Blog Archives - FordeFables

March 31st, 2017.

31/3/2017

Thought for today:
"When we think back, much of our life during the 1950's and 60's was built on trust. These were times when every parent trusted their neighbours to keep a watchful eye on their children when they were out playing; times when one could go a bicycle ride and leave one's bike in the hedge for three hours while you played in a wood and know that it would still be there when you returned. I cannot remember a time when neighbours locked an empty house during the day or feared that their children might be kidnapped, assaulted or killed. I cannot recall a time when it wasn't thought healthier to allow young children to stay out in the fresh air throughout the summer months from dawn until dusk and not over-worry about any risk entailed.

Indeed, trust was established early on in one's life and there was always a friend close by to maintain the balance.

Today, a lack of trust and huge dose of scepticism seems to be a more common thing to hold than a belief that the other person won't do the right thing and let you down gently. If ever you have had someone jump off their end of a see saw when you were at your highest, it is not surprising that you proceed with future caution. Good friends, however, are placed in your life to prevent your fall being too hurtful.

The one thing I recall about my youth and upbringing was that one invariably married a boy or girl they had grown up with in their immediate neighbourhood and with whom they had formed an early trust bond. It was not unusual for communities to live in close union from birth until death. One went to school with one's friend's and in mining communities where bonds were closer, the two boys swapped text books for picks and shovels and worked down the same pit alongside each other for the rest of their lives. Folk attended the same schools and churches, visited the same public houses, were affiliated to the same unions, voted for the same political parties and even married from within the houses of their close neighbours. Often two male friends might marry each other's sisters; forging an even closer blood bond between one family and the next. Between cradle and grave, all would survive breathing the same air and believing in the same God.

The surprising thing was that often such tried and tested relationships lasted the course of time as their partner could always rest assured that they'd never have to suffer the indignity of being dumped on one's backside just because they wanted to abandon the marital see saw!" William Forde: March 31st, 2017.

March 30th, 2017.

30/3/2017

Thought for today:
"It has been said that when the establishment oppresses and stifles individual rights, the outlaw in us will always find a place to reside. When it has come to individual thought and intellectual boundaries, I have always been a rebellious creature. I have always refused to suffer the constraint of conventional thinking patterns or to have my rationale ruled without the immense benefit of a searching imagination and a belief system that has served my purpose at the time.

Ever since the age of twelve, I have made use of my imagination to cut myself and prevailing thoughts off from the problems of the world whenever I have taken time out on a creative holiday. Even today, when I attend hospital to have a platelet transfusion, my mind will wander away from any pain or discomfort that my body may be experiencing with the side effects of any chemo treatment my body is having. I will spend half my day mentally switched off as I find this practice the most relaxing. During my 'switch off' period, I will undoubtedly take the opportunity to revisit places of my youth when the rebel in me was firmly taking root and I could easily believe that I ruled the world; not necessarily 'your world' I might add, but 'my world!'

And therein lies the secret to all imaginative and creative processes; we are the architects of our own thoughts, the sole arbiter of our own beliefs and controllers of our intended action.

When I was young, I often visited a nearby wood that I was King of. I fashioned a magic throne from the stump of an old tree and by simply lying back and closing my eyes, I was able to make myself the 'Master of the Universe' through thought alone. My mental energy would be instantly transformed into cosmic power and my mind would transport me across land and sea within seconds. I possessed the combined power of all creation. I could bring tears to the sun, make thunder whisper silent rage or turn off the stars if I so desired and place the Milky Way in a heavenly blackout. I was able to fill the sky above with every type of insect and bird that was capable of occupying my imagination and make angels fall from behind the clouds at the clap of first command. Indeed, so long as it didn't rain on me and the forest keeper stayed away with the threat of his shotgun, I could hold onto my dream until tea time when the aroma of buttered muffins beckoned me back home to boring humanity, stifling domesticity and three stinky brothers and three smelly sisters." William Forde: March 30th, 2017.

March 29th, 2017.

29/3/2017

Thought for today:

"A press report recently indicated that the number of people in Great Britain who are next door to bankruptcy or are one week away from penury has grown inexorably. Food banks are cropping up all over the country and people in jobs but who are on minimum wages often feel obliged to use their services to get by from one week to the next. I also understand that a massive increase has occurred in the practice of 'skipping' (getting one's food from the supermarket refuse bins after the out-of-date stock has been discarded by the end of the day.

For the country as a whole, we are generally economically worse off than we have been since the last financial crash and there are so many occupations which have received no pay rise for the past ten years, despite the cost of living rises that have occurred in the last decade.

While austerity has struck the nation since the New Millennium and whilst it is undoubtedly good for many of us to have enough money to live on without undue worry, we would all do well never to forget the things that no amount of money can ever buy like good health, happiness, love and a sense of belonging and purpose.

When I was young and growing up in a large family with no spare money, my level-headed mother frequently told me that anyone without money will care about the lack of it, but people with too much money to spend will not care about it until they come to the end of it, just like some others do when they come to the end of their time.

For my part, in later life, I find myself comfortably off, but when money was extremely short when the children were growing up, I found that I coped better with its lack if I stressed less and lived life more. I learned to enjoy the things in life more that I could do with my children and family that cost no money; only time, personal consideration and a little effort. I do not think that any amount of money or expensive activity could have brought us more enjoyment, fun and laughter than the woodland and country walks we frequently went on every weekend, the open air picnics we had and the games we played at the family table on wet weekend afternoons.

Though, in truth, none of us walked in the country and played family games while my children grew up, but during the years that me and my six siblings grew up in 50's and 60's, I recall going to bed hungry a number of times with the family having less food in the larder than many a 'food bank' family might have today and we never felt poor; perhaps because nobody bothered to tell us that we were! " William Forde: March 28th, 2017.

March 28th, 2017

28/3/2017

Thought for Today:
"This morning I awake weaker than usual but partially refreshed with my blood transfusion yesterday. My body has seemingly started to react to the chemo regime I am currently receiving. They told me that the treatment for my latest cancer would be aggressive and I guess that I'm just starting to find out. I have to return to the hospital in two days to receive some platelets and I am also due to see the skin cancer consultant on Friday to find out if the skin cream I've been using has been beneficial with my third body cancer.

Putting the clocks back last weekend reminded me that spring is here and summer is on its way. I find the thought of warmer days ahead and seeing smiling faces of the tourists pass my door daily, most enjoyable, and even though I may not be able to walk, I relish the opportunity to feel the sun on my face as I read a book sitting in the open doorway.

We should never forget how blessed we are when we are surrounded by the warmth of love and sun, and never allow a day to end without going to bed in expectation of another good day to come tomorrow. Roll on summer!" William Forde: March 28th, 2017.

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March 25th,2017.

25/3/2017

Thought for today:

"When one thinks about it, family trees, happiness, constancy and all manner of things are not too different to dry-stone walls. In each of these significant aspects of our lives we will find gaps, breaches and places where repairs are called for. When we build either a strong wall or a strong family, the overall aim is the same; to create the strongest of bonds that withstands any friction.

I once had the experience of attending a week's course for building dry-stone walls in the Dales. I never became an expert at it, but during later years when I had an old cottage in Mirfield that needed constant renovation, I helped my builder construct such a wall around my detached house, which I found highly satisfying.

There are five rules to building a dry-stone wall that also applies to building a sound family structure where love endures. The first rule is, 'Set the length of stone into the wall.' This means that the end of each stone is part visible in the final wall and is perpendicular to the direction of the wall. In the construction of family terms, this simply means learning to show off one's offspring equally and teaching them to stand upright, not to be frightened of showing themselves to the world, but not showing or over-facing others by showing all one's assets in a boastful manner.

The second stone-wall building rule is to 'Heart the wall tightly.' Gaps in the interior of the wall, between the face stones, should be tightly filled with small stones, just as it is the loving children of each family that bound the parent's who protect on the outside and strengthen the marriage of all family members. The tighter the 'hearting', the stronger the wall will be.

The third wall building rule is 'Cross the Joints.' This means that each stone should be crossing a joint below so that it is setting on two stones beneath it. What should not be done is to stack stones so that they are vertical joints running from one course to the next. Neither should parents fail to recognise the differences in their offspring and their different places in the family structure and teach the older ones always to protect their younger siblings and never cross them without good purpose.

The fourth rule is, 'Keep stones level'. Walls should be built so that the stone and course are level.This is more apparent when using flat stones but applies to all dry-stone walls. Stones that are not level will tend to slide causing internal stress in the wall and will eventually cause failure as the wall shifts over time. This can be seen in the dynamics of most family structures when a child goes off the rails, is eager to move away from the family home and starts behaving badly. Many walls are built with quite irregular shaped stone, and when this is the case, focus on keeping the top of the stones level. That makes it easier to build on top of. When this is not possible to have a level top, slope the top toward a neighbouring stone to the right or left; not into the core of the wall or pitched out. When a child in the family starts behaving unhealthily, that is the time to allow them to lean on parents and siblings and not turn them out of the home!

The fifth and last rule of dry-stone wall building is, 'Build with the plane of the wall.' This simply means aligning the stones so that there is an even plain to the faces of the wall. String lines are especially useful to keeping an even plane, just like good home budgeting is better achieved by the use of constant checks on outgoings and income. The outer 'bump' of each stone is what should be assessed as keeping in line to keep the whole wall looking as one unit. Just as all good parents should judge their children and teach them to judge the goodness of others by including all their traits and aspects, not just the most obvious ones that jut out.

Perhaps more than any other man-made structure of life, dry-stone walls represent life itself in its most symbolic form. It is made up of all kinds of stone of different size, shape and colour and is built in a manner that can keep it maintained for hundreds of years; providing nobody seeks to remove, damage or rearrange it. It is not unusual for the wall to show gradual movement itself as the ground upon which it stands settles over the generations. Any repairs done to it should be sympathetic to its texture and fabric of construction.

I'm afraid that over the past fifty years, society has either unknowingly or deliberately destroyed the fabric of its protective wall, within which I was reared during the 1950's and 60's. We frequently see the top layer of the wall missing with the increase in parental divorces, just as our own elderly parents have often become missing from the family home they used to be born into and die in while still in good health. Often, life crisis' have knocked the stuffing out of our wall and instead of correcting the fault, we build up walls of denial and resistance instead which justifies us doing nothing to repair our past!

