Blog Archives - FordeFables

November 30th, 2016.

30/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I know that the term, 'Put a feather in your cap' is an English idiomatic phrase believed to have been derived from times when warriors added another feather to their headdress for every enemy slain, but I always think about getting 'one-up' on life whenever I hear this phrase.

If ever any Literary teacher gives you an English assignment entitled 'What would you like to be?', no need to think long and hard. Simply write, 'Happy' and return the assignment finished. If they then tell you that you didn't understand the assignment, 'put a feather in your cap' and tell them, 'Yes I did. It's you I'm afraid who doesn't understand life!'

I discovered long ago that the thing about happiness is that, by and large, it is you who controls your own prevailing moods. Folk are usually as happy as they make up their minds to be. So, don't put your key to happiness in someone else's pocket or place the responsibility upon the shoulder of another person or on the outcome of some particular action or event. Every act 'we' engage in, every emotion 'we' feel is governed by every thought 'we' think. Happiness is found through the direction of our own thoughts, whatever the place or circumstances we find ourselves in. The more we praise and celebrate all that is good in our lives, the more we will find in our lives to celebrate. If I was Inspector Maigret investigating someone who'd broken into smile, I'd have to conclude that it looked like an inside job!

Had I a magic wand I could wave, I would make it the duty of all parents and children, brothers and sisters, husband and wives, friends and neighbours never to go to bed angry with each other; far better to stay up and row than to resign oneself to lasting disagreement. Now, if I could achieve that, that would deserve a feather in my cap.

So please, don't let your happiness escape you. Bring it out from within and share it with all others. What a waste of life it would be and how ironic, were you happy and not know it by never allowing yourself to feel it. We are shaped and fashioned by what we love. So, if you like to be loved, then, far better to love and be lovable. It is within ourselves that live our best friend and worse enemy, simply waiting to be called out.

Today is a good day to be alive, and there is nothing better I can do today, but to smile and be happy." William Forde: November 30th, 2016.

November 29th, 2016.

29/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The one good thing about getting married more than once is that you have a better idea about faulty goods the second time around. Just short of six years ago, I saw Sheila for the first time. I knew almost from that first meeting between us that though true love will never be found where it does not exist; neither can one's heart deny it where it does!

Since our marriage on my 70th birthday in November 2012, Sheila has made me happier than any man outside the gates of heaven has any right to expect. Ever since we met, Sheila realised that I would never be the type of man who would allow himself to be bound by convention or seek shelter under the umbrella of popularity whatever the occasion, and to her lasting credit, she has never sought to change me from being the man she first met. She saw in me from the start, a freedom of thought and expression that would never be imprisoned and she has generally allowed me my own way in all things. In doing this, she has shown herself to be the wisest of women and the best of wives. She has always understood how to keep her lovebird; she has always known that if you love someone, you set them free, and if they come back they are yours, and if they don't, they never were!

Shortly after our marriage, we were both faced with the news that I had a terminal illness which could be placed in remission if a nine month course of chemotherapy worked, but which could never be cured and which would return at a later date. Since learning that news, Sheila has been the very foundation of my living strength. We have had to face many medical obstacles over the past four years and there has rarely been one week when my health and functioning was trouble free. This experience has taught me that love is never static; it is an ever-growing process that develops and strengthens through the ups and downs of life. It is never stronger than when a man and wife cry, laugh and suffer together and its mainstay is the knowledge that if love is to survive to the end, it should never try to escape reality or abandon hope.

Today is Sheila's sixtieth birthday which is a landmark for both of us. For a woman to hit the big 60 without looking a day older than 50 is no mean feat in today's pressurised world, and for me, to be married to a woman aged 60 is also a first! Thank you, Sheila, for the love that you have always given me and your most unselfish of ways. There are only two occasions in life that I long to be close to you; now and forevermore. A very happy birthday, sweetheart. Know that you are loved more than any other woman has ever been loved. Forever yours Bill xxxxx" Wlliam Forde: November 29th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/fU8tQpCZEzg

November 28th, 2016.

28/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The root to the eternal nourishment of the soul is to find a partner who touches you and brings forth feelings hitherto unknown to open hearts. One can never blame gravity for 'falling in love'; such feelings are emotions that are worked up and never down. I knew that I loved Sheila instantly once I glimpsed her unchanging goodness and the innocence of her thoughts. I knew that I'd fallen in love with her when I sensed that her mere presence made me fall apart from the serious man I often think myself to be. She helped to restore my faith in womanhood after my wife had wanted a divorce; not because I'd been a bad husband, but because she wanted a change of partner and circumstance.

Knowing Sheila, has taught me so much about the spirituality of love and the simplicity of purpose; to do good, and when that's done, to do some more! People whom one truly loves, assume an elegance and grace in regard to everything about them. They hold inner beauties that you see clearer than any other and possess secrets told to none, but their soul mate. Their chief character flaw stem from a fragility of feelings which wounds them far deeper if betrayed, than any person should ever be hurt. Their philosophy makes the walking of all paths through life easier to travel when they are by your side, because it is love that guides them as they explore. It is love that leads them to dream and discover their happiness that the world holds in trust for them. At an earlier age than most, people like Sheila discover that when you love life, life loves you back. Pessimism and cynicism become strangers in their rug-sacks and instead of seeing nothing as being a miracle, they know that everything that lives and breathes is! No path in life can ever prevent them reaching their goal. If they find that they've taken a wrong course, they simply turn around and seek a better way. If they come across an obstacle, they either go around it, surmount it or get rid of it! They become pragmatists to purpose and guardians of the good.

They are perfect soul mates to catch when love comes your way, and they are to be found in the Village of Haworth in abundance; especially during the month of December when seasonal compassion is capable of softening the hardest of hearts and the heavens hold the promise of a newborn star."William Forde: November 28th, 2016.

November 27th, 2016.

27/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I recently came across the photograph below. It is of Cleckheaton in the year 1905. With the exception of the tram lines that are no longer there, everything else in the photo is more or less as I remember it as I grew up in the 1950's.

Between the ages of 5-21 years, I grew up on Windybank Estate in Hightown, about one and a half miles from Cleckheaton. For my family and friends, Cleckheaton represented a large part of our lives. In many ways, it was the centre of our universe once we left the estate.The nearest Catholic Church that our family attended was in Cleckheaton; which was located fifty yards away from the bottom right of this photograph. Each Sunday, my father and his three eldest children would walk the one and a half miles from home, down the New Road to attend Sunday service, and it would be lunch time before we'd walked back home again. Then, for our Sunday afternoon activity, my parents would walk us three miles across the fields from Windybank Estate to the park in Brighouse, where the brass band played. By the time we had walked back home, we would be hungry and ready for bed.

