Even More help needed Page 2

Ok I hadn't really considered that but as the two of you can it I will take it as read that it needs to go, ta for the advice.

It's the kind of thing you might put in the acknowledgments at the end, though.
I'll shut up now.
😊

Please don't, as I said at the moment its almost impossible for me to find a genuine critic as all they see is someone who is on Chemo and as such has to be encouraged even if its a load of tripe. So this resource is vital at the moment and I am really grateful for any feedback that isn't just sympathy based .

If anyone has the time here's what it looks like after heeding good advice.

Chapter One
It started early on a Sunday morning, which was unusual given that Sundays in our house were seen as being sacred. This was in the sense that no one got up before noon, apart from my mother that is. She was always up with the lark, chopping, mopping, washing, sweeping and God knows what else? Even more so today as she was throwing a surprise party for my nan and grandads 40th Wedding Anniversary.

At this point my dad lay in bed with a Saturday night hangover. But when up and about, he wasn't shy of telling anyone who'd listen that he worked a five and a half day a week. Meanwhile my mother quietly worked the full seven. However, the discrepancy in shift patterns wasn't totally overlooked, as it was the first thing to come up when they argued.

My dad had been against the idea from the get-go, given that he wasn't keen on spending money on a party for my nan & grandad as he wasn't their biggest fan, nor they his. So, when I overheard him warn my mum that her own 40th party was only four months after her parent's 40th anniversary it would get tongues wagging. I actually thought my dad had finally got one past my mum, as she always worried about her 'Good Name'.

But then all of a sudden, my mum mustered up, and the game was over. Her hands shot to her hips, as she accused my dad of trying to find excuses because he was skint flint. So, the party was even more on, if that was possible. As a consequence of mum's clampdown, I had to get my haircut and the only barbers open was Crap Colins. He only had two cuts, so it was either have a skinhead or a Kevin Keegan. Like a fool I tried to get him meet me in the middle and was left looking like a Mormon!

When not throwing parties there had been a time when we got up early anyway and just lazed around reading the papers. That was until my dad got into argument with the paper boy over a wet copy of the News of the World. After that we had to go and get the papers ourselves. This created yet another reason to stay in bed, as you could easily be sent to the newsagents if you were stupid enough to be caught 'Up and about'.

Now while I was obviously in no race to get up and be dragged into my mum's party stress. I have to be honest and say that since the heatwave started even lying in bed was losing its appeal. Special thanks for this had to go to the crappy Brentford Nylon sheets my mum got off the Tally man. They stuck to your sweat so bad, that it was like being mummified on the cheap, even more so given that she had to pay for them weekly.

Plus, it wasn't going fully dark either and as my bedroom faced East, the sun hit me in the face the minute it rose. And because we lived in a pre- war council house, the only air conditioning available to us was to open the windows. Which in our house it wasn't as easy as it sounded. The reason being that when my dad did have time off, he hated doing jobs, painting in particular.

As such his approach was to slap it on as quick as possible then get back to laying on the couch watching Grandstand. Then after a nap he'd jump and start peeling the Sunday spuds on the couch with newspaper down. So that by the time my mum got back from the shops, he looked like he'd been mad busy all day.

The upshot of my dad's corner cutting was that when it came to opening the windows, to find what little air there was. It turned out that every latch and handle in the house had been painted over and was stuck fast. And it was only after a direct threat from my mother in the shape of "Those windows had better be open when I get back from the shops!" that my dad had finally got his toolbox out.

I say toolbox in the loosest sense as it was an old biscuit tin containing a hammer, a large yellow handled screwdriver, a hacksaw with no blade and several loose screws along with a padlock with no key. So, after using the hammer as intended and the screwdriver as a chisel, my dad had eventually managed to get the windows open giving us temporary respite from the searing heat. I say temporary because if there was one thing our neighbourhood was rife with it was rumours and urban myths.

For instance, most of the girls in our road had seen the Yorkshire Ripper at least twice. My younger sister Jeanna and her best mate Eva had even claimed to have been chased by him causing them to be late for school. That one was a tale too far for my mother who said "I'll give you the Yorkshire Ripper" whatever that meant? Then sent her to bed early with the news that she would also be deducting 25p off her pocket money.

But to be fair the adults are just as bad if not worse? For a start at least a dozen locals claimed to have done a good deed for Irish person, only to be repaid by being given advice to stay away from certain places that were going to be bombed. And as a top hat on the level of ignorance on display, someone who no one was sure of who it really was? Had been spiked at a party and had woken up with a kidney missing!

This being the case the conditions were ideal for the advent of 'The Paw' a rumour that go so much traction that despite the intense heat, windows were being tightly shut the minute dusk came. It had even made the Liverpool Echo who in turn had dispatched a cub reporter only to discover that none of the alleged victims would agree to be either named or photographed. So, the story was spiked.

The rumour itself had begun after a couple in the next road to ours had been awoken by the sound of a case snapping shut, followed by a rustle of their net curtain. And after having gone to the extent of putting the big light on to investigate. They had found that their travel alarm clock was missing from their bedside cabinet.
Soon cases were being reported all over the place. Cigarettes and lighters were the most common reported losses, vanishing from bedsides into the thin night air. Also, several wirelesses radios had been swiped including two that were allegedly still playing radio Luxemburg. In the biggest case to date, Billy Thompson known as 'Big Licks Billy' claimed to have lost a gold lighter from Corfu, 200 duty-free cigarettes from Crete and an ashtray he brought back from Benidorm. But given he was a known show off, everyone just assumed he was just reminding them that he'd just been on Mediterranean Cruise.