Far better I think to follow the five rules of dry-stone wall building. William Forde: March 25th, 2017.

March 24th, 2017.

24/3/2017

Thought for today:
"In the crowded, busy city, people do not have time to concern themselves with what another does or does not. Conversation on public transport is kept to a minimum, bank robberies in progress go largely ignored and those unfortunates who collapse on the main street with a heart attack are just as likely to be perceived as drunks and stepped over by talking mobiles glued to one's ear than have an ambulance phoned on their behalf.

But in the wide-open spaces of the countryside which borders the village of Haworth, life's slower pace will always lag behind the noisiness of its residents and there is nothing that remains unseen. In this land of Bronte, life never goes unobserved; your neighbours and the church cat keep watch on you more than you realise. They miss not one up-to-date piece of gossip or fail to spot a newly trodden blade of grass on their windswept moors and green fields where lovers roam in search of their pleasure of soft ground; particularly those married couples who are wed to different parties!

So, beware ye lovers of the glade who seek out freshness from a marriage that has not yet had its full years. Beware ye wanderers who stray from thy marriage vows in search of new and overdue excitement, for I see thee from behind yon tree. No long grass can conceal the presence of thy sexual peccadilloes and the harm thou wreaks upon an already broken home in Haworth. No secret is safe from Nature's watch when the eyes of the Haworth Hawk and the black church cat are upon thee. So, get thee back home to thy marriage partner forthwith before they realise thou hast strayed again and while there still remains time to repent and mend thy wicked ways. Walk no more the long grass of thy summer pleasure when there are better things a married man and father to thirteen children without gainful employment should be about." William Forde: March 24th, 2017.

March 23rd, 2017.

23/3/2017

Thought for today:
"From my knowledge of a number of authors, many of those who write for adults today, once tried their hand writing for children. I am one of these authors. Let me disabuse some of you however, who believe that it is easier to write for children than it is for adults, that you couldn't be more wrong.

When it comes to exacting scrutiny of one's writings, children can be the biggest critics. Whenever it comes to possible outcomes of any story on the page, children's imagination opens up more possibility. Come across on the page that you are an adult 'talking down' to them and your book will soon be discarded but should you be able to echo the secret thoughts of their own mind and unvoiced words, you can become their friend forever.

I fell into children's writing rather than choosing it, when in 1989, I was asked to write a book of ten short stories for children in need by my employers, 'The West Yorkshire Probation Service.' That book was called , 'Everyone and Everything'and proved to be a great success, selling thousands of copies in West Yorkshire schools alone during the month of November 1990. After the success of that book, other organisations wanted to sponsor the funding of a published book that I would write for them.

At the time, I felt privileged to be asked and readily agreed. Who wouldn't wish to become an acclaimed children's author, given the opportunity? I was probably helped the most by the works of the late Rohld Dal, whose full range of books, my son William had read before he was 8 years old. Rohld was born during the First World War years of 1916 and died in late 1990. What inspired me through the many books I read about him and what he'd written was the simple fact of his childish thought, behaviour and attitude. Rohld knew how to capture a child's imagination and he never approached them 'softly softly' but instead, gave them the things they wanted to read about; especially adults getting their comeuppance!

I am sure that Rohld's global success as a children's writer was that he refused to grow old and for the whole of his life, he remained a child at heart. He wasn't afraid to kill off characters and make them go through all manner of grisly experiences so long as that was what his readership wanted. He realised that the happiest retreat of a child was their imagination and like the sculpture, Michael Angelo, Rohld would see the angel in the blocks of marble and stone in his writer's mind and carve away until he set him free. He also knew that children were capable of building castles in the sky and he never allowed his imagination to be constrained by adult thought whenever he constructed the architect's rules for building castes in the clouds that his child readership could reside in. A child's imagination was the highest kite he flew. He knew how to raise them up above the clouds, give them wings to soar, make them do tipple tales with adult values before bringing them back to the ground of contented childhood. Rohld knew that the world was filled, like a child's mind, with both good and monster thoughts and these were traits he gave to his main book characters. He also knew that the very first opposite that children conceptually grasped was 'nice' and 'horrible.'

One of the aims of a children's author is to bend and break conventional adult thought into a better shape of magical possibility. Someday, we might all become old enough and wise enough to start reading fairy tales again." William Forde: March 23rd, 2017.

March 22nd, 2017.

22/3/2017

Thought for today:
"In 1963, as a young man of 21 years old, I spent a few years in Canada. I initially lived in Quebec before moving to Toronto to work in an hotel called 'The Glenview Terrace.' The hotel was an upmarket hotel and was the one nearest to Kenny Airport and as such attracted all 'the very best customers' from across the world.

I worked in the hotel as a receptionist, who, when the bellhop wasn't available, had to show guests to their rooms or perform one service or another for them. The manager had only one maxim as far as advising his staff how best to keep his guests happy, 'Whatever they want, give them it!'

As a general rule, I felt able and was sometimes quite happy and surprised to oblige. There was, however, one practice that I could never bring myself to doing and that was to take money for helping someone. It had only been nine months earlier in Quebec that a couple been so kind to me and accommodated me for free when I was without digs. When I offered payment they refused and instead charged me with helping another on the same terms at any future date.

There is a peculiar trait to all of the wealthy and privileged, especially Americans, who like to show both their appreciation for services rendered by tipping, and their wealth by the size of their tip. During my time in the hotel, there was a wealthy spinster woman in her forties who lived in the hotel in her own special room for half of each year. Her name was Miss Gail White and woe betide anyone addressing her that forgot her title 'Miss' when they spoke with her. Indeed, she rarely spoke to anyone in the hotel with the exception of the staff who attended to her daily needs.

Miss Gail White was a woman of substance and a lady of sophistication. Nobody could imagine how such a beautiful woman of reported immense wealth could be of single status into her forties. All conversation about her single status was a common topic between the staff. To me, there was only one reason as to why such a beautiful and sophisticated woman should remain on the shelf; she had suffered heartbreak in the past and would never trust any man again! The real reason, I later discovered from the manager, when he told me that when Miss Gail first came to the hotel, she shared a room with her sister for almost two years. It was the way that the manager said, 'her sister' that led me to the conclusion that they were sisters of the most suspicious kind and that it had been a woman who'd broken her heart many years earlier and not a man.

Over the seven or eight months, I knew her, she would often phone down to the reception desk for me to arrange something on her behalf, which I was glad to do. Whenever she next saw me, she would thank me politely for my previous service and attempt to press a tip into my hand; usually ten dollars. Despite this being a highly generous amount for a desk clerk who was paid $1 an hour wage and represented over one day's wage, I always politely refused. When asked, 'Is not my money good enough?' I indicated that I came from a part of England where nobody got tipped simply for doing the job they were paid to do.

Initially, she seemed determined to break this custom of mine and did her level best to persuade me to accept the American custom of giving and accepting tips. The more I refused the more determined she initially appeared, upping her tips from $10 to $20. When the month eventually arrived that I intended to return to England, Miss White was also planning to go back to Richmond, Virginia. As she booked out of the hotel, she smiled and thanked me for all my help and tipped the bellhop generously for carrying her luggage out to the waiting taxi. Ronnie (the bell hop), returned smiling and waving a $10 tip and said,' 'Miss Gail asked me to give you this' as he passed me an envelope marked 'Mr, Forde.'

I opened the envelope, suspecting that she had slipped me a large tip after she had left that I could not return and was pleased to see she hadn't. The brief note inside the envelope simply said,'Thank you, Mr. Forde. I do think there is much to be said for your English custom.' signed, Miss Gail White." William Forde: March 22nd, 2017.

March 21st, 2017.

21/3/2017

Thought for today:

"Had my dear father still been alive, he would have been one hundred and one years old today. He was born on the first day of spring in 1916 in one of the most impoverished areas of County Kilkenny, Ireland where daffodils did not grow. I spent most of my lifetime putting my father on a pedestal. I believed that I'd be well satisfied if I finished up half the man he was, but by the time he died in 1991, my reappraisal of him and myself had been readjusted more realistically the more I came to know him.

In many ways my father was one of the most remarkable, the most modest, the most stubborn, the most independent, the most secretive and the most enigmatic men I ever knew or didn't know. He was born into the poorest of circumstances where there was a constant shortage of food to eat and clothes to wear, and where formal education was never considered an essential ingredient of survival. Before he was thirteen years old, my father left school and was put to work. The harsh conditions he endured in early life hardened him well before his years, making him an impenetrable fortress of stone emotions. He expressed himself in the extreme emotions of anger and love, but in between, few ever knew what went on inside his head.

My dad was born in the year of the Easter Rising in Dublin, 1916. The Easter Rebellion was an armed insurrection mounted by Irish republicans to end British rule in Ireland and to establish an independent Irish Republic. Though a mere month in age at the start of the Easter Rising, had my father been able to have held and fired a rifle to rid Ireland of the English, I feel sure he would have been found in the midst of the battle.

Being short of work in Southern Ireland prior the war years, dad fortunately found his salvation through soccer. Football was the one area in the whole of his life in which he excelled. Indeed, it was the only area in which he received public recognition and admiration. Before his early twenties, my father was playing soccer for his county and even went on to play for his country! My dad was so modest that I was almost eleven years old before I learned that he had once been an international football player. Even then, the information didn't come directly from his lips but from an Irish newspaper cutting in 'The Kilkenny People.' At the time, my father had taken one of his rare holidays back to Kilkenny on his own. It transpired, as recorded in 'the Kilkenny People,' that upon his arrival at the train station, dad was met by a brass band and was triumphantly marched through the town to the home of Micky and Ann Brennan where he was staying. Needless to say, dad said nothing about this marvellous welcome upon his return and had it not been for the news cutting, later sent by one of the Brennans, I might never have known until later years. Mum rarely spoke about my father's football years and I suspect that having to cope with her first three children on her own in Ireland in poverty, besides being a football widow, created some ill-feeling by her towards the sport.

During his early twenties my father and mother started courting and though their respective homes were thirty five miles apart, they maintained contact by means of my father being prepared to cycle from Kilkenny to Waterford. Now, whereas many folk naturally know where they were born, few like me know the precise spot where they were conceived! Being so secretive by nature, whilst my dad wouldn't rarely confirm anything, my mother was a much different person and all I had to do to discover anything she knew was to ask her.