My mother had this annoying habit of cycling to church on a Sunday morning at the last minute. She would always arrive at church five minutes after the service had started and leave to smoke a cigarette outside before the priest had given his congregation the last blessing! When I say that my mother would cycle to church, I mean that she would turn the pedals until she got off the estate, but once she got to the top of the New Road, she would simply sit in the saddle and free wheel a mile down the hill, smiling at any late church stragglers she passed by with a royal wave. She wore her long, black hair loose and I'm sure that she pretended to be the film star Maureen O'Hara from 'The Quiet Man' film as it blew freely in the breeze. After Sunday service, as the eldest child in the family, she would tell me to push the bike back home for her, as the return journey was all uphill.

'Cleckheaton Market Place' was the place where all the best bargains were to be had; this was located at the bottom left of this photograph. All the families from the estate would go there, where second-hand clothes, poultry, almost anything one needed, could be purchased. My very first bike was bought from the Market Place when I was 8 years old. My father paid ten shillings for it. It was naturally second hand. It had a black frame and two wheels, one with a punctured tyre. It also had a worn saddle, a rusty frame,no mudguards, and only one break. I loved learning to ride that bike up and down the avenue of Windybank Estate. With one break at the front of the bike and none at the back, when one suddenly stopped, it seemed no different than learning to ride a bucking bronco

Whenever we needed to see a doctor, we would travel to the surgery in Cleckheaton. We were usually taken there by my mum, but when I was 9 years old, mum decided that it was about time I was able to take myself when I next needed to go. I recall going to the doctor's surgery on my own when I was ten years old and felt very important and grown up as I entered the building without an adult by my side. I sat in the smoke-filled waiting room for fifteen minutes before my turn came around. When I went in to see the doctor, I told him that I was coughing on a morning and bringing up some yellow stuff from the pit of my stomach. He provided no examination of my throat and continued to smoke the remainder of his 'Craven A' cigarette that smouldered in the ashtray on his desk. He then looked at me very authoritatively and said, 'It looks like you've got catarrh, lad,' he replied, adding 'This is a catarrh area, boy, and it's only to be expected!' That was the extent of my visit to see the doctor on that occasion.

Later that year, I fell in love with Winifred Healey who went to my school in Heckmondwike. I was 10 years old and Winifred was going on 11 years. I wanted to impress Winifred so that she'd forgo all other boyfriends and wait for me to one day marry her. The way I chose to dazzle her was to give her a solitaire diamond engagement ring. Having no money to buy a diamond ring, I stole one from the home of my best mate, Peter Lockwood. His parents would frequently invite me to have my tea with Peter and on the evening in question, his twenty-year-old sister, Margaret, took off her engagement ring while she washed up. I seized my opportunity and stole it before making my excuses to leave. It took the local bobby who investigated the theft two days before he sussed out it was me. At first, I denied the theft, but once it became common knowledge that 11-year-old Winifred Healey was strutting around showing all and sundry her diamond engagement ring, the game was up! I was subsequently taken down to the nearest Police Station in Cleckheaton and given a verbal telling off by a burly looking sergeant.

My first job was at 'Bulmer and Lumb's Textile Mill', one-quarter mile beyond Cleckheaton town centre, in the direction of Heckmondwike; which at the turn of the 20th century, was probably the textile capital of the world when it came to the manufacture of carpets. Of all the jobs I ever had in my life, my years in the mill of 'Bulmer and Lumbs' shall remain the most memorable. The first time I ever had my trousers pulled down by a woman was at the age of 15 years during my first day at the mill. Although this experience would not be the last time a female would remove my trousers, this first time was the most embarrassing of experiences I ever encountered, and it was done without my consent! Part of my job specifications was that of all new boys, who ran errands between one foreman and another. This task nearly always took one through the spinning and weaving sheds. Little did I know on that first day of work that, like all newcomers before me, I would be subjected to a textile Christening by the women of the spinning and weaving sheds, the very first time I walked by their machines. Believe me, having one's trousers forcibly removed by twenty or more laughing females and having one's todger pulled and poked in public view, is an experience that a young man never forgets. One must bear in mind that working class males of the 1950's rarely wore underpants during the working week. After my mill Christening had taken place and I was accepted into their ranks as a work mate, I later asked one of the women why they had this humiliating ritual. Her reply was, 'To get to know thee, lad. Once we've seen thee tackle up close, its easier to know whether your worth sitting next to on the bus when we have the work's annual outing!'

The first shop to the top left of the photograph was 'Sladdins' clothes shop. This shop was like an upmarket version of 'Greenwoods' and one's first suit would often be bought there. None of the boys from the estate ever liked getting measured for a suit there as the effeminate speaking owner always took a month of Sundays measuring one's inside leg. At a time when any homosexual act landed the perpetrator in prison, it seemed that, apart from being a 'Redcoat' at Butlins or an airline steward, the only way for any gay to get their thrills was working in a clothing store that made up suits!

The farthest pair of buildings at the top of the photograph were the two cinemas next door to each other, 'The Palace' and 'The Savoy.' Every Saturday morning as a growing boy, I would attend the matinee and watch a cowboy film. If anyone had no money to get in, one of their friends would open the fire door near the toilets and let them in. So it was perfectly normal to see one boy visit the toilet, only to have two boys emerge a few minutes later. Every week the film would break down and until the projectionist had restored it, every boy and girl would shout at the top of their voices, clap and stamp loudly and throw all manner of objects at other patrons. The cinema was also the place where often girls and boys had their first kiss and fumble, and the back row was always reserved exclusively for those older girls and boys who wanted nobody to see what they got up to in the dark.

Fifty yards beyond the bottom left of the photograph was the bus station, which features in some of my adult books. As courting couples waited for the last bus home after a night out, but couldn't wait a moment longer for their goodnight kiss, young men and women would slip behind the back of the bus terminal. As the last bus came in, one in the queue often saw a couple emerge from the darkness, still hurriedly rearranging their clothes.

