first few days of the games.
One day I said that I thought that ‘we’ had won ten golds. “It’s actually
eleven now because we have just picked one up at Eton Dorney this morning,”
responded a lady who I was certain knew ‘jack shit’ about any sport. Another
lady who would seem more at home at the Conservative Party Conference than the
Olympic Stadium approached me on the morning of the golden Saturday. “I know
you know these things,” she said anxiously, “so do you agree with me that
‘Jess’ will have to throw over fifty in the javelin to be certain of a gold,
even though she has a lead of one hundred and thirty two points at the moment?”
I could not believe what was happening, here was the anorak being out anoraked.
There is nothing like national success to put a spring in your step. A
normally quiet man whom I only knew as an amateur violinist stopped me in the
supermarché. Normally it would be a quick ‘bonjour’ but we rabbited away for
fifteen minutes, stood in front of the cold meat counter dressed in shorts and
T shirt. I was freezing by the time we had exhausted every highlight, grateful
for once to re-emerge into the blazing sun. We had an Olympic barbecue one
night, any excuse for a piss up, and Usain Bolt did not disappoint. Running on
the last leg of the sprint relay, he blasted away from the change-over leaving
Tyson Gay in his wake. The highlight for me of course was Mo Farrah. It brought
back so many memories of Kelly Holmes’ double in Athens eight years ago when I
knew without a shadow of doubt at the start of the race that the second gold
was coming to the United Kingdom. Before the games, my wife thought Farah was a
trouser manufacturer, producing something like chinos, but now she knows he is
an athlete, has a wife and a daughter and another one on the way. She knows he
came from Somalia as a child and is a wonderful advert for Britain’s
multi-cultural society. So much information courtesy of the tremendous coverage
by BBC television.
On yet another evening, we left the local night market extremely late
and popped into the Café de France for a last quickie; ‘un autre pour la route’
as we say. The television was on; France 2 was broadcasting highlights of the
J.O. (Jeux Olympiques/Olympic Games) as they are referred to over here. Jason
Kenny, sprint cyclist from Bolton, a young man epitomising northern grit was in
the centre of the Podium receiving his gold medal. Within seconds, ‘God Save
the Queen’ was being played and having more beer in our bodies than brain
cells, we sang away lustily. Not a great idea considering that the bar is the
unofficial headquarters of the local rugby club. They could have eaten us as an
aperitif to their suppers, but they entered into the spirit of the occasion,
bizarrely responding with a few choruses of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ before
embracing us warmly.
One of their number then engaged us in conversation for an hour or more
as glasses of beer arrived regularly from different parts of the bar. Like most
of his compatriots, Olivier could accept that France was lagging behind us in
the medal race, but they have still to come to terms with the result of the
Tour de France. “Ziss Wiggins has come from notting, he must be a ……” and at this
point he imitated a drug-user injecting himself in the forearm. We tried to
explain about Bradley’s formidable track record, but much is lost in the
translation and we left with the feeling that Britain will have to win ‘le
Tour’ on several more occasions before we can be recognised as a genuine
cycling nation.
Other French people have been much more phlegmatic about the event. “La
France dans le J.O?” I asked my local wine man, Jean-Marie by name. A quiet and
dignified man who can talk with some authority on many sports, he simply
shrugged his shoulders as only French people can. “Les Anglaises, too good for
us.” I tried to explain that it was not Angleterre but Grande Bretagne that
were competing in the games but the French struggle with the concept of four
nations within one nation……just like Alex Salmond does, come to think of it.
France was probably content with its seventh place on the final list and
I was caught out by the performance of South Korea who finished fifth. This was
a schoolboy error because they had finished fourth in 88 when they hosted the
games and finished ninth at Athens and seventh in Beijing. You may remember
that Paris was red hot favourite to win the right to stage the 2012 Olympic
Games. Back in 2005, many people said that it was the strong intervention of
Tony Blair and David Beckham on the day before the vote that swung the IOC
members in favour of London. Without these two, we may have been following
events from Paris and no doubt witnessing a much stronger performance from the
locals.
The golden moments which resulted in the singing of the La Marseillaise
came in the swimming pool early on and then at the end of the fortnight. Renaud
Lavillenie won a gold medal, thus putting Les Bleus back on the top of the pole
vaulting perch. Then on the final Sunday afternoon, we were quietly watching
the Community Shield between Chelsea and Manchester City in an ‘English pub’ in
Toulouse. The game was just beginning to be interesting because Ashley was once
more impersonating a spoilt little brat. Dummies were hurtling out of prams and
with Ivanovic already leaving for an early bath, the statistician in me was
wondering if any side had lost both its full backs in one final before.
Suddenly a horde of locals came in and the large screen was switched over to
the Sweden-France handball final. I had never watched a handball game before,
but this was so exciting and when France edged it 22-21, the bar erupted. ‘Les
immortals’ was the heading in L’Equipe the following morning and no doubt many
bottles of Ricard (Pernod in England) were consumed in their honour.
So the games came to an end and we were left to reflect on so many
successes. There appears to be no doubt that the British population was
electrified by the event and the good will factor was everywhere. No doubt
socio-economic graduates will argue over whether the ends (the joy, happiness
and sheer delight, the legacy, the boost to our economy) will justify the means
(possibly over £15billion of public money spent). I will leave it to the brain
boxes to debate, but was it not the brain boxes in education in the 70s and 80s
who argued that competitive sport had no place in the schools’ curriculum? Not
fair on the losers was the basis of the argument. No wonder we won one gold
medal at the Atlanta Games in 1996 and thank god the brain boxes were
subsequently ignored, otherwise Mo Farrah would have stopped just short of the
line to save his fellow competitors from humiliation. From deep in the heart of
south west France we had a ball watching everyone in the United Kingdom having
a ball and, if just for a short time, there was a myriad of sports
statisticians around to keep me in my place, then that is a memory for my wife
to savour.
For anyone who is interested………………
The England side in 1990 (in a highly unusual 5-2-3 formation) was
Peter Shilton; Paul Parker, Des Walker, Terry Butcher, Mark Wright, Stuart
Pearce; Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle; Peter Beardsley, David Platt, Gary
Lineker.
Flintoff’s highest test score was 167 v West Indies in 2004.
Coe’s time was 1.41.73 in Florence in 1981, a record which stood for
16 years.
Michael J Hodkinson