My mother told me that during the spring of 1942, near the base of the Metal Man in Tramore (a high pillar constructed in 1824 designed to warn mariners of the dangerous sea waters of Tramore Bay) I was conceived. I was born on the 10th November, 1942 and it was only after seeing my birth certificate and my parent's marriage certificate for the first time as an adult that I realise my conception must have occurred in the early summer of '42 and not the spring! Either mum was never any good at arithmetic or she was determined never to make me feel unwanted because of a few months here or there!

As I grew up, I quickly realised how strict and disciplined my father was. It wasn't that he beat us; more that he was unwavering in all he said and did. Once he threatened to do something, neither hell nor high water would stop him doing what he said. Were he ever to withdraw a privilege from us as a punishment, he never relented until it had been fully served. If a punishment of one week's grounding was imposed, he meant one week and not one hour, nay not even one minute less than a week! Had the house caught fire one hour before the end of your punishment deadline, I swear he would not have allowed the firemen to remove you from the premises until 'you'd served your time!' My dad lived the whole of his life on the maxim that a man is only as good as his word and once given, one's word should be kept, and under no circumstances, ever broken.

The only reading my father ever did was to read the church leaflets and paperback cowboy books. His hero was the late film star, John Wayne, his favourite film was 'The Quiet Man' and his most quoted saying was from the film 'Custer's Last Stand' when John Wayne pronounced, 'The first is first and the second is nobody!' I might add that this was a saying that I may have repeated many times as a growing child, but thankfully it was one I never came to believe.

I recall during the 50s when my father was a miner, he was the only man to dare cross a picket line at his colliery in Gomersal when his work mates took industrial action. Whilst his work comrades took their strike action, dad insisted on following his own conscience. Such action was virtually unheard of at the time and any working man crossing the picket line was seen as being no better than crossing enemy lines during the war to join the enemy camp instead of fighting them. I never doubted his action then as being anything but brave and an action that was borne out of conviction to put food on the table for his wife and children.

He did this because he viewed his first duty as standing by his family of wife and seven children, even if it meant crossing his work comrades' picket line. He was offered a different pit to work in after the strike had ended, but refused, saying he had done nothing to be ashamed of that might lead him to avoid the ill-will of his work comrades apart from looking out for his family's welfare. Dad continued to work alongside his comrades after the strike and though he was undoubtedly 'sent to Coventry' by most of them as a consequence, a few admired and respected him for what they might had done but had feared to do. Indeed, when it came to 'solidarity', for his entire life he remained a loner. He was always his own man and was respected by all whom he ever allowed close enough to know a part of him.

This incident of him crossing the picket line became all the more pertinent to me in my eighteenth year of life when I became the youngest shop steward in Great Britain and brought the textile firm where I worked out on its first strike since it came into existence, 120 years earlier!

Throughout his life, my father stuck to his beliefs, even when to do so hurt the feelings of both wife and children. Being brought up Catholic in an Irish household, I always found this religion the most natural to follow, yet unlike my father, I couldn't always adhere to Roman Catholicism unquestioningly. For instance, dad would not hear a bad word ever said about the Roman Catholic Church and unless the church clearly sanctioned something, it wouldn't be done by him. To him, every pope since Peter was innocent of all sin and never did wrong.

Hence, when I got remarried outside the Catholic Church after divorcing my first wife, dad wouldn't come to the wedding ceremony, even though I knew that it hurt him not to attend. His only concession was to courteously accept the woman I'd married into his home whenever we visited. With regard to wife number one whom I had married in the Catholic Church, she could have been the most wicked woman who ever walked the face of the earth; she could have become a mass murderess and had gone on to commit the most heinous of crimes against innocent children and harmless widows, and she still would have remained my only wife in my father's eyes! 'Those whom God has joined, let no man put asunder.' Whenever I hear these words, I think of dad and not the priest conducting the marriage ceremony.

Religion was to cause a number of disagreements between me and dad. Being a history buff, I knew of the cruelties committed in the name of God by the Roman Catholic Church in centuries gone by and of a few Popes who clearly were not holy representatives of the Church. I'd also heard the rumours about many Catholic priests who had behaved sexually inappropriately towards many children over the years in Ireland, England and America. I sensed there to have been too many alleged incidents for none of them to be true. The fact simply was that my dad's lack of formal education and book reading had never led him to learn of the bad Popes. Even had he done so, his unwavering belief in the Catholic Church to do no evil would not have let him believe such men of the church to be capable of existence. His blind faith that all priests were men of God who could do no wrong, always made religion a subject that we both avoided in each other's company in order to maintain the peace as he grew older.

In later years, one of the church pamphlets said 'that parents should not fail to attend their children's wedding, even when that wedding was not performed in a Catholic Church, and when not to attend would risk family rift.' Only then, as he showed me the church pamphlet with a tear in his eye, did my father say, 'I should have attended your wedding to Fiona, Billy.' He felt able to have permission to say this, because the church pamphlet had said he should have attended! Only then, could he accept it had been wrong to stay away.

There are numerous incidents that I could cite to show the goodness of my father as a person as well as to reveal some of his failings in his roles as both father and husband. There was never a time in our lives when I did not respect him; never a time when I stopped loving him, though I did not always like him or understand him as I did my mother. I also believe that there was never a time when dad did not love any of his children. Unfortunately, he was never an emotionally expressive father with us and though a good man he remained throughout his life, I now accept he was far from being either an perfect dad or husband!

I know that there are many of my father's traits that I possess and also many of my mother's. While I draw my determination from my dad's character, I have never been rigid in the application of my own actions. I accept one hundred per cent, the worth of following one's own conscience along with the merits of not breaking one's word and standing up for what one believes in. While these traits I inherited/adopted from my father have undoubtedly made me a man, it was my mother's liveliness, openness of expression and her fun loving and generous nature which helped make me a 'good man' and a more balanced person.

I now know what it was in mum that made my dad cycle thirty-five miles daily during his courtship days from Kilkenny to Portlaw for little more than a kiss and holding hands........that was until that sunny Sunday afternoon near the base of 'The Metal Man' in Tramore, County Waterford.

It is hard for a boy to follow in the footsteps of his father, even when such a father figure is greatly admired by him. Over the years I have come to believe that when a son has a strong willed, determined and successful father, that he only comes into his own and truly becomes his own man after his father has died. I love you Dad. Happy hundredth and first birthday. Your Eldest son, Billy." William Forde: March 21st, 2017.

March 20th, 2017

20/3/2017

Thought for today:
"As a former Relaxation Trainer for most of my life, the founder of the 'Anger Management process' in the 1970's, a social skills and assertive group trainer and stress management consultant for over fifty years, Most days I receive private messages requesting some problem-solving issue, but mostly requests are more often to do with coping with stress, reducing the stress in one's life and particularly,preventing others dumping their stress on you.

So without apology, I am posting the bulk of a posting I did on this subject some years ago for those it may help in response to my many inquiries received.

As an experienced past worker in stress management and a Relaxation Trainer for almost fifty years, one of the most common problem behaviours I found in people who experienced too much daily tension and stress, was to 'box themselves into a corner' instead of learning how to come out fighting and improve their situation!

For all you Freudian followers out there, 'boxing oneself into a corner' is akin to withdrawing to the womb and cowering down to life's stressors instead of confronting them and successfully beating them. There are many ways of not falling into this common trap, which will only take a few months of repeated practice to ensure that your new behaviour becomes a reinforced part of your newly acquired response pattern the more you practise.

There are three main categories of stress we encounter in life:
(1) The stress that naturally visits us through tragic and traumatic circumstances, over which we have no influence and cannot avoid.
(2) The stress which we invite into our lives and put upon ourselves.
(3) The stress that we allow others to dump on us.
Stress One: Whether the tragic circumstances which visits one in life involves bereavement of a loved one, loss of limb, loss of home, loss of job, loss of love, terminal illness etc., etc., there is a process and a time span to be negotiated before healing of feelings, body and mind can occur. Like many healing episodes in life, you will not emerge totally unscathed from your traumatic experience and may be left with some scars; perhaps even immobilised for a brief period. At the very least, expect to emerge badly bruised. The most important and helpful responses to healing in this example is to accept the reality of what happened, do not deny yourself the expression of your negative feelingst, thoughts and fears. After you have healthily negotiated this experience, move on with your life. You will not forget the experience, but you will learn from it and become a more understanding and stronger person for having had it and successfully negotiated it!

Stress Two: While it may seem strange to think that we invite stress into our daily lives, believe me, we do. Much of the stress one experiences is self-inflicted, mostly through the reinforcement of bad habits into our response patterns. Observe too fat a person eating two pizzas in one sitting, followed by a giant tub of ice cream and it becomes easy to see the stress being stored up for later life, such as increased likelihood of heart attacks, diabetes or failed organs. Other forms of self-inflicted stress however, become less visible to the untrained eye and unthinking mind and gradually creep up on us with accumulated consequences.

Did you know that learning to become more assertive, besides practising a few social skills behaviours more regularly will reduce self-inflicted stress levels enormously? The social situations I refer to are everyday situations which most of us are called upon to deal with, but many duck and take the easy way out by avoiding the expression of their true feelings. My twenty years of research into response patterns revealed that there are a handful of social situations which contain the ingredients to induce stress in each of us if we do not handle them properly. The situations I refer to are the giving and receiving of compliments, making a request from a stranger and refusing a request without the provision of an explanation, and learning to be appropriately assertive and tell the truth in potentially embarrassing situations. The very same social skills that are necessary to successfully negotiate almost every life situation are to be found in these social situations.

Imagine: your mother-in-law gives you a birthday present you detest and she asks you if you like it, and you want to truthfully answer her without offending her? Or perhaps, asking your partner whom you suspect to be spending too much money or having an affair, if they are! Most of us find it easier to avoid dealing with such situations when they affect us, but such avoidance makes matters worse, not better and lead to higher stress levels. The mere avoidance of doing what we know we ought to do increases stress, which leads to the unhealthy suppression of feelings. This vicious spiral leads to the strengthening of a bad habit and the increased likelihood of doing the same again in a similar situation. When the stress level gets too high, the non-assertive person is in a greater danger of involuntary explosive action. Some inappropriately aggressive types allow their stress to build up and up until it becomes too much to contain and like a volcano they erupt and 'explode', letting rip at the other person. Others of a more non-assertive nature allow their stress levels to build up and up until they 'implode' and let rip at themselves. This inward explosion either makes them ill, self-harm or can even drive them towards suicidal action or seemingly out-of-character acts of inexplicable violence against others; even loved ones. Whenever we avoid doing something we should instead of facing and dealing with it, our stress levels automatically increase, and conversely when we confront our anxiety, our stress levels diminish.