To the top right of the photograph was the 'Town Hall'. The 'Town Hall' was the place where all the young went to bop on a Saturday night. Invariably, a fight between different groups of boys would break out, and before one knew it, the entire dance floor would be fighting in lumps. I once had a fight upstairs in the 'Town Hall' when my opponent and I went over the fifteen-foot-drop balcony. He broke a leg and fractured an arm, and luckily, I escaped with mere bruises.

To the bottom right of the photograph, about five yards further on, was a cross road junction. To the right was the park and to the left was a road called 'Peg Lane' that led to Gomersal. Part way down 'Peg Lane' was a large waste ground, which for two weeks every year, a visiting fair would park. I'll never forget my first time visiting this fairground without my parents. I was fascinated by 'The Big Wheel' which was the most popular ride by all the courting couples. As one's coach got to the stop, 'The Big Wheel' would stop for a few minutes, making some think it had broken down and they'd be stuck there! The courting couples loved the ride because the higher up the coach went, the less they were in public view and the more hanky-panky they engaged in. Just before I made a move to go back home one fateful night, one of my mates older brother fell out of 'The Big Wheel' after it had stopped at the top. Down he went, only to have his life spared by the poor girl he landed on and who'd cushioned his fall. The girl died and my mate's brother was left crippled for the remainder of his life; which strangely never prevented him riding a 500 cc motor cycle. A number of years later, he too was killed doing 'a ton' (a hundred mph) along the road to Blackpool as he raced another motor bike user from the estate.

Along the Bradford Road towards Moorend, about a few hundred yards beyond the 'Town Hall' was the best pub in Cleckheaton at the time, 'The Commercial.' This pub was where I had my first illegal pint of beer during my 15th year of life. It was also in the near vicinity to the place where I next had my trousers pulled down willingly by a 17-year-old Heckmondwike girl whose name I never knew, but who shared an experience I'll never forget. 'The Commercial' was highly popular because it was one of the first Cleckheaton pubs to have Rock and Roll groups entertain its customers. All the other pubs had some elderly pianist who would play singalong songs from the 1940's/50's, where the night's final rendition that was guaranteed to lift the pub roof was always, 'Nellie Dean'.

As an 11-year-child, a lorry ran over me on the estate and left me with extensive injuries. A Cleckheaton solicitor eventually secured £1200 compensation for me, which was kept in trust until my 21st birthday. Between 11 and 21 years, interest accrued on my compensation brought the amount up to well in excess of £2000 (twice the national average annual wage for a working man). By the November of 1963, when my 21st birthday arrived, I wanted to throw one of the best parties that my friends on Windybank Estate had ever been to. It seemed very important to push out the boat with a cheer, as I was booked to emigrate to Canada a month later. So I booked the best Rock and Roll Group in Yorkshire for the then princely sum of £45, which represented two weeks wages at the time. The going price for any top group at the time was £30 for a night, but I agreed to pay them the princely sum of £45 if they didn't have as many intermissions as usual. We arranged that the group would start playing while the rest of us bopped the night away, and that they were not to have a break until I indicated they could.I clearly had 'control issues' at the time.

I was the first in the pub that evening to receive my guests as they arrived. As each person came into the dancing room of the pub, they bought me a short to celebrate my birthday and like the fool I was, I drank them down one after the other. The upshot was that the band started doing their turn at 8.00 pm, but by 9.00 pm I was at home in bed, drunk as a skunk. I learned the following day that after I'd left the pub drunk and was taxied home, the other guests continued to have a good time. I also learned that the Rock and Roll group that went on stage at 8.00 pm didn't stop playing and singing until 10.45 pm when a fight broke out. The fight started with one drunken youth throwing a part-eaten pork pie at someone, and that act quickly escalated to a real slanging match where chairs were tossed, along with glasses.I was later told that it was as good as any Saturday night rumble at the 'Town Hall'.Two mates were taken to the hospital and George Minett was later found hung up on the washing line out back. When I called around to 'The Commercial' the next day after having heard the gossip, the landlord charged me thirty-two pounds to cover the damages and barred me from the pub!

With regard to women and courting, my mother's advice had always been, 'Billy, when you marry, marry for love, but if you love 'em and they also happen to have rich parents, don't dally. And whatever you do, don't marry a Heckmondwike girl because they're nothing but trouble!'

After I came back from Canada and was ready for settling down, it wasn't surprising at all when my girlfriend whom I later married, lived in Cleckheaton with her widowed mother and younger sister. It was about seven years after we'd married when my mother's advice came back to haunt me. My first marriage had started to go downhill and it was only then that I discovered from my mother-in-law that my wife had been born in Heckmondwike!

I will always think kindly of dear old Cleckheaton as being the consecration and the cradle of my development. It was the most influential town in my life. There are so many bawdy tales that I could tell, but it would be unfair to so many Winybank/Cleckheaton residents who are still alive and have good reputations to maintain. Cleckheaton was the place that I enjoyed many of my 'firsts,' and it will always hold a lasting memory for me; and to think that I never actually lived there, but passed many landmarks of my development there. Long live Cleckheaton or Cleckheckmondsedge as my old friend, Richard Whitely, used to call it." William Forde: November 27th, 2016

November 26th, 2016

26/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Since our lovely Rough Collie dog, Lady, died a couple of months ago, rarely a day goes by when I do not miss her. Although she'd been my wife Sheila's dog for a dozen years and had been a part of my life for only half that time, she did journey with me in a way that she never could on her morning walks on the Haworth Moor with her mistress.

I recall that when I first discovered I had an incurable blood cancer, it was as though Lady sensed the changing circumstances in my health. Then, as the following few years went by and my mobility started to become affected, Lady started to mirror my symptoms. It was as though we had both started to walk the same path as we journeyed through similar symptoms of ill health. We had both found it harder to walk far and fast, and we each started to struggle whenever we climbed the stairs and descended them.

Most of the days of my year are spent writing stories at my laptop. I work from the kitchen table, where Sheila and I spend most of our days across from each other. Lady used to spend her day on her rug at the table end, between both of us. Every now and then, when Lady thought we might have forgotten she was there, she would nuzzle one of us with her cold nose, looking for a pat of love. Whenever we ate, she would sit obediently awaiting her share of the leftovers, especially when the delicacy was part of a fat pork sausage or a bit of succulent pork pie from 'Lunds the Butcher'.