In the end the police had taken notice, and an extra patrol had arrested a man with a ladder at seven o'clock in the morning. What they didn't know was that it was our window cleaner Mr Clarke, who was out to get an early start because it was too hot to work in the afternoon. Everyone knew Mr Clarke because of his funny walk that was the result of an accident on the docks. His stride was so odd that he earned the nickname 'The Snipers Nightmare', by his mates on the docks.

So having been given early retirement with full disability, he was in no rush to let the authorities know that he was still agile enough to have a window round. Thus, the detectives had quizzed him for three days solid, to no avail. In the end they had to release him without charge. Soon the increasing heat beat the myth and windows began to stay open at night despite the dangers.

So, there I lay wide awake, sweating like a pig, despite the windows being open but thankfully still the owner of a wireless. On the floor was my uncle Frank snoring away in a sleeping bag. Meanwhile the sounds of the Real Thing singing 'You to me are everything' was coming from the kitchen radio as my mother went about her business getting the big party ready. Uncle Frank was a total mystery to me, and his sudden unannounced return only added to his mystic. For a start he didn't even know that it was my nan & grandads' anniversary, my mum had to tell him. So, it wasn't that that had brought him back? As for his leaving, from what I could gather he suddenly just up and left. My mum got a letter off him a week later letting her know that he'd signed up a ship's crew headed for New York, that was eighteen months ago.

I suppose his letter went a little bit of the way toward explaining why he had returned with an outrageous American accent. It was so bad my dad had started calling him 'Frank the Yank' behind my mums back of course. My dad claimed Uncle Frank could pick up Cockney accent on a day out to London. But there was something else I could tell that my dad was holding back that he was dying to tell me about Uncle Frank. Now if on the other hand it had been the other way round and it was my dad's brother Kevin. Then there would be no mystic at all, the whole thing would have been out in the open. Because while my mother would never have a bad word said about her family. She rarely had a good one to say about my dad's.
However, for me the one question no one had asked, was how my nan & grandad would react to a surprise party in their honour? I mean it was not like they were noted for their subtlety at the best of times. So, my mum had to rack her brains just on the guest list. This was in case my anyone my grandad owed money to or someone that my nan thought needed putting straight, were accidently invited.

It's not that they're a nasty couple, they just have their own views on everything. For example, despite it being over five years since decimalisation my grandad has still not taken to 'New Money'. Every time you get back from the shops for them the first thing he asks is you "How Much was that lot?". When you tell him, he looks at my nan, she then converts it to 'Old Money' and he shouts, "The robbing Swine's'".

Not that my grandad is noted for his honesty, for one thing he runs the Spot the Ball in his local pub which is designed to raise money for the pub team. But according to the regulars if my grandad had handed in even half the money he'd collected, they could have Pele playing up front and Sir Alf Ramsey as the manager. He also marked the board at his local bookies, and I suspect he never declared that income to anyone either, not even my nan!

My nan on the other hand was as straight as they come if not straighter. This also applies to her approach to other people. In one recent incident a woman who lived over the road from her and was reportedly in her mid- forties. Had made the mistake of passing my nans gate in a mini skirt, only to be told to her face that she looked like "Offal dressed as mutton". She also has her 'Little Job' on side cleaning the doctor's surgery of a night and she takes great pride in telling us how shiny she gets the floor through wax and a buffer and how sparkly clean the all ashtrays are.

Personally, I was all for the party, in fact I had the whole day planned out to perfection. For a start me and my best mate Tommo had four lots of hedges to cut that could bring in at least two quid each. Meaning that I could get whitener for my pumps, ten ciggies from the mobile shop that serves kids and a bottle of Woodpecker cider for the party. As long as I can find somebody to go in the offy for me.

Cutting hedges is currently my main income as despite the grass being brown, privet hedges were bursting out an alarming rate. So much so the housing officer had been around knocking on doors telling residents to sort their front gardens out or they'd be getting a 'Letter off the Corpy' that always hit home. Officially entitled Liverpool Corporation, the 'Corpy ran everything from the bins to the buses to the schools, kids' homes, houses and their upkeep, along with the roads and God knows what else. Basically, they did everything, and they also got the blame for everything as well. But they're not ones to be crossed as evictions were not uncommon. That being the case Tommo and I had taken full advantage of the situation. After all no one wanted a dreaded letter, especially if they were behind on the rent.

As far as planning goes, I was well ahead of the game having set my kit up the night before. I had lashed the rake to the frame of my racer with two old snake belts. I had my dad's shears in my Gola bag on the handlebars and the addresses of everyone the Housing Officer threatened. And not only that but Jenny Pollard was going to be there, so I had my best white Wranglers and favourite Ben Sherman shirt washed and ready they just needed ironing, so I was good to go.

That was until I heard my mother shouting from the bottom of the stairs in her angry voice "Get up the lot of you I've got a party to sort out!"
At that point my first reaction was to lay low like a rabbit. For a start it wasn't a personal call as it was loud enough to include my dad and Uncle Frank, so now it was down to the first one to blink. In our house it's always better to be at the second one down, that way any arguments are out the way and there would be hot tea in the pot.

Sadly, things turned personal very quickly as my mother's next shout was "James get down here now!" Normally, I get called Jimbo even by my mum. so, her using my full name would normally have the hairs on the back of my neck stand up if wasn't for them being plastered down by my sweat. To make matters worse I could imagine my dad laying there in bed smirking because it wasn't him.
As everybody knows being called by your full name is never a good thing and when I got to the bottom of the stairs I was instantly proved right.