Stress Three: I find this type of stress the worst of all; not because its negative consequences are or aren't greater than the other two stress categories, but rather because it is easily avoidable and so unnecessary. Put as crudely as I dare in a public post, nobody would allow another to defecate over them without a word of protest as they just stood there and allowed it to happen. Why then, why oh why, do we allow others to dump their stress on us? Why do we burden ourselves with their stress by accepting the parcel of anxiety they pass to us as they allow the bomb to go off in our hands instead of theirs?

We live in an ever stressful world today and knowingly or otherwise, the rich often make the poor poorer, the strong tend to place the greatest burden on the more vulnerable, the powerful seem to believe it their right to reign supreme over the impotent and your boss, your neighbour, the stranger in the street, your friend and even your partner may occasionally try to dump their stress on you, 'if you let them!'

This behaviour is akin to one person wanting to push a problem out of their corner, looking around for a place where they can 'fly-tip' and then, dumping it on you and leaving you to deal with it in your back yard as they go off to repeat the process with some poor unsuspecting other! It is most evident in one's job where the boss will delegate a problem downwards to you to be solved that he doesn't want to bother with, and being subordinate in your work position, you find yourself accepting their 'dump'. It's not surprising that afterwards therefore, that you feel a failure letting it happen; not at all surprising if the experience leaves you feeling a bit of a shit! The very best way not to allow others to dump their stress on you is simply to refuse to take it on board.

When they dump their stress in your corner, pick it up and put it back where it came from and belongs; in theirs! 'I'm sorry but you seem to have mistaken me for someone else' or 'I don't recall going to the shop to fetch your sandwiches as being a part of my job description when you gave me the post' or better still, 'JUST SAY NO.' Indeed, the very first rule of becoming more assertive and not allowing others to dump on us begins with learning to say, 'No' to unfair and unwarranted requests. My own feelings on the matter is, if you cannot say 'No' to a stranger or boss, how are you ever going to say no to your children's demands or your partner's unfair behaviour whenever they seek to employ their emotional blackmail in order to make you feel guilty, so they may get their way?

So starting tomorrow, begin your new life, start to reinforce and strengthen your new response pattern and don't let anyone box you into a corner, least of all, yourself!" March 20th, 2017

March 19th, 2017.

19/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Today is the 100th birthday of my mother's all time favourite singer and a good friend to me and my charitable work since 1990. If Nelson Mandela was one of the world's most respected men and Mother Teresa of Calcutta thought to be the most compassionate, then, along with Winston Churchill, and the British bulldog spirit who refuses to stay down when the chips are down, Vera Lynn helped many a homesick soldier on the front to fight on another day by reminding them what they were fighting for through her radio broadcasts and her many concerts for the troops on the war front, especially during the vicious fighting in Burma.

I have heard more than one war veteran recall that simply hearing her sing the songs, 'White cliffs of Dover' and 'We'll Meet Again' when their spirits were low, say that it gave them the boost they needed to carry on. She was effectively the best war time tonic the nation needed at the time. She was also the first British performer to top the U.S, charts in 1952 with 'Auf Wiedersehn Sweetheart.'

Vera was also the first British performer to have a number one hit with 'We'll meet Again' In 1939, a poll of British servicemen voted her their favourite and the name 'The Force's Sweetheart' stayed with her for the rest of her life. I don't have to recount the numerous occasions she has helped me with her charitable works since 1990, often giving me very personal items to auction off for one good cause or another. Indeed, I have never been one to collect signatures of favourite people, but when she read one of my books down in a school in Ditchling ('Robin and the Rubicelli Fussiliers': a book about the Second World War years and London during the Blitz for the British evaccuees) where she lives during the 1990's and signed it for me, I was over the moon and will always treasure it.

Born Vera Welch in East London she was well acquainted with the scenes in my book. She changed her name to Vera Lynn by adopting her grandmother's maiden name as her own surname and was singing in working men's clubs as young as seven years old. One of her teachers thought she had a 'freak voice' but the vast populace who heard her before she became famous were enthralled by it.

I have heard from some war veterans that her songs were capable of reducing grown men to tears; something that was less seen during the 1940's and the time of 'the stiff upper lip.' Even when she wasn't acting as a warden or entertaining the troops abroad she would be singing to them in the factories and workplaces, along with visiting and singing to the injured in hospitals. When she was interviewed on 'Desert Island Discs,' Sue Lawley described her as still being on 'active service' and until most recent years, she was! Her good friend Harry Secombe once credited her by saying that Churchill didn't beat the Nazis; Vera sang them to death!

Dame Vera was the late Queen Mother's favourite singer and became a good friend to her. She celebrated her 80th birthday by taking tea with Princess Margaret. Vera also enjoyed a long and happy marriage. She was married to her husband Harry, for 58 years, who sadly died in 1998. Long life comes in the Welch family and her older brother, Robert, turns 103-years-old next month!

Although she has had her fair share of awards and recognition, along with another friend of mine, Hannah Hauxwell, she is one of the most down-to-earth, level-headed women I have known. To each person over 70 years of age she will hold a special memory. When I hear her sing 'We'll Meet Again' I instantly recall my loving mother singing this song as she scrubbed the lino floors daily and a went happily about her work. Had mum only known that one day her favourite singer and oldest son would become friends, she would have smiled with pride.

A very happy birthday, Dame Vera. May your special day be filled with much happiness, love and some of the peace and hope you brought to our boys in the muddy trenches dreaming of their families and homes in England seventy years ago. Many people are loved by family and friends but few by a nation who will never forget you and your works. Your friend, Bill x" William Forde : March 19th, 2017.
youtu.be/OvgM_xcx2GI

March 18th, 2017.

18/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Friendship is capable of being formed between all manner of people types and love is never too far away when mutual need cements it.

Do we get on better with people who are like us and share the same interests or are we the kind of person who is attracted to their opposite type? Some people can understand that though a good friend may be unable to solve their problem, they are unlikely to let you face it alone.

I have known many social isolates in my time who find it hard to make friends easily. I have even known people who will go to all lengths to ingratiate themselves into another person's good will that they are even prepared to buy their friendship rather than be alone. It is well worth reminding oneself that a friend one has to buy is never worth what you pay for them. Indeed, a friend is more likely to save you money instead of unnecessarily costing you expense.

My ex-wife was a counsellor and it often amused me in part that she was able to charge strangers who needed to talk about their problems £30 an hour simply to 'listen to them being aired.' No disrespect to my ex-wife or the profession of counselling, but I often felt that a good friend could possibly have given her as good a service for the mere price of a cup of tea, more often than not, and at the very least she should only have gone to a professional after a friend. This reminded me that whereas some people with problems go to therapists, some to counsellors, some turn to poetry and books and some to priests; far better I say to go to a friend first. The reason is simple: whereas many of such contacts will talk over your problems in their free time, it is more likely to be a friend who will free up their time for you to listen and empathise when you most need them.

How many times have we heard the expressed promise, 'If you want me, I'm there for you!' only to discover when you do, they aren't! It is a sad fact of life, but often words are loosely spoken when they're not really meant ever to be put into practice. All sacrifices promised in friendship appear beautiful in one's eyes until the day comes when one is asked to make them.

While I've had many good acquaintances throughout my life, true friends are much fewer. Like the paintings on my wall that I admire so much, a good friend will always place me in the best light and mirror my feelings. I have also found that when it is frightening to look back or scary to look ahead, it is far better to look to one's side where one's friend is stood and look together. And far better still, when one's best friend happens to be one's spouse!

Whereas love can sometimes be blind, where friendship outside marriage has the edge, is that it often closes its eyes and still sees the problem ahead. Some even feel that the silence of a friend often carries more significance and has a greater effect than the words of one's enemies. None of us needs a friend who changes when we change and who nods their head when we nod or echoes our words; our shadows do that much better!

So, whether your friends be like chalk or cheese to you, the most beautiful discovery of their friendship you will ever make is that you can each grow separately without living in each other's pockets or living apart. As my dear mum often said, 'If you make friends with yourself, Billy, you'll always have someone to talk to!' And she, like my wife Sheila had one thing in common; I never met any other person who didn't like them or had a bad word to say about them." William Forde: March 18th, 2017.

March 17th, 2017.

17/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Today is St. Patrick's Day. As my wife, Sheila, reminded me just now, that on St.Patrick's Day we all pretend to be Irish, but she feels that's consistent as we all pretend to be good on Christmas Day.

As a born and bred Irish man, may I wish all of you, 'Top of the morning' and impart to you all this Irish blessing.While many Irish men and women know this blessing, apart from a Roman Catholic Priest, or St.Patrick himself, only one other type of person is sanctioned to give you the blessing. And what kind of person might that be? I hear you ask. It is the eldest of seven siblings born to a mother who herself was the eldest of seven siblings, and whose first-born was blessed by a peg-selling gipsy after spat palms had been pressed with a silver sixpenny bit in between (someone like me).

'May The Road Rise Up To Meet You'

'May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.'

I was recently reading that since the Industrial Age, had it not been for the Irish Navvies who came across the Irish Sea in their hundreds of thousands to undertake laborious and dangerous tasks so that Great Britain could build its railways, tunnels, sewers, bridges, roads and motorways, we would still be transported in the horse and cart. While many an Irish Navvy died in their dangerous jobs, over the past fifty years they have learned to wise up to English ways and take their full ration of tea breaks. Today they are prone to look for the smartest way to do something instead of the hardest. This is one of my late mother's songs that I often heard her sing as I grew up.Happy St. Patrick's Day. William Forde: March 17th,2017.
https://youtu.be/PkDaYpriHWA

March 16th, 2017.

16/3/2017

Thought for today:
'Since my terminal was diagnosed a number of years ago, I have grown to understand my body more than I ever did before. Indeed, understanding my illness has helped me to come to terms with it; I have grown more accepting of its presence in my life. I seem able to talk about it without bitterness, anger or resentment and accept it now a constant companion of my remaining days. Because my illness is an inextricable part of me and a companion that will never desert me, I find myself more able to embrace it now, rather than view it as a deadly enemy. It is easier to make the big 'C' in my life one of compassion, care, concern and companionship as opposed to that of cancer.