I still look for her whenever I leave the house and return. I still feel her constant presence in my life and often I find my left hand hanging down at the table end awaiting the wet touch of that compassionate canine tongue. Most evenings, Sheila and I will have a couple of games of scrabble. We are both keen players and show the other no mercy, especially when the tiles fall in our favour. When Sheila wins, she has this habit of wearing that smug look across her face that only women are capable of shamelessly adopting, disguised by a winning smile of silent satisfaction as she puts the game away in its box until the next time we play. Whenever I win, I tend to stand up proudly at the end of the game and strut from the room gloating, 'Make way, make way, make way, Lady! Make way for the king; the king of rummy, the king of scrabble, the king of everything!'

And despite Lady having passed away these past few months, I still find myself reciting this mantra as I walk around her shadow and hear her infectious bark once more in my mind's eye as she acknowledges my victory. Each meal I eat, I still find myself leaving a small portion on the side of my plate to give to Lady.

The one thing that Lady and Sheila undoubtedly shared was 'that look'. It is that look which all young girls first discover whenever they want a treat from daddy! It is that look of maidenhood that is capable of capturing the heart and imagination of any confirmed bachelor she wants to marry! It is that look of loss that cries out for fulfilment and melts the hardest of hearts! It is that look which is capable of taking the last morsel of food from your mouth and eating it with relish! God bless you, Lady; we miss you lots." William Forde: November 26th, 2016.

November 25th, 2016.

25/11/2016

Thought for today:
"There has been a surfeit of press and media reports over the past year that often makes Great Britain out to be a less compassionate country than we ought to be; especially when it comes to the plight of migrants and the totality of our national response to the crisis at hand. While our country's response may satisfy some and not others, there will always be some people from both sides of the discussion who will disagree with the other side's viewpoint. Some will genuinely feel that we have not done enough while others will believe that we have done more than our fair share. I do not know the answer to this human tragedy which has mushroomed across the continents of the world and which have resulted in this mass exodus of human travellers; nor do I suspect, does anyone else, whatever their political persuasion.

What I do know is that any tragedy hits hardest when it occurs nearer one's home and doorstep. Just as having a loved one die of some illness can lead the bereaved family to spend the remainder of their life raising funds or financially contributing to a cure for that illness in preference to other illnesses, then so the death of little children nearer home will have a greater emotional impact upon the hearts and purse strings of the indigenous population than the death of little children from other parts of the world!

Take three incidents; the Aberfan disaster that was caused by the collapse of a colliery spoil tip in the Welsh village near Merthyr Tydfil in October 1966, that killed 116 children and 28 adults, or a greater number of innocent children and adults who have been killed as a result of our country's action. For instance, Tony Blair's and George Bush's illegal war in Iraq and the ongoing hostilities between 2003 and 2010 resulted in the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians, including helpless children, just as the war waged jointly by the Russians and the Syrian Government today within the Syrian borders have killed thousands of innocent children and their families indiscriminately!

One can also consider the many thousands of deaths of travelling migrants and their families across treacherous seas in overcrowded vessels during the past year and the inactivity of many countries to adequately provide a united and humane response to this tragic situation.

As a writer and historian, I know that when it comes to choosing which one to help, above all other considerations, the saving of an animal, whether wild or domestic, has a greater emotional pull on the heart and purse strings of the British public than the saving of a human life. I also know that one of the reasons this is so, is because animals are rarely responsible for the plight they find themselves in, whereas often, many humans are judged to be.

But, what about children, from whichever part of the globe they hail from? Do these innocents bear any responsibility for what their parents and governments chose to do or the war-torn environments they are born into? Do any of the children who are not yet old enough to walk bear responsibility of where their parents carry them? I think not!

I will never forget an incident I witnessed when I was eight years old. The year was 1951, and as was the common practice at the time in working class circles, after a cat had given birth to a large litter of unwanted kittens, the kittens were placed in a tied sack and drown in a local river.

It fell to the son of a neighbour friend of mine, to carry out this dastardly deed after his father had bagged the kittens up for death by drowning. The young boy who was one year older than me and called Johnie asked me to accompany him to the river on this task. Johnie knew that he would be for it if he did not return with an empty sack, so after some discussion between the two of us, we found an old, disused barn and let the kittens out of the sack. We planned to return daily for the next week to feed the kittens (not realising that they would need milk instead of solids), but when we returned to the barn the following day, the kittens had gone. God only knows what had happened to them, but whatever did happen, I know that Johnie and I felt better because we'd tried.We were also enabled to put the matter from the immediacy of our thoughts because the kittens were no longer there.

It seemed to us at the time that we had bought the kittens an extra day of life at least, yet we cannot know what kind of day that turned out to be for the kittens. For all we knew, a wild fox may have discovered the litter we left in the barn, killed them and either buried them or ate them, as foxes have been known to do, or perhaps some benevolent human entered the barn, saw the little mites and found them all good homes!

I believe that when all of the water has been drained from the cooking pot of life, that all any person can ever do is to try to help in the best way they think they can to preserve all form of life. There are many kinds of death, whether one is a puppy, a litter of kittens or a child, and I am sure that drowning is not the most humane!" William Forde: November 25th, 2016.

November 24th, 2016.

24/11/2016

Thought for today:
"In the courtship stakes, I have to admit (modesty to one side for a moment), that I have never been alone or in want of companionship very long before being able to attract a good looking woman to my side. Since my teenage years, I have always been popular among my peers, and being a decent dancer seemed an important gateway that gained me entrance to many a fair maiden's arms. I was always reasonably attractive, never vulgar in mannerisms, always positive in attitude, confident in action and clever enough in conversation. While no doubt these character traits held some sway in making myself a more appealing catch to some of the opposite sex, I know deep down what the clincher was; I know what it was that made me that little bit different from most other chaps. It was simply the fact, that for over half of my life, I'd been a 'bad boy' who most young women could sense would one day become a 'good man'.

I don't know what it is about women, but so many of the good lookers on the planet invariably seem to gravitate towards the 'bad boy.' It seems to suggest that unless they can hold a bomb in their hands that is likely to go off without advanced warning, they cannot get sufficient buzz out of life to stimulate and satisfy them. It is only when they possess the power to explode and defuse man's mind and manipulate his emotions that they feel in control of the situation.The nearest explanation I can come up with is that they perceive both pleasure and risk as something akin to having an affair of the heart. It is as though women cannot pass through life and simply enjoy the relationships that come their way for what they offer. Instead, they invariably have this need to view most of the men they go out with as being a project; 'a work in progress.'

