While the passing of my mother signified the end of an era, news reached us today that Shell are looking to offload their conference centre and members club at The Lensbury in Teddington.
This facility has been like a second London home to me and my friends and family for nigh on 35 years and it would be the end of another era if it where to be passed over to a faceless hotel chain or fitness club. It is an interesting combination of facilities. There are conference rooms, hotel rooms, treatment rooms and dining rooms as well as a health club, spa and numerous children oriented spaces.
There are two rugby pitches, a dozen tennis courts, squash courts and sailing facilities as well as a serious weights room, a gym and two swimming pools. It does not fit easily into any organisations portfolio so one can see why Shell are looking to offload it.
We have used it as our base for rugby weekends ever since we sold Silver Crescent, and even before that we would always take the children whenever we could. It was 50p per day per child, and we are still only paying £20 a month for membership.
I await developments with interest but fear the worst for this little home from home we have made such good use of for all those years.
Monday 25 February 2019
Thursday 7 February 2019
Joan Weathers (1925-2019)
My mum died last night at the grand age of 93. She had been in hospital for three weeks, but we had seen a decline in her from just before Christmas and while the hospital was the right place for her treatment, I am sure, as an independent lady, she would have liked to be self sufficient to the end.
She was one of seven children, she had five sisters, Jackie, Betty, Peggy, Norah and Doreen, and a brother John who I never met. She is survived by Jackie. The strangest thing I can remember about them is the only Christmas present I ever got from Uncle John was a set of plastic golf clubs. It was in the early sixties and he clearly saw something in me which nobody else did!!
They were brought up in Wisbech in the Fenlands of Cambridgeshire, and she attended Wisbech High School. The acronym, RHS, was said to stand for 'wandering hands society'. I suspect my mum was not a member of that society as she left home at the age of 16 to join the Army. In her own words she was so naive, she did not even know where babies came from!!
This naivety did not last long apparently as the girl she was billeted with was 'a bit flighty'. It was the height of the second world war and she was posted to Folkstone as one of the girls who moved ships and planes across the map of Europe with roulette type sticks. She was regularly telling the story of how she and some friends were chased back to barracks by an armed sentry on the night of D-Day as all leave was cancelled but nobody had told them!!
I remember visiting the area in my teens when we went to the local pub the soldiers frequented and saw the names of the military signed on the ceiling.
At the end of the war she stayed in the Army and joined the Army Training Service (ATS) as a physical fitness instructor. It was at this time that she met my dad, Paul. She followed him around watching cricket and football and they eventually got married and I appeared on the scene.
We lived in Isleworth in West London in a house owned by my aunt, and my grandparents lived next door with my cousin Mike a few doors further up the road. We stayed there until 1959 when my dad took a new job with Shell Mex and BP and we moved down to Plymouth.
Mum was a typical housewife of the time, and while Dad travelled around the South West buying sites for new petrol stations, my mum was my taxi for school events, and sporting occassions. She would transport me and my mates in her pride and joy of an A40 called 'Noddy'. When I reached the age of 17, Noddy became my pride and joy as well and shared many a boys night out with the S Club and other school chums.
As I was now less demanding on my mum, she branched out, with a friend called Rosemary, into the unheard of area of child care. The pair of them convinced a local church to allow them to run a playgroup in the hall. Dad and I then spent several evenings touring Plymouth buying second hand bikes, slides, prams and swings to go in the hall. Dad built a sandpit and put clothes hooks on the wall, and the playgroup was opened. It cost 50p a session and was hugely popular with professional people, artisans, sportsmen and teachers alike. Mum and Rosemary knew the world, and were never short of Plymouth Argyle tickets as several players dropped their children off in the mornings.
She attended Home Park with dad regularly and it left a big hole in her life when he died prematurely in 1980 just after I had married and presented them with their grandson, Tim. She relocated briefly back to Wisbech but going there did not really work out, so she returned to Plymouth and eventually found a pleasant house a few hundred yards from our original family home.
Mum then turned to volunteer work, especially for the National Trust at Saltram House, she also worked as a ward clerk at the local Greenbank hospital a few days a week. She joined in with walking groups and played badminton regularly, but this combination soon took a toll on her knees and her mobility started to suffer. She lost her walking group days out as she was struggling to keep up, so she turned to her garden and it became her new pride and joy as Noddy Mk3 had been sold when she found it difficult to drive.
As calls for help became more frequent, and the distance between London or Liverpool and Plymouth became a problem, mum moved to an independent living apartment in Hoylake near where we live. She never really got the Liverpool bug though and although she developed a small nucleus of friends in the flats, the wider benefits of an extended family alluded her.
Nonetheless she was always interested in the progress made by the children in their careers and more recently she has been delighted by the way our oldest granddaughters, Ava and Sofia, have been bonding. She truly adored her grandson, Tim, and was always full of support for him when his life course took to choppy waters.
She was a very attractive woman, even to the end, and as a small reminder it is my intention to construct an Andy Warhol, Marilyn Munroe style pop art collage. I hope she would find that appropriate. We hope to scatter her ashes at the memorial garden in Plymouth where my dad was laid to rest all those years ago. They will then once more find happiness in each others company.
She was one of seven children, she had five sisters, Jackie, Betty, Peggy, Norah and Doreen, and a brother John who I never met. She is survived by Jackie. The strangest thing I can remember about them is the only Christmas present I ever got from Uncle John was a set of plastic golf clubs. It was in the early sixties and he clearly saw something in me which nobody else did!!
They were brought up in Wisbech in the Fenlands of Cambridgeshire, and she attended Wisbech High School. The acronym, RHS, was said to stand for 'wandering hands society'. I suspect my mum was not a member of that society as she left home at the age of 16 to join the Army. In her own words she was so naive, she did not even know where babies came from!!