After my visit to the hospital yesterday for my fourth bout of chemotherapy, after protest, I managed to get the D.N.R. that had been placed on my medical file during my six-week hospital stay over Christmas just gone when I was very ill, removed from my file. Although a minor victory, the fact that the law gives the practitioners a medical right to place one on your file without your knowledge and without your consent if there is every chance one will die, I find disgusting. I reminded my consultant that the first Hippocratic principle of all medical people when I was a boy was 'Do no harm.'

I awoke this morning to the television news that 'Nice', another of those 'august' medical body who considers itself a branch of government financial rectitude, has recently decided about how they will respond in the future when they have spent their allocated budget for the year. Already they have the power to keep drugs off the market (including a number of cancer drugs that are known to greatly extend and save lives) if they consider them too expensive to administer. The news presenter today said that 'Nice' has now decided to give itself the power to delay any drug, life-saving or otherwise, for up to three years when under economic pressure. It looks like the proud and often boasted claim not to have a 'two tier N.H.S. holds as much truth as a politician composing a manifesto at election time. It is apparent that the only way that the public will be able to access such drugs if needed in the immediate future will be to go private. This is clearly 'one law for the rich and one for the poor!' I don't suppose it will be much longer before 'economics' encourages euthanasia to creep into British law by back-door means!

Also, the more I learn of the medical practices that pertain to one's life which exist today without the knowledge of the great mass of the public (even the nursing staff), the more grateful I am that I am a person who is prepared not to rely on the medics or conventional medicine alone for the oversight of my continued health. I will never think badly of the overwhelming number of good professionals in our hospitals and surgeries, or think badly of the N.H.S. or make them an enemy, but during the past week I have learned not to be so naive about some of their legal yet unethical practices and not to instantly befriend their oft pronounced ethical standing in my own value range.

Furthermore; I object to the way that they issue their news to the public and unless one is constantly a user of the internet (which many elderly people are not), how is one to find out? A lady called Liza Moore could have been speaking about the unethical practices of our N.H.S today when she said; 'It has taken stealth and some underhandedness. It has taken clarity of purpose when the moment called for dreamy abandon. It has practised withdrawal.'

I will always praise and love the N.H.S. but based upon my own experience of it since Boxing Day,2016, I will never again view it wearing rose-tinted glasses." William Forde: March 16th, 2017

March 15th, 2017.

15/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Whoever we are, and however tough we consider ourselves to be, there will come a time when we all need a helping hand. All of my life since my serious traffic accident at the age of eleven years when I was unable to walk for three years with a spinal injury, I was determined to be fiercely independent. In many ways, it could possibly be argued that I did become as independent and as assertive as any person has a right to be. I knew that I was fighting the medical establishment when they told my parents after my traffic accident that I'd never walk again; this was not the kind of news that my ears were prepared to accept.

At the age of fourteen, I regained my walking mobility when my spinal cord re-commenced sending signals to my brain and over the next seven years, I engaged in all manner of sporting activity and dance in order to regain a sense of balance that meant I did not fall over as much whenever I suddenly moved my body in haste.

At the age of twenty-one. a time when most young men dream of joining the Forces, travelling to foreign lands, falling in love or pushing out the boat of adventure, I decided to travel to Canada for a few years and to explore a new way of life. I recall sailing from Liverpool to Nova Scotia during the coldest of Decembers and landing there some weeks later after a turbulent crossing in a temperature of minus 15 centigrades. Being still green at the edges, I knew not how to dress in the cold of a Canadian winter.

I arrived in Nova Scotia from England on January 3rd, 1964 on ‘The S.S.Sylvania’ and disembarked in the bitter coldness of winter. My first sight of a Nova Scotian winter was wonderful to behold but somewhat too cold for any newcomer from England to so readily readjust to without three or four layers of heavy clothing, along with overshoes. I had seven pairs of winkle-picker shoes with me at the time (the pointed ones designed for all males with two toes only), and although new, each pair of shoes were worthless in this snow and cold without having 'overshoes' to protect them. This stranger to Canada had never heard of 'overshoes' until then, and in the meantime, as I stamped my feet to restart the blood flow, I held a real fear of acquiring gangrenous feet and needing my toes needing amputating before I arrived in Quebec!

I arrived in Quebec by train, and during the long journey, I was amazed to discover how far one travel across any stretch of land without seeing a dwelling or a person for forty or fifty miles. Once landed in Quebec, I quickly discovered that the accommodation I wanted to move into wouldn’t become available for three days. Being a stranger in a strange land, I cursed myself for having foolishly selected Quebec to be the start of my Canadian experience. I’d initially picked Quebec to start my Canadian experience in, in the full knowledge that the people spoke French there and that I couldn't. In the weirdness of my reasoning, I’d told myself that if I could survive in Quebec until I overcame my homesickness, then I’d be able to survive in any province of Canada I went to thereafter!

I thought that Nova Scotia was very cold, and even though Quebec may not have registered as being as cold on the barometer, it looked every bit as cold under the snow. Its waterfall had frozen, as it usually does every winter.

Within an hour of my arrival, everyone I met (with one exception) spoke French. Being unable to speak French, I found it impossible to communicate with any of the customers who occupied the diner where I had taken refuge from the cold to drink a warm coffee.

My ‘Good Samaritan’ came in the form of a 40-year-old man wearing winter headgear that was adorned with the likeness of some furry creature like a racoon, sitting on top. He was seated towards the rear of the diner. Having overheard my failure to communicate with two or three diners I’d approached, he kindly waved and said, “Over here” and introduced himself as Sandy.

Sandy ordered me a coffee and French fries and over the next hour or so he started to inquire about my background and to ask where I came from, where I was heading and what led me to 'up sticks' and come to Quebec in the coldest month of their winter. I soon learned that most of the people in Quebec could speak English if they wanted to, but in the main, the vast majority of them refused to. Sandy told me that they spoke French only to distinguish themselves as rebels. I learnt that most of the natives of Quebec were 'separatists' and that they had their own Prime Minister and wanted to become independent from Canada. Some, I was to learn in subsequent months, many separatists were radicals in the extreme and planted bombs all over the province as a means of public protest. They viewed Quebec as still being as French as it was when the native Indians and the French trappers controlled the rivers and the lucrative fur trade.

After learning of my accommodation predicament, Sandy fed me and accommodated me in his house for three nights until I could move into my new digs. Upon introducing me to his wife and four children, I was warmly welcomed and seated down at the table to share some food with them. It was almost half an hour after Sandy had brought me home that he first informed his wife that I’d be staying with them for three days until my rented accommodation became available. His wife warmly smiled and gently said, “We will be very pleased to have you here, Bill. Very pleased.” I went to bed that night and slept like a log. I looked forward to exploring the old city of Quebec the very next day.

Sandy and his wife refused to accept anything monetary for their services over the three days I spent with them, but Sandy invited me to help him clear the drive of a disabled neighbour that the recent snowfall had blocked in. It took us the better part of the two days that I spent with Sandy and his lovely family to clear his neighbour's drive. I was soon to learn my first winter lesson in Quebec: if you don't keep on top of your snow-clearing duties as soon as it snows here, then the accumulating snow fall shall stay on the top of you! I also found what 'digging the car out of a hole' literally meant!

When I insisted that I be at least allowed to give them a present in return for their kindness to a stranger, they accepted, as long as I gave them what they wanted.

“What would you like?” I asked.

“There will come a time in the near future,” Sandy said, “when you will meet some stranger ‘in need of a helping hand'. When that time comes, we would like you to voluntarily help him or her with whatever is required if it is within your capacity to give. In any event, give them no less than they need or less than you would have given us in repayment for our services if that is what they require."

At this stage, Sandy’s wife added, “But be sure to take no money payment for your help, Bill. Take no money, that's what we ask of you. Instead, should they ask to do something for you in return, charge them with the very same task as we charged you; of passing the favour on to the very next stranger who asks for their help?”

What a wonderful approach to life Sandy and his wife had. I have tried to follow their example ever since and it heartens me to estimate the cumulative effect of such pyramid mass-action that 'giving a helping hand' can have." William Forde: March 15th, 2017.

March 14th, 2017

14/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Are you like me? Do you ever go away for a long weekend or holiday, only to find upon arrival at your destination that you forgot something important you meant to pack?

I recall an old cricketer called Albert whom I worked alongside in the mill before I became a Probation Officer at the age of 29 years. Albert was, if anything, the most cynical person I ever knew. He had a streak of sarcasm run through his veins as though it was his life blood. Albert had been married 43 years and although he had passed the retirement age of 65 years, for some strange reason he had been allowed to continue in his employment until he was 67 years old. Whatever Albert had ever possessed, he believed himself to be a bundle of Yorkshire spun wisdom, which he felt was his final duty and delight of old age to impart to us young ones whenever he had the opportunity to tell us.

I recall him once telling me, 'Bill, never worry about being thought after when you're dead and gone. The world will soon forget you lad, as they eat their sandwiches at work a week later and talk about the latest piece of gossip.The best you can hope for is that your siblings remember that they once had a brother called Bill!'

I once mentioned to Albert after having spent a week's holiday in Morcambe that I'd arrived only to discover that I'd forgotten to pack my swimming trunks.

'Forgetting is for old age, Billy boy' he replied. 'Take my advice. 'There are three things any married man should never forget if he wants to stay happily married. Never get up without kissing the wife good morning, never let her think you've won an argument, and never consider leaving her behind when you go off on holiday; 'just in case' you should happen to need her!"

Though long dead now, I have never forgotten Albert's advice and have heeded it on a number of occasions, especially where women are concerned, particularly whenever I've wanted to avoid getting 'bawled out.'" William Forde: March 14th, 2017.

March 13th, 2017.

13/3/2017

Thought for today:

"When the 13th century Scottish warrior, William Wallace was captured in Robroyston, near Glasgow, and was handed over to King Edward 1st of England, the king had him publicly hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason. Mel Gibson depicted William Wallace in the 1995 film 'Braveheart' and used his last breath to cry out loudly the word, 'Free......dom'.

All rules, by their very nature, constrain one's actions and therefore, some might argue that 'sleeping' is the only time to feel real freedom because where dreams are concerned there are are no rules. In our dreams, we often find ourselves running without destination and it is only when we move in such fashion, can we truly taste what 'freedom' is.