Many women, especially Scorpios, relish the risk of their attachment to a 'bad boy', and while it lasts, it is the only thing that gets them up on a morning, gives them something to look forward to throughout the day, and satisfies them at night.

Just as men know women who make great lovers but poor wives, most women also share a similar experience. Where women go wrong, however, is the belief that once they have managed to get their 'bad boy' down the marriage aisle that they can preserve him as being a lifelong 'bad boy' to themselves only, and a 'good man' to everyone else! To such degree do they hope to change him before the wedding cake becomes too hard to swallow and digest. Within a year or two of marriage, they often find that their partner has returned to his traits of old and that his wife has become just one more woman in his life; another female waiting in his line of conquests.

Women are at their most fragile and their romances at their most dangerous when all they want is 'to be loved and wanted'. At this stage of their life, they are quite prepared to exchange what the man wants physically for what they crave emotionally.

Women have always found something attractive about mystery, especially when it is attached to danger. Because 'bad boys' don't play by the rules in the 'love stakes', this gives them a distinct advantage and enables them to win out more often. There is something about the chase, the falling in love, the total giving of oneself to another that most women find compelling. The 'bad boy' is a man who allows this to happen and knows how to keep it going through an entire relationship, while the woman never knows if she has them or not. That's why the ending of such relationships for women is so emotionally hard to get over after they've invested all they had to give!

In my experience, whereas 'bad boys' may get the first pick of the girls, they never manage to keep them unless they are prepared to change their ways. Trying to change a 'bad boy' into your 'good man' however, is often just too hard for any woman to accomplish. Changing a 'bad boy' can be as impossible as finding an overripe apple on the turn and not expecting ever to taste its rotten side. In such circumstances, there is no future in its keeping. Change is only ever likely to come around when the 'bad boy' is the one who wants to change!

Wise women who love and respect themselves love 'good men' as opposed to 'bad boys.' While their earlier experiences have led them to know that 'bad boys' can be exciting, maturity has taught them that in 'The Love Stakes' it is 'good men' who go much farther and are likely to stay the course.

For some women, though, I guess that the challenge to find a rough diamond, yet see the quality of the gem at its heart will prove irresistible. Few independent women are able to resist a 'bad boy' whom they believe they can turn into a 'good man', especially if they happen to find him at the right time in his life when he doesn't want to be bad anymore. What do you think, Sheila?" William Forde: November 24th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/la1UEieSwB8For some women, though, I guess that the challenge to find a rough diamond, yet see the quality of the gem at its heart will always prove irresistible.

November 23rd, 2016.

23/11/2016

Thought for today:
"One's character is the outline of one's soul.The foundation of your character is your personality; something which lies within the heart of your very being. It cannot be forged or counterfeited. The very thing that makes the person a substance of lasting worth is their character; never the experience encountered. In the experience, one's character may be developed, but only one's response will ever define it. An ass who goes travelling will never come home a horse, but will forever stay an ass!

There have been many opinions expressed upon what it is that goes to make up character; many undoubtedly valid in their rawest truth. I recall as a young man, being blown away by the 'I have a dream' speech of Martin Luther King Junior, where he spoke of one day being able to live in a nation where a person would not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.

I came from Ireland as a child immigrant to England in 1947, a host country where the Irish newcomer was not held in high regard and was often taunted with the label of 'Tinker' and told to 'Go back home' at every opportunity, I very soon came to value the character of my parents, as shown by their responses to the daily circumstances they faced. While one's talents and learning are usually nurtured in peace and solitude, my mother's character was formed in the storm clouds of a migrant's experience.

I will never forget the words of my mum one day when I complained that a neighbour had been disparaging about the country of my birth. Mum said, 'Don't worry about being called names, Billy. They are good people deep down and they are only wary of us because they don't know us. Give them time. Once they get to know us, they'll like us; who wouldn't?' Mum's words told me that there is no time when we disclose our own character so clearly than when we describe the character of another. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said that anyone's opinion upon another is no less than a confession of their own character.

One of my friends with whom I grew up with on the estate where I lived was called Brian. Brian was a quiet person who never got into fights or arguments. He was a friendly chap who always seemed happy to go along with the rest of the gang. Despite being hopeless at all manner of sport, Brian always loved to take part. It was he who effectively taught me that to participate was more important than to win. Whereas the way a person plays a game shows some of their character, the way a person copes with losing, shows it all!

There are far too many individuals in the world today who over-concern themselves what others think of them. My advice would be to be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because character reflects who you are, whereas reputation is merely what others think of you.

My deceased father was most certainly a man who had 'character' in spades. While he left school to work for the family as soon as he became 13 years old and received little formal education, he was greatly respected by all of his peers. He effectively reminded me through being the man he was, that while knowledge may give one power, respect is only given to those with character. I will never forget him being the only miner from his pit in Birstal to walk through a picket line of striking work mates during the early 1950's when his children were young and his family increased in number, year upon year. His character enabled him to be prepared to put the welfare of his family before his pride and to incur the wrath of his work mates of being thought 'a scab'. This was an action that I later came to greatly admire, despite becoming the youngest textile shop steward in Great Britain at the age of 18 years and bringing over 300 men and women out on the first strike that the firm of Harrison Gardeners in Hightown had since it opened a hundred years earlier.

When we observe people of power in Government Office today, seldom do we see a politician who is prepared to act against their own vested interest for the benefit of the majority. Even those politicians who reached the highest office and whose actions have entered the history books; even they are often prepared to do the very thing that will attract them the most votes, whether it is the right or wrong thing for the country at the time!

It was Abraham Lincoln who believed that the best way to test a person's character was to give them power. While I see what Lincoln was getting at, I have always believed that true character never lies in the spotlight and that the measure of a person's character can best be seen in what they would do if they knew that they'd never be found out. So I'd prefer to stick with my description of character than that of the great Lincoln and continue to believe that true character is doing what is right when nobody else is looking." William Forde: November 23rd, 2016.

November 22nd, 2016.

22/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The newspapers and other media constantly inform us that in the field of education, girls learn much quicker than boys do today, yet neither female nor male learn half as well as pupils of the past, did.

Having been schooled between 1948 and 1958 (mostly in a Catholic school), before I commenced work in the mill, I have a few ideas as to why this might have been so in some respects but not in others. From a purely psychological viewpoint, there is much more for a boy in a modern classroom to be distracted by today than in my time. I can honestly say that all of my female teachers were far stricter than the male teachers and they both dressed, looked and performed much differently to the female teachers in today's classrooms.