This naivety did not last long apparently as the girl she was billeted with was 'a bit flighty'. It was the height of the second world war and she was posted to Folkstone as one of the girls who moved ships and planes across the map of Europe with roulette type sticks. She was regularly telling the story of how she and some friends were chased back to barracks by an armed sentry on the night of D-Day as all leave was cancelled but nobody had told them!!
I remember visiting the area in my teens when we went to the local pub the soldiers frequented and saw the names of the military signed on the ceiling.
At the end of the war she stayed in the Army and joined the Army Training Service (ATS) as a physical fitness instructor. It was at this time that she met my dad, Paul. She followed him around watching cricket and football and they eventually got married and I appeared on the scene.
We lived in Isleworth in West London in a house owned by my aunt, and my grandparents lived next door with my cousin Mike a few doors further up the road. We stayed there until 1959 when my dad took a new job with Shell Mex and BP and we moved down to Plymouth.
Mum was a typical housewife of the time, and while Dad travelled around the South West buying sites for new petrol stations, my mum was my taxi for school events, and sporting occassions. She would transport me and my mates in her pride and joy of an A40 called 'Noddy'. When I reached the age of 17, Noddy became my pride and joy as well and shared many a boys night out with the S Club and other school chums.
As I was now less demanding on my mum, she branched out, with a friend called Rosemary, into the unheard of area of child care. The pair of them convinced a local church to allow them to run a playgroup in the hall. Dad and I then spent several evenings touring Plymouth buying second hand bikes, slides, prams and swings to go in the hall. Dad built a sandpit and put clothes hooks on the wall, and the playgroup was opened. It cost 50p a session and was hugely popular with professional people, artisans, sportsmen and teachers alike. Mum and Rosemary knew the world, and were never short of Plymouth Argyle tickets as several players dropped their children off in the mornings.
She attended Home Park with dad regularly and it left a big hole in her life when he died prematurely in 1980 just after I had married and presented them with their grandson, Tim. She relocated briefly back to Wisbech but going there did not really work out, so she returned to Plymouth and eventually found a pleasant house a few hundred yards from our original family home.
Mum then turned to volunteer work, especially for the National Trust at Saltram House, she also worked as a ward clerk at the local Greenbank hospital a few days a week. She joined in with walking groups and played badminton regularly, but this combination soon took a toll on her knees and her mobility started to suffer. She lost her walking group days out as she was struggling to keep up, so she turned to her garden and it became her new pride and joy as Noddy Mk3 had been sold when she found it difficult to drive.
As calls for help became more frequent, and the distance between London or Liverpool and Plymouth became a problem, mum moved to an independent living apartment in Hoylake near where we live. She never really got the Liverpool bug though and although she developed a small nucleus of friends in the flats, the wider benefits of an extended family alluded her.
Nonetheless she was always interested in the progress made by the children in their careers and more recently she has been delighted by the way our oldest granddaughters, Ava and Sofia, have been bonding. She truly adored her grandson, Tim, and was always full of support for him when his life course took to choppy waters.
She was a very attractive woman, even to the end, and as a small reminder it is my intention to construct an Andy Warhol, Marilyn Munroe style pop art collage. I hope she would find that appropriate. We hope to scatter her ashes at the memorial garden in Plymouth where my dad was laid to rest all those years ago. They will then once more find happiness in each others company.
Monday 4 February 2019
Fields of Athenry
What a great weekend to be English. The S Club travelled to Dublin, expecting the worst and saw a pretty comprehensive victory against the side rates number 2 in the World.
Ireland never got the better of England on the pitch, but they were top drawer hosts before and after. We helped a chap out last year with a spare ticket and said he would try and help in Dublin if needbe. His name is George Mullen and his Company install the latest all weather pitches for the RFU amongst others. His son is in the Ireland squad and his wife is a cousin of farmer Pete.
So turn up at my Club said George. We did. It was the Hibernian Club on St Stephens Green. He plied us with Guinness and then guided us unexpectedly into the dining room for a full three course roast dinner with wine, all on him.
He then found out that we had two other friends without tickets, tracked down his son and returned with three for the game.
A true gent was George and hopeful we can reciprocate at Twickenham next year.
The Irish hospitality continued after the match as we were invited to a local pub near our hotel. We did bit of singing and then went into the public bar where there as a Country and Western duo on. At about midnight the guvnor with typical Irish humour said' lads this pub is like an aircraft, there is an exit there and an exit there, now feck off! An hour later we staggered out into the night.
Two smooth ferry crossings and a few hearty breakfasts made for an excellent weekend spoilt only by the bloody great fishes wriggling off the hook in Paris.
C'est la vie!
Ireland never got the better of England on the pitch, but they were top drawer hosts before and after. We helped a chap out last year with a spare ticket and said he would try and help in Dublin if needbe. His name is George Mullen and his Company install the latest all weather pitches for the RFU amongst others. His son is in the Ireland squad and his wife is a cousin of farmer Pete.
So turn up at my Club said George. We did. It was the Hibernian Club on St Stephens Green. He plied us with Guinness and then guided us unexpectedly into the dining room for a full three course roast dinner with wine, all on him.
He then found out that we had two other friends without tickets, tracked down his son and returned with three for the game.
A true gent was George and hopeful we can reciprocate at Twickenham next year.
The Irish hospitality continued after the match as we were invited to a local pub near our hotel. We did bit of singing and then went into the public bar where there as a Country and Western duo on. At about midnight the guvnor with typical Irish humour said' lads this pub is like an aircraft, there is an exit there and an exit there, now feck off! An hour later we staggered out into the night.
Two smooth ferry crossings and a few hearty breakfasts made for an excellent weekend spoilt only by the bloody great fishes wriggling off the hook in Paris.
C'est la vie!
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