Most of us would like to believe that we are free, when in essence, merely to have a set of beliefs that we live by shackles us to what we believe. It matters not whether it is a belief in a God, belief in another person, the belief in a way of life, a set of immutable scientific laws or the practice of a specific range of principles. Whatever our beliefs are, essentially influences and defines us, and governs our overall behaviour.

As the youngest British trade union shop steward in textiles at the age of 18 years, I soon learned that the freedoms we wanted in the work place would never willingly be given to us by the bosses; and that if we wanted such freedoms from the oppressors, the oppressed would need to demand them! I quickly learned that we are all free until or unless we give that freedom up.

One of the good things about Brexit has been that people find themselves with more freedom to voice their genuine views today without automatically being considered a person who does not respect the right of others to express theirs. Some may think it strange that I support the central core values of Brexit, especially as I am a Southern Irish citizen who never sought nationalisation in England since I arrived in this country as a child, seventy years ago. Consequently, I am no different than all the other current Europeans that are living here and could possibly be sent back home with them; yet I still voted for Brexit! Why? you might ask. Because, I love this country and above all other considerations, I genuinely want Great Britain to get back its freedom to control its own borders, currency and laws! It is an ironic fact, but those who are quick to deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.

Growing up on a council estate, I learned very early in life that while liberty is the right to choose, and it is 'freedom' which is the result of that choice. I chose as an estate resident to live by the area code and I later learned that such a code was worthy of living by. Learning that one's word was one's bond, never complaining when getting caught in the act or trying to justify one's unacceptable behaviour were community 'no-nos.' If one did something wrong and got caught out, one admitted the wrong and took one's punishment without quarrel.

During my later life, I married three times. On the first occasion, despite the marriage being very unhappy, I tried to do everything possible to stay with it. When it eventually became impossible to any longer ignore my wife's requests to leave her as she no longer wished to be married, and I did so, I'd only been gone an hour when I felt the chains of oppression to have been cast from me. For the first time in thirteen years, I felt free having flown from the captivity of my marital cage. And having attained that freedom, nothing in the world would have induced me to relinquish such freedom ever again!

Instead of making excuses for the behaviour of myself and wife, I started to face the truth of our situation and to get on and make a new life. It was at that moment that it dawned on me that we are all free to yield to the truth and that a person who feels free to say everything that is in their heart is capable of doing anything with their remaining life." William Forde: March 13th, 2017.

March 12th, 2017

12/3/2017

Thought today:
"I know that mankind obtains some kind of satisfaction believing that where character traits are concerned, we are as constant as cake on one's birthday. Unfortunately, this is not the case. As a species, we are most certainly wild and wonderful, weird and often inexplicable to fathom. We are born in sin according to the bible and we go through a large part of our life in sin.

It is as though in our composition, God created us as an amalgam of opposing forces which are constantly in battle with each other. We each face daily dilemmas which pitch 'good intentions' against 'bad practice' in the workplace, along with assertions of 'I will most certainly do' to 'if time allows me to' in the home. On balance, we emerge as the good people that we are meant to be, but occasionally, during moments of weakness, we fall far short of the target of decency, honesty and fairness most of us aspire to.

When we examine our lives, in particular, we all become quickly aware of a less palatable side of our usual good character we maintain most days of the week. Whom among us, for instance, gets no satisfaction whatsoever from seeing a bully get his comeuppance or can refrain from laughing when some cocky show-off falls flat on their bottom in public view. Even accurately assessing some people of being capable of doing bad things to others cannot prevent that smug and complacent, 'I told you so!' from being voiced as you wait for it to happen instead of trying to prevent it.

Life is much more than 'proving a point' or displaying oneself in the most favourable of light in another's estimation. If we are to survive in a 'dog eat dog' world, we would do well to recognise both wild and wonderful characteristics and traits in ourselves as well as never denying that urge to sometimes play the part of the Devil in our daily dealings with others.

It is incumbent upon each of us to never over-stroke our own egos, and to see both the good and the bad; the godliness and the devil in ourselves and others.There is no incongruity in seeing a fox chase chickens or resting among beautiful flowers. One is their wild aspect; the other side, their wonderful nature!" William Forde: March 12th, 2017.

March 11th, 2017

11/3/2017

Thought for today:
"Whenever I look at photographs like this today, unless it is a parent or family member taking the picture, I am reminded of the fast changing times over the past sixty years.

To know that this woodland picnic would never happen today is a sad reflection on the society we have become in little more than half a century. I recall as a growing child in the sixties, the scarcity of the crime of murder or the violation of a child by an adult that is more common today. Indeed, if ever a murder occurred in the land, it was so rare an occurrence that it would automatically command the front page of every national newspaper. This was a time in British life when the sanctity of childhood was protected in ways that would be unimaginable today. This was the era when one's neighbours automatically kept an eye out for every child; when abandoned bicycles could be left by hedgerows for hours in the certain knowledge that they'd still be there when the cyclist returned, and when no neighbour locked their door until bedtime, whether the house was occupied or not!

Don't get me wrong, My knowledge of history tells me that child abuse and even child prostitution was common within families and society way back in Victorian times. It is as though time stood still between 1950-60 and that 'a window of propriety and common decency' existed for a decade where decency ruled the land and decadence was temporarily banished. This magical window that I enjoyed for much of my childhood years through the late fifties was akin to a kind of Brigadoon that we found in Britain.
I'll never forget the magic of the 1954 musical film starring Gene Kelly and Van Johnson who are on a hunting trip in Scotland and become lost in the woodlands. They happen upon Brigadoon, a miraculously blessed village that rises out of the mists every hundred years 'for only a day.' This was done so that the village would never be changed or destroyed by the outside world. Once a villager leaves Brigadoon the spell is broken and the village vanishes forever to them. Any outsider who wishes to stay within the village and their way of life must stay in love with someone in the village strongly enough to accept the loss of everything he or she ever knew in the outside world.What a beautiful Christian message for present times.

By the late sixties, society had abandoned all thought of its moral crusade and the age of free love, drugs and 'letting it all hang out' came of age. My happy and carefree childhood days that I'd known had vanished and angry protests became the thing of the day as the love of one's neighbour went out the 'window of opportunity' and 'grab as much for yourself as you can' came in.

By the seventies and eighties, society had become unrecognisable as all manner of heinous and vile crimes were committed against children and all manner of vulnerable people. Old folk would become the frequent easy targets of muggers and young women would increasingly experience sexual discrimination and be offended against by offences of assault and rape. Even innocent children who were often in vulnerable situations found themselves the targets of sexual predators; often it was their step-fathers or other relatives, with their mother turning a blind eye or not believing what was going on beneath her nose.

My twenty-five years as a Probation Officer in West Yorkshire were mind blowing and were never dull, but to tell the truth, despite the people I was able to help, I was ready to retire on the grounds of ill-health at the age of fifty-two. I felt soiled by the sin of humanity.

During the 15th December in 2010, I visited Haworth for the first time in thirty years and saw Sheila (my Cyd Charisse) sitting in a cafe on the Main Street. That was the day my window of opportunity opened for me once more and since then, I've been transported back to living my life out with the woman I love in my West Yorkshire Brigadoon." William Forde : March 11th, 2017.

March 10th, 2017.

10/3/2017

Thought for today:
"In half an hour I enter the hospital again; this time to hopefully get a pacemaker exchange that has been cancelled three or four times already since Christmas due to illness. Despite the risks of infection that my condition carries with the operation (changing it from minor to more major), I am poised for feeling a much-relieved person when I leave hospital today or tomorrow.

Ballet, balance and poise have always interested me, ever since my bad traffic accident at the age of eleven years left me unable to walk again for three years. When I did get my mobility back, one of my legs had stopped growing with the dozens of operations I'd had on it and was three inches shorter than the other leg.

My traffic accident saw me run over by a big waggon, with my body and legs wrapped around the main drive shaft for nearly an hour until workmen were able to untangle and pull me out. After they had spent the first month trying to save my life, I found myself with mangled legs of different length.

Between the ages of 14-19 years, I did everything to restore as much balance and poise to my body as was humanly possible. I engaged in all manner of sports like table tennis, lawn tennis, judo, boxing, running and horse riding. For a brief while, I even became interested in Indian Dance routines. I invariably found all such sports and activities difficult to accomplish without losing my balance and found myself invariably on the floor, having moved too quickly and fallen to the ground.

I particularly found relaxation and meditation methods very beneficial to restoring balance both to mind and body. In my later life as a Probation Officer, for over twenty-five years I became an expert in anger and stress management and in particular, the causes of it and ways of reducing it.

It may sound strange to some of you, but restoring a balance to your mind, your lifestyle and your attitude is far more important than restoring it to one's body, as 'attitude governs action.' Too often in life, we allow harmful attitudes in life to persist and we fall into the trap of living less than honest lives in our dealings with others. As strange as it sounds, if we want to be a straight person and to live a straight life, our starting off point is 'learning to stand up straight and look the other person in the eye.' It is a psychological fact, but we find it almost impossible to look the other person in the eye if we are deceiving them, as it comes unnatural to our automatic body posture and our deceit shows through. Consequently, anchoring one's body force and forcing oneself to look whomever you are speaking to 'straight in the eye', makes telling them an untruth virtually impossible for the vast majority of people.

Decades of research has shown that sitting in a slouched manner and not adopting an upright sitting posture leads to constant backache and lots of unnecessary stress. Sitting up straight has been shown to reduce all bad body posture that results in shoulder and back ache. Telling the truth in all things is a good starting point in life to helping one turn their life around. Another helpful tip I discovered during my years as a Relaxation Trainer was how we can correct our body imbalance by looking at the heels of one's shoes and footwear. We are all bodily imbalanced in some measure and tend to lean our bodies to either the left or the right when we are tense or are being untruthful. So, for instance, if your shoe heel tends to wear down more on the left side, that is the side your body leans when you are being stressful or deceitful. To stop yourself being stressful or deceitful, you have to do the opposite thing! Simply learn to lean towards the upright position when you are next tempted to lie and adopt supple muscles and an easy breathing pattern as you do so.