It will always be disputed whether pupils are as learned today leaving school as they were in my time. Unfortunately, despite one's own personal views, there is no definitive answer. Education is, in its content, purpose and delivery, much different today than in the 1950's because it served a different time and generation and cannot, therefore, be compared 'like for like'.

In 1951, 'A-levels' were introduced as a standardised post-18 qualification that replaced the 'Higher School Certificate.' Were I to compare an 'A-Level' Examination Paper from 65 years ago with one today in almost any comparable subject, there is no doubt that it was harder to get a pass then it is today. To achieve a pass then depended upon the ability of the pupil's mind to store, absorb and reproduce facts and figures. Today, in some subjects, examinations papers are filled with multiple choice answers for the tested pupil to choose from, whereas in my day, one had to find their own answer.

There are many modern day educationalists who argue that the old-fashioned method of learning by 'rote' involved developing the memory of the pupil and reproducing such details accurately under examination conditions, whereas today, a greater emphasis is placed upon the ability of the pupil to understand what the mind takes in and its relevance to modern day life.

Educational traditionalists will be quick to point out that before they attended 'First School', they had been taught to read a child's book, write their name and recite their times' table up to 12x3, whereas today, there are some pupils who enter 'Secondary School' without adequate literacy and numeracy skills. There are also millions of people over the age of sixty who are still able to mentally calculate quicker in their heads than their children can achieve by use of a computer.

Yet, were I to present an old timer who was tops at arithmetic at school in their day, to sit a modern day maths examination alongside one of today's pupils, I very much suspect they might come a poor second in the rating. There is a world of difference between what we knew as 'Arithmetic' in the 1950's and what comes under the title of 'Mathematics' today!

Whichever side the argument favours, the one thing which is common to the advancement of pupils then and now is the quality of the teachers! Where there is a significant difference in both good and bad teachers, whether they be teachers in 1950 Great Britain or the Great Britain of 2016, it is in their methods of teaching where any meaningful distinction may be found.

All good teachers start with providing conducive conditions where learning can take place. That is why, good teachers always start where the pupil is coming from. If the teacher acts as the captain of their learning vessel, they may not be able to direct the wind, but they can adjust the sails to make all the pupils in their class feel included. If the pupil's dream is to one day navigate the globe, the task of the teacher is not to direct their passage but being able to show them the map of discovery.

Most of us will have some teacher in our background who had a profound expression on us at a crucial stage of our lives by something they said or did or even in the manner of their teaching methods. Mine was a teacher called Mr. Paddy MacNamara, a sports teacher at 'St Patrick's Roman Catholic School' in Heckmondwike, where I attended between the ages of 6-11 years. I was very fortunate to have been a very bright pupil from the age of six years upwards and was rarely positioned less than first or second in my class, whatever the subject. Being from a poorer background, I hadn't been brought up with books in the home, with the exception of the Bible. Before my twelfth birthday, I incurred a traffic accident that left me with severe injuries and kept me in Batley Hospital for almost nine months. While many of my school mates visited me in hospital, Paddy MacNamara was the only teacher to regularly do so.

Mr. MacNamara recognised gaps in my education yet sensed that I was much more intelligent than I believed myself to be. He essentially believed that unless I was able to appreciate how far I could go in life, I'd never know how far to stretch myself. Consequently, he arranged for me to be Mensa tested in Batley Hospital. The tests revealed my I.Q. to be 142, which is pretty high. That knowledge alone boosted my desire to learn more than any other single act by any previous teacher had ever done. I must point out that one's assessed I.Q. level is not an indication of intelligence level as many people think, but reflects that a different reasoning and learning/thinking pattern of the brain that distinguishes itself from the norm, exists in the person of higher I.Q.

As congratulations for my test results, Mr MacNamara presented me with the first book I ever owned. I have read thousands of books over the years besides having written a few dozen, but I'll never forget that book called, 'Terror in the Quicksands.'

Although the school's sports teacher, like may of the teachers of his day, Mr. MacNamara also taught other academic subjects. He was a man who possessed the capacity to make learning easy and where other, more academically trained teachers relished in explaining complexity, Paddy MacNamara revealed the simplicity of the subject being learnt. He was also one of the few teachers who never handed out additional work to do after school hours. After leaving his class, I always went home with something to think about besides homework! A teacher can affect one's whole life; they never know how far their influence takes another or where it stops. In later years, I discovered that Mr. MacNamara had left the formal teaching profession to join some Holy Order.

Another teacher, who I will not name, would lose her temper in every lesson when she discovered someone talking, not listening to her or with their head down. She would first scream and shout and would either send the offending pupil to the head for caning or alternatively throw her wooden blackboard rubber at them or whatever else she held at the time. I was not the only one to be hit on the head by one of her flying missiles. Whenever she achieved a 'bull's eye' with her missile throwing, she would loudly pronounce, 'I am much more than your teacher; I am the one placed on this earth to awaken you!"

It is true that many of our teachers, parliamentarians, bank managers, civil servants and other workers today do not command the respect of their audiences as they once did. As a holder of one of the Queen's awards, I would stop handing out medals and knighthoods to the hobnobs who do no more than what they receive ample payment for, and instead, give deserved recognition to all the good teachers in the land who truly 'make a difference' to the lives of their pupils. The beautiful thing about learning is that no one can take it away from you. Anyone who does anything to help a child emerge into the adult of their potential is a hero/heroine in my book and is deserving of all the recognition society can heap upon them. God bless you, Mr MacNamara, for recogising in me what there was to bring out." William Forde: November 22nd, 2016.

November 21st, 2016.

21/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I came across this image yesterday when I was looking through my old photo albums. It is a photograph of my Irish grandfather and grandmother Fanning, and though I have a few snaps of them, this picture is one of my favourites. It is how they first appeared to me and how I will always remember them, having been born in their home in Portlaw, County Waterford, where I lived for the first five years of my life.

My grandparents were plain folk of basic education; well known in the village where they lived and highly popular with their neighbours, parish priest and the nearest publican. They spoke as they saw, did as they felt proper, carried no airs and graces and were greatly respected in their church and community. Although a Catholic couple from cradle to grave, their daily contributions to the saving of their souls were one Our Father, five Hail Mary's, a bottle of stout and forty Woodbines.

While my grandparents no doubt expressed their love and affection for each other in the privacy of their bedroom on a night, they were never seen to be demonstrably affectionate to each other in public. They'd parented seven children who lived, of which my mother was the oldest. No doubt, by the time their first grandchild arrived on the scene (myself), all thought of love's first passion had long past.

Grandmother was the most dominant of the two. Anywhere inside the household was her realm, which she ran to her rule and satisfaction. My grandfather's kingdom and holy ground upon which no woman's foot ever trod was his shed out in the backyard where he worked most days repairing bicycles and mending punctures for the villagers, and his large strip of garden, immediately beyond the shed. Even the area of his garden was bordered by a six-foot-high hedge surround and had an old door as an entrance that was always locked to keep granny and the world out. When he stepped foot back inside the house, my grandfather usually did as grandmother said, and when she said it! When he strongly disagreed with her, they never argued; instead, he would go for long daily walks accompanied by his packet of Woodbines. Because grandmother was not allowed to enter his working shed under any circumstances, if she wanted to tell him something, she initially had to tell him through a locked shed door.

Granddad was a quiet man of very slim stature. He was very thoughtful and avoided all manner of argument and dispute. As a young man growing up in the heart of rebel Ireland, he was 'on the run' for a number of years before a heart attack in his early twenties brought him back to a more settled life of marriage and raising a family of eight children (one of whom died at birth). In many ways, some might think my grandparents an odd couple, him with his svelte like body and elegant looks, and she, looking like a lost sister to Arthur Lucan's character of Old Mother Riley.

My grandmother was a weighty, buxom woman, who had a big nose in the centre of her face that you could hang a kettle on. All day long she would bake soda bread on a big, black range and eat half of it as soon as it was baked, whereas granddad never ate much and was as thin as a rake. Granddad's contribution to the family table were potatoes, kale and cabbage; all produce he grew in his back garden and tended to, whenever he wasn't mending bicycles. The only thing the family ate on most days of the week was mashed potatoes and either kale or cabbage mixed together, which the Irish call Colcannon. To finish off, we would then have the remainder of the soda bread that grandmother hadn't eaten during the day, spread thickly with salty butter.!

For fifty years after his heart attack in his early twenties, granddad was unable to undertake any heavy manual work. So he did what he could to survive. Between 9.00 am and 4.00 pm, Monday to Friday, he could be found in his working shed behind the kitchen, mending bicycles for the cyclists of Portlaw. Two things always fascinated me about this occupation of his; the method of payment he received for his work and my grandmother's constant supervision/surveillance of him. While the working shed was his kingdom, to which he locked his door once he entered, he still never managed to prevent my grandmother from being able to see what he was up to or to stop her pestering him.

Whenever granddad repaired someone's bike, occasionally he might be paid in coppers, but in the main, it would be a packet of Woodbine cigarettes, a cabbage or a pound of fresh butter. I can still recall my mother telling me once that one person paid him for his labour with pigs trotters! He would always accept all manner of goods as payment for his labour, much to my grandmother's constant annoyance, with one exception; soda bread. It would have resulted in the breakup of his marriage had he ever accepted another woman's baked soda bread that was offered as a cyclist's currency, as grandmother would eat no food that she hadn't baked herself on the range and neither would she allow her husband to! She always said that were she ever to get food poisoning, she'd rather be poisoned by her own hand than the cooking of another woman

When my grandfather first erected his working shed for the purpose of his bicycle repairs, Grandmother made him turn it around so that one of the two windows behind his work bench faced her kitchen window. He would work between 9.00 am and 4.00 pm daily, throughout which, grandmother would always keep an eye on him, just in case he had another heart attack. Granddad also made up lots of useful gadgets. He was more or less, the Keith Robinson inventor of Portlaw. Between the kitchen window and his shed, a long piece of rope was attached to a pull cord at each end with a bell suspended from its washing-line centre in the back yard, half-way between his shed and the kitchen. This enabled each to attract the attention of the other, should they need to. Grandmother would simply pull the cord to communicate that the mid-day meal was ready and he would pull the cord to make his regular request, 'Make me a cup of tay (tea) woman with six spoons of sugar!' Whenever my grandmother served him with his cup of tea, because she wasn't allowed to enter his shed, she had to leave it outside the shed door, which he would retrieve once he saw her back inside the kitchen. Grandmother always said that he had a secret stash of cash in that old shed, along with the identity of traitors he'd shot while 'on the run.'

Despite having six children still living at home, plus myself, somehow we all managed to sleep by the males and females doubling up and sleeping top to tail. Every night, when my grandparents went to bed, we would hear them talking about what they'd done that day as they smoked their last Woodbine. As they spoke, they each looked up at the ceiling and allowed their eyes to rest on their homely heaven that my grandfather had created just after they'd started married life in the house. Over many years, granddad had painted all the ceilings in the house blue and had painted in hundreds of golden stars to gaze at. One always knew when my grandparents were ready for sleep, as they gave each other a loud, sloppy kiss that I always listened for.

My grandparents were Irish Nationalists in their politics through and through. In the narrow corridor of their house were hung over twenty photographic portraits of Irish rebels who'd been born between the mid 19th century and the early 20th century. Occupying the central and most prominent position of their 'rogues gallery', was a framed photograph of their hero, Kevin Barry. Kevin Barry was the first Irish Republican to be executed by the British after the leaders of the 'Easter Rising' were sentenced to death for their part in an operation against the Crown that resulted in the death of three British soldiers. Following his hanging, Kevin Barry became an Irish hero and it is a recognition of how well he was regarded by the Nationalist supporters that they wrote a ballad about his part in the 'Easter Rising' that is 6 minutes and 38 seconds long. It is the longest recorded song I ever heard in a world where early records were never longer than three minutes. One of the few luxury possessions that my grandparents owned was an old gramophone which I used to love winding up and playing the only vinyl record they had to play on it; the 'Ballad of Kevin Barry'. For any non-Irish reader who wants a potted history of the 'Easter Rising' in 1916, it is well worth a six and a half minute listening.

My grandparents remained staunch Irish republicans until the day they died, within weeks of each other at the age of 75 years. Ever since they could vote, they would always travel 100 miles by train to Dublin at election time to cast their vote for the Irish revolutionary leader and statesman. Eamon de Valera (1882-1975) who served as Prime Minister and later as President of the Irish Republic (1959-73).