In my last marriage, my wife frequently got annoyed with the fact that I would often know if/when she was telling me a lie, even when she was stood with her back to me as she spoke because I knew her tell-tale signs of deceit through nothing more than her body posture. We each have 'tension tells' whether it involves standing off-centre in whatever particular way is unique to ourselves. Simply looking at one's worn down heels will show one where correction is required when we walk and stand upright. Believe me, it is easier to be assertive in disposition and tell necessary truths when one is stood upright and one's body is in balance and anchored to the ground upon which we stand. This is one way we can prevent our body moving away from the truth and instead, sticking with what is good and upright." William Forde: March 10th, 2017.

March 9th, 2017.

9/3/2017

Thought for today:
"At 8.00 am this morning, I go into the hospital for ten hours of blood and platelet transfusions in the hope that it brings all my markers up enough for my pacemaker operational exchange to go ahead tomorrow morning, after the disappointment of three previous cancellations. There will be a part of this long day reading, listening to the radio, napping and relaxing to my woodland image that I have used for the past sixty years. My relaxation image comes from my teenage years, shortly following a three-year period when I was unable to walk due to a spinal injury. I have always realised the natural affinity I've had with nature since my childhood and growing up on Windybank Estate.

Growing up in the 1950's invariably meant spending all one's spare time after school, at weekends and during the long summer holidays, playing outside in the fresh air. With no computers, play stations or other gadgets to occupy our minds then, our developing imagination, new found inventiveness and sheer creativity of thought kept us occupied from morning until night. That which we didn't have during these years of austerity after the Second World War, we made do with, and that which we were unable to buy, we made up from whatever materials we could find about the home or our dad's work sheds.

I have fashioned many a wooden top from a spinning bobbin or a Bowie knife from a stick of wood with nothing more than an old penknife. I've made more bows and arrows from a willow tree than I could ever count and the dustbin lid has proved shield enough for any knight of the realm on many occasions. Indeed, were I to think of my most treasured moments as a teenager with an eye for the girls, I know that my life might have proved so dull without my walks through the local woods on a summer's day.

I have long believed that any person who loves Nature will never lack interest in their life and will find beauty and love everywhere they go. Even in the most war-torn parts of the world where bombs break up families daily and destroy homes, good deeds done by one person to another exist through expressed love! Nothing, simply nothing on the face of the earth is powerful enough to extinguish the force of 'goodness' and 'love' from it However bad life is capable of being for some people sometimes, nothing possesses the power to stop it ever getting better!

I recall reading about 'The Green Man' as a young man. I suppose that having been born in Ireland gave the name of this mythical creature of Nature extra meaning to me. 'The Green Man' always fascinated me after I became acquainted with the legion. He is to be found in many cultures around the world and is often related to vegetable and nature deities. 'The Green Man', whose image it is said, can be found in the bark of every woodland tree and the petal of every woodland flower and the heart of every tree leaf, is primarily interpreted as an image of rebirth and represents the cycle of growth each spring. There have been numerous myths developed about the power and presence of 'The Green Man, but the one I like the most is that a part of his image is to be found in every woodland plant, rock and tree and that if a child can merrily kick up the woodland leaves that carpet the ground during the autumn months in a particular way, they might find an image of 'The Green Man' smiling back benevolently at them from the woodland soil beneath.

During my early teens, following a bad traffic accident when I couldn't walk for three years, when I did become mobilised again, I often visited 'Bluebell Wood', off Green Lane, Windybank Estate. I have always found hidden pleasures in pathless woods where visitors are infrequent and wildlife abounds on its edges. While there, I would relax under this splendid oak tree that commanded centre ground in the wood and spend many an hour just listening to woodland sounds of the creatures and birds who occupied it and the soothing cool waters of a nearby stream. I found that the poetry of the earth never dies to those who continue to listen to its mysterious ways and if one can relax sufficiently and allow all troublesome and stressful thoughts to drift away into the clouds, one's body will slowly sink its shape into the earth and become one with the world in which we live. It was during such peaceful times alone that I truly fell in love with the magic of Nature and the fascination of all woodland spots. Ever since those days, I find myself being unable to walk through any woodland area any time of the year without being in awe at the way Nature adapts to the changing seasons in the most natural and beneficial of ways. Though it never hurries, the beauty of Nature is that it always accomplishes.

I never forgot my childhood woodland scene beneath the large oak tree, and after a cancer scare when I was approaching forty, it dawned on me that had I died, I would have left little to be remembered by in the field of 'Relaxation' that I'd practiced since the age of eleven years and for which I was then eminently regarded in the country for promoting in prisons, hospitals, probation hostels, educational establishments and the wider community. So, upon leaving the hospital, I used over £2000 to promote my own relaxation tape that was professionally arranged and recorded in a hired studio for ten days. I wanted it to be more than the usual relaxation tape at the time. I also wanted a tape that could send a listener to sleep. So I paced the words of my voice at the rate one's heart beats when dropping off to sleep and included all the necessary body sensations one would find in good sleeping practice. That tape was never sold, despite me turning down a recording offer of £10,000 in the early 1980's. I have given over 5,000 free copies of the tape to tense people over the years. Should you have difficulty sleeping, please feel free to access it by following the link below, but please bear in mind that this tape was made almost forty years ago when comparing it to the quality of recorded sound today that is capable of being achieved.Two months daily and nightly practice will prove sufficient for it to work for you.
http://www.fordefables.co.uk/relax-with-bill.html

I often think that were we able to positively adapt to the changes in our lives that we encounter on our journey through it, that some of that woodland magic would rub off on us, allowing the spirit of 'The Green Man' to become one with us and our surrounding environment. You know, it is almost impossible to not feel taller when one walks through the trees. As William Shakespeare so aptly put it in his play, 'Troilus and Cressida', 'One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin.'" William Forde: March 9th, 2017.

March 8th, 2017.

8/3/2017

Thought for today:
"When I think back over all of the things that I have ever been given in my life, high among them must be the gratitude I have received for things well done or for the help I have given another. Unlike some thankful present of appreciation, gratitude given and received remains with both the donor and recipient forever. It reaffirms you as being both lifelong 'blood-brothers or blood-sisters' which no bond will break. The reason for this, according to Cicero, is that 'gratitude' is not only the greatest of virtues but is also the parent of all others!

As I was growing up, my father and mother frequently exhorted their children to always say 'thank you' and to pray that we never ran short of gratitude to hand out to those who helped us. We were constantly reminded that 'gratitude' can be owed by all and paid by all; even the poorest among us. My mother repeatedly emphasised that, 'No duty is greater than the giving of thanks and that if we could find all manner of small things to give thanks for, we would always have lives filled with lots of things to be grateful for!' We also learned as children that if a person feels that they have little to be thankful for in this life, they are less likely to be thankful for anything else that comes their way.

Sadly, for many of us, it is only the loss of something precious in our lives that makes us appreciate the gratitude we failed to give when we had it! Indeed, life itself can have the greatest impact on our futures whenever it reminds of its brevity and how close to death it often is. While I have always loved every minute of my life since childhood, it is only since I learned that I have a terminal illness that will shorten it, that has made me treasure every minute of it. No more do I care about the seasonal temperaments, whether the sun shines, or it snows, or rains, hails or storms; just as long I'm around to see it happening!

During the years between 1989-2005, apart from raising over £200,000 for charitable causes from the profits of my book sales, I learned something very important. I remembered my parents' words and realised that I could never have achieved any of my charitable work without the unstinting support, help and constant generosity of the community and their schools as a whole.When I eventually finished writing children's stories for schools, I wanted to make sure that I found a way of adequately 'thanking' them. Gratitude is a two-way process and if it only runs one way down any street, it is infinitely lessened in purpose.

Three acts of community giving I shall mention here to illustrate. During the 90's, some poor parents in Mirfield bought one of their daughters a brand new pink bicycle for Christmas (a story which later became 'Annie's Christmas Surprise' in my Omnibus of 'Action Annie' stories). The family house got burgled and the pink bicycle (which had been stored in the shed), got stolen the week before Christmas. The young girl was heartbroken until I persuaded a local cycle shop to donate a pink bicycle to the girl in question the week before Christmas. The bicycle was given to her by 'Father Christmas' in a school assembly and I will never forget the look of gratitude and amazement on her face as she caressed its black saddle and rang its ding-a-ling bell.

My second illustration was a gift to the people of Falmouth in Jamaica (the old slave capital), that was funded by the whole of the Mirfield community on January 1st, 2000, when their thousands of £s paid for the printing, production and shipping of two thousand books of 'The Kilkenny Cat' to Falmouth. We did this so that the children of Falmouth could have their own special millennium gift from Mirfield folk that the Jamaicans could read and sell to raise vital school funds.The book was so well received, that it was later placed on the school curriculum of all thirty-two Falmouth schools, and it was also used in helping to promote my work with the Jamaican Minister for Youth and Education the following year in a trans-Atlantic pen-pal project between thirty-two Yorkshire schools and thirty-two Falmouth schools, where the aim was to acquaint oneself with different cultures, beliefs and lifestyles as well as reducing racism between the black and white pupil.

My final illustration of gratitude occurred after I decided to put up my pen in the early 2000's. I wanted to say 'thank you' to all of the Yorkshire schools who had bought my books for their pupils for over 14 years and who had been primarily responsible for raising a large part of the £200,000 for charitable causes. So, instead of selling them my last book I wrote for children, I used my last publication of 'The Kilkenny Cat Trilogy' as a present which each school was given as a gift. This was a gesture of £42 per school and it was stimulated by my mother's words of, 'Billy, when folk have treated you well, always say thank you properly!'

So, wherever one finds all manner of good and praises it, there, one's flag of eternal gratitude is planted in the soil of appreciation. Finally, never forget that the highest form of gratitude one can ever express is being happy with being alive today!" William Forde: March 8th, 2017.

March 7th, 2017

7/3/2017

Thought for today:

"There isn't anything in the world that can brighten my day up more than the sight of flowers; no present that can bring me more pleasure or anything that can raise my spirits up so high that I could ever forget that all flowers of the earth are no less than Nature's music in the making. I love flowers and couldn't imagine a life without them any more than feeling the breeze across my face or the song of the morning bird. In short; I love the God that planted them for our eternal pleasure, I love all aspects of nature and I love my life on this earth.

My mother loved flowers also and red roses were her favourites. I remember buying her some flowers with my very first wage packet when I started work and I will never forget the look of love she gave me as she gratefully accepted them and placed them in a jam jar for display. All of her life as she reared her family in a council house on Windybank Estate, her oft spoken dream was the little country cottage that she'd one day live in with red roses growing around the porch that framed its front door. She never did manage to live in her cottage, and she and dad moved into an old folk's council flat in Liversedge after the family had all left home, but in later life, I managed to, and I also grew red roses around our front door in constant memory of her.

An old friend of mine who became a mother substitute to me after my own mother had died, named Henrietta (or Etta as she was called by friends), died in her 94th year of life. She had lived a hard existence under strict Methodist parents until they died and she nursed her bedridden mother for the last ten years of her life; being the only daughter of two children. As a young woman, Etta met a sweetheart and as she knew her parents would never approve of their relationship, she kept it secret from them. Her sweetheart (called Bill), was conscripted into the Second World War and the couple planned to marry when it was over and peace was restored once more. Etta's sweetheart died in the trenches and for the rest of her life, she mourned his loss in secret heartache. When she got very ill in her 94th year and it became clear that the end of her life was close, to avoid her going into hospital I stayed with her in her home during the final to weeks of her life. The day she died, she asked me to get her a book from a lounge cabinet and upon opening the requested page, I saw there a pressed flower, She told me sadly that this was the last flower that her sweetheart had given her and which had remained pressed between a Victorian book for the previous fifty years. As I placed it in her hands, her aching body smiled at being unified with her soldier sweetheart. I also ensured that she was buried with it.

After Etta's death, I was so taken by the tale she'd told me of her soldier sweetheart who was killed in the war that I wrote a poem in memory of all those unmarried women who grieved in secret for their lost loves who never returned from war. It was also a poem in celebration of Etta's and her sweetheart's love. It is entitled 'Arthur and Guinevere' and can be accessed by http://www.fordefables.co.uk/arthur--guinevere.html I am pleased to say that it is a favourite of my good friend, Dame Vera Lynne.

I have always loved flowers around me and when I became unable to continue heavy gardening with bad osteoarthritis in my fifties, one of my greatest past times was looking after my garden and growing all manner of flowers. I have spent many an early morning hour in the garden watching the floral sentries of peace and calm in the borders salute the awakening of the sun. I always found dawn and dusk the most peaceful times of the day that I could enjoy alone.

I have always been fascinated by the power and influence of flowers upon my prevailing moods. I cannot see a flower nestled within woodland greenery without knowing that I am seeing a little bit of heaven that has fallen to earth. Neither can I stroke and smell the delicate petal of a red rose or caress the simple daisy or buttercup in the palm of my hands without sensing that I hold infinity within my grasp. And just as Nature appears not to have intended that any flower should be fertilised by its own pollen, I am forever reminded that without our interactions with family, friends, neighbours and every stranger we encounter throughout life, we also cannot expect to bloom. It is our neighbours and those closest to us who fertilise us and bring us to full fruition. It is they who help grow the seeds that our God planted within us at our conception." William Forde: March 7th, 2017.

March 6th, 2017

6/3/2017

Thought for today:
"I know that most of us consider ourselves 'fair-minded' people when it comes to holding views upon others; particularly black-skinned neighbours, and few of us would think ourselves as ever being 'racist.' While attitudes have undoubtedly changed since I was a boy growing up in the 1950s, I think we often forget, how racist our unguarded thoughts back then were.

What a difference that sixty years in time can make; even in England, which I consider as one of the most civilised, most tolerant and the least racist of countries in the world today. You know, no one is born racist and the best illustration of that fact is the innocent interaction between a child and an adult of different ethnicity. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say that a black-skinned person is no more or less likely to be racist than a white-skinned person and similarly, an immigrant or a native of this country.

I lived on Windybank Estate, Liversedge and worked in the dye-works of Harrison Gardners during the early 1960s. This decade was probably the most racist decade that I have ever experienced in England. It was a time when to be a black person was to feel the slave shackles of white constraint still tightly fastened around one's ankles. I can vividly recall signs in the windows of lodging houses that boldly said, 'No blacks, Irish or Dogs!' Some Working Men's Clubs refused to admit non-white members and the only consolation we could hold as a Nation was that we weren't quite as racist as was our American brethren across the Atlantic Ocean. I even recall dancing in Halifax at a dance hall that was as popular with the West Indian boppers as the English ones. The only peculiarity was that the 'colour divide' that existed. All the West Indians danced and stood on one side of the dance hall while all the white folk stood and danced on the other. Very rarely did any white-skinned girl accept a West Indian's invitation to dance, and if she did, she was scorned upon and talked about.

For the most part of the 20th century, the white American made non-whites sit at the back of their public buses, made them attend non-white schools to be educated, made them use different toilets and drinking fountains to those of white Americans, forced them to be treated in different hospitals and refused to serve and accommodate patronage of mixed colour in high-street shops, entertainment halls and hotels. Meanwhile, back in England, our country would have been unable to function without the immigrant worker. Without their presence to staff our hospitals, clean our toilets, work in our textile mills and drive our buses etc., etc., England would have ground to a halt.

On my 18th birthday in November 1960, I became the youngest textile shop steward in Great Britain. I worked at the firm of Harrison Gardners at the time in Liversedge. Since Harrison Gardners had first opened during the earlier century, its proud boast of the elder son, John Harrison, was that its workers had never taken strike action. This was indeed a rare thing to boast about during a time of daily wild-cat strikes around the rest of the country; particularly in the docks, mills and factory yards. During my term as shop steward, a vacancy which had been advertised was answered by a West Indian immigrant. The management refused to hire the man because of the colour of his skin and to their credit, all of the men and women downed tools and came out on strike when their new, 18-year-old shop steward asked them to. While the strike only lasted a mere five days and the West Indian eventually decided to not pursue the vacancy, an important principle had been established in an otherwise racist country at the time. I will always remain proud of those men and women of Harrison Gardners who were prepared to 'buck the trend' and defend the rights of the non-white person.

Most of the employees of Harrison Gardners at the time lived on nearby Windybank Estate and took folk as they found them.
At the age of twenty, I met and befriended a man from Pakistan called David. After a few weeks, I invited David out with me and a group of male drinking friends. When some of my mates at the time learned of David's origin of birth, they refused outright to be in his company. I recall giving up around half a dozen white friends and keeping David in my group of companions.
I have often wondered why I never thought twice about the colour of a person's skin and have concluded that it's because of the nature of my mostly positive experiences with people of different ethnicity during childhood years. When I incurred a serious traffic accident at the age of 11 years, it was an African surgeon who operated on me and saved my life.

Sometimes, however, my experiences have not always been positive. I recall as a Probation Officer in Huddersfield during the 1980s, one of my colleagues behaved unprofessionally with a client and when I asked and expected her to correct her inappropriate behaviour, she refused to do so. This was around the time when the whole of the country was scared stiff of whatever they said or did if the other person was of non-white complexion. The female colleague in question had one parent of African origin and the other of white American extraction and generally felt that the world owed her, especially white-skinned people.
The upshot was when she refused to correct her behaviour, I reported her to the Senior Probation Officer and took out a grievance procedure against her, but he (presumably being too fearful to reprimand her and do his job because it was a politically hot potato of an issue at the time), refused to deal with this highly-charged situation. So I took out a grievance procedure against my senior also. In accordance with service protocol, that grievance was investigated by the next officer up the hierarchical scale who held the post of Assistant Chief Probation Officer. Like his subordinate, the Senior Probation Office, he also refused to act so I took out grievance procedures against him also, and then the Deputy Chief Probation Officer and finally the Chief Probation Officer of West Yorkshire.
I know that I was the only Probation Officer in the country ever to have taken out grievance procedures against every level of officer between main grade and Chief Officer in the Probation Service. The issue seemed small in scale, yet it was too important in principle to allow to pass.

The tribunal took almost six months to reach a judgement, it cost tens of thousands of pounds and eventually found that, 'Although my Senior Probation Officer did wrong in what he did, it didn't matter if what he did was wrong, as long as he believed at the time that what he was doing was right.' The probation Service had effectively endowed its officers of Senior scale and above in grievance procedures with the right of 'infallibility' in their judgement in order to avoid dealing with a non-white officer who refused to correct her unprofessional behaviour. My non-white officer was never required to apologise and went about her daily business.
This incident occurred a few months after the West Yorkshire Probation Service had started to run its compulsory racist awareness training courses. Every serving Probation Officer in West Yorkshire of all rank had undertaken a week's course in 'Racist Awareness' at Wakefield. The course was run by the staff of non-white American personnel, and their opening line was, 'Whatever you believe yourself to be, if you are white, then you are racist.' While such a bland statement would never be acceptable on any similar course today, at that time, every white professional person in Great Britain, but England particularly, was running scared of putting a politically correct foot out of place in our dealings with all non-white people.

Since that time, I am pleased to say that society has moved on a great deal, but during my work and contact with many Jamaicans in Falmouth, Jamaica at the turn of the New Millennium, I was to see many incidents and attitudes of racism in reverse, practised by the black-skinned person towards the white tourist. Similarly, for a number of years until recently, any British person who expressed any public view which questioned the right of an open-door immigration policy that conflicted with the politically correct politicians of the time was quickly branded 'bigoted and racist.'

'Racism' is an inappropriate form of discriminatory behaviour which is carried out between white upon black people, black upon white people, black upon black people and white upon white people. This is something that I have always believed and it is a belief that I feel can be easily backed up historically. It is a belief that I defended back in the days when political correctness ran rampant over common sense and is a belief which I will live and die with." William Forde: March 6th, 2017.

March 5th, 2017.

5/3/2017

Thought for today"
"When I see two old people still in love, I know that the tide of married life has never washed away their belief in the worth and capacity of each other. I marvel at seeing them more in love today than when they first married fifty years earlier. It is enough to restore one's faith and belief in all mankind to find 'love for another' the most enduring of earthly gifts. Such constancy has enabled love to grow stronger; to last from that passionate time in their relationship, through to that peaceful time in marriage when a look of understanding, a simple holding of the hand, a compassionate touch or a kiss and a cuddle is sufficient proof that one is still loved as much today as one was the day one married.

Content married life between a loving couple reminds me that 'love' is what brought us into life, love is what keeps us alive and the expression of love, one to another, is the most purposeful reason for being alive!

Whereas emotions of sadness can often be hidden from the face, love cannot be disguised in any form it shows itself. Its sheer presence stands out like a beacon of happiness and hope for all that is good in the building of lasting relationships; all that is possible between man and wife." William Forde: March 5th, 2017