I once recall me, mum and my two oldest sisters being taken into the seaside resort of Tramore in County Waterford by my grandparents. My grandparents stayed in the pub drinking and smoking Woodbines all day, while mum and the three children on holiday with her went on the beach. The place was as busy as Blackpool during the height of the holiday season. When mum asked grandmother where we would meet up later, she replied, 'Oh, don't worry your head, girl. We'll be around somewhere. I'm sure you'll find us in one of the pubs!' Tramore had over one dozen pubs at the time, and we did!

The one thing that the English will never understand about the Irish is their ancestral connections that bind blood with bones. Take the pub in Tramore for instance, where we left my grandparents that day, or for that matter, any pub in the 26 counties of the Republic. While there, within five minutes of their arrival, they had struck up a conversation with a number of strangers. Within fifteen minutes of drinking, talking and chain smoking Woodbines, they would always have found someone with whom they shared a close or distant relative that ancestrally bound them! I could never get my head around, and neither could they explain this peculiarly Irish phenomenon of finding a relative beneath every bed one looked under! It can only have come about by much interbreeding between consenting colleens and boyos over the past century. All I can testify to is that walk in any Irish pub and somewhere you'll find a relative in the pack, if you speak to enough folk long enough!

When my grandparents died, so did a part of me. They represented much more than blood and bone to me; they were the green grass and the soil of this blessed Ireland I was born into and have loved ever since. I will never forget them, and when I die, instructions are left to bury part of my ashes with them in their Irish grave, along with the English grave of my parents and the memorial site on Haworth Moor of my wife Sheila's deceased husband. God bless my grandparents who first taught me that there's no place like home, especially if one's first home was at grandma's house." William Forde:November 21st, 2016.

https://youtu.be/ysH86MMwPs8

November 20th, 2016

20/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The Japanese song, 'I look up as I walk' that was performed by the Japanese crooner Kyu Sakamoto and which is better known the world over by the alternative title, 'Sukiyaki', has sold 13 million copies worldwide since its first release in 1961. Indeed, it was the first Japanese song to sell over one million. This song is crucially important in the birth of Japan as a modern nation.

During the 'Second World War', the Japanese proved themselves to be ruthless in the degree of savagery they displayed towards the British and Ally soldiers they captured. I have met and spoken with so many British soldiers who became prisoners of war under the Japanese, who would never forgive them for the cruelty they showed towards their captives. They essentially had no respect for any soldier who would not kill himself or die fighting against the odds before surrendering and allowing themselves to be captured by the enemy!

In the early morning of December 7th, 1941, hundreds of Japanese fighter planes attacked the American naval base at Pearl Harbour, near Honolulu, Hawaii. The barrage lasted almost two hours, but it was devastating. The Japanese destroyed 20 American naval vessels (including eight battleships), and over 300 aeroplanes. 2,235 American soldiers and sailors were killed in the attack and 1,143 were wounded. The Japanese engaged in this action without any formal declaration of war; something that was hitherto unheard of in any civilised part of the world by a major power. The day after this attack without warning, President Franklin D. Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan.

After the Americans had joined the war, America seemed to take immediate revenge upon all people of Japanese origin who lived in America and specifically those who lived on the Pacific coast. Overnight, Japanese Americans found their lives radically altered. Three months after the attack on Pearl Harbour, the President issued executive Order No. 9066; forcing 110,000 to leave their homes in California, Washington and Oregon and to be sent to detention camps in desolated parts of the United States. Over two thirds of these Japanese Americans had been born in the United States and none were ever charged with a crime against the government. More than 70 percent of people who were forced into camps were American citizens. Not one vote by Congress was registered against this action and it was even upheld as constitutional by the Supreme Court. While the government called these places 'Relocation Camps', they were essentially 'Detention Camps' surrounded by barb wire and guarded by armed soldiers. The families lived in poorly built, overcrowded barracks that had no running water and little heat. There was little privacy and everyone used public bathroom and toilet facilities. For many years, the children of Japanese Americans in these centres received no education and a second rate standard of medical care. Almost 50 years later, the American Congress passed and President Ronald W. Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, which formally apologized for its wartime imprisonment of these innocent people and awarded each of 80,000 survivors a $20,000 compensation payment.

The 'Second World War' was effectively brought to an end by the America's nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August the 6th and 9th respectively. These two bombings were carried out by the United States with the consent of the United Kingdom, as laid down by the Quebec Agreement, and resulted in the deaths of over 129,000 people. While the Japanese were warned in advance of these two nuclear bombings and were given ample opportunity to surrender, I wonder how many American and British diplomats, knowing of the 'non-surrender' culture of the Japanese fighting forces, sensed that they might not?

It took many years after the 'Second World War' for the people of United States of America and Great Britain to forgive Japan for their part in the war, and many old soldiers who witnessed their brutality in warfare never would.

When 'Sukiyaki' became a global hit after its release in 1961, its symbolism throughout the civil world could not be over-rated. Its acceptance in the world charts of pop music was in effect, a welcome of the Japanese as a nation back into the fold of humanity. For the first time since those dark days of Pearl Harbour, many Japanese started to feel accepted by the world again." William Forde: November 20th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/ETX_EJgOVw8

November 19th, 2016.

19/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The young today will no doubt find it strange to learn that during previous centuries, people would have to walk miles with a jug in order to buy a quantity of milk for the family table. My mother used to tell me as I grew up that she walked a six-mile return journey each day to collect the milk for the family before she went to school. In later life, I came to accept that mum's six mile daily trek was probably nearer one, once I started to realise that in any farming country like Ireland, one is never too far away from a milking cow.

I recall being a youngster at school and getting free milk daily at break times. One of my sneakiest tricks played on mum would be when I'd be the first up on a morning in order to bring in the bottled milk from the doorstep. At first, I would carefully remove the silver-foiled top and after drinking half the head of cream in each bottle, I would try to replace the cap. Whenever I left the top too loose, mum would know that I'd been at the cream and give me 'what for.'

I was 7 or 8 years old before I noticed little pin prick holes in the tops of some uncapped milk bottles on people's doorsteps. I later learned that they had been caused by thieving birds pecking at the cream from the bottle neck. This newfound knowledge provided me with the ideal opportunity to engage in the 'perfect crime'; how to steal the cream head inside the bottles and get away with it! A number of finely pricked holes by use of a sewing needle would enable me to suck out most of the cream while leaving the silk foil tops intact around the bottle neck. My usual response when bringing in the milk was, 'It looks like the birds have been at the cream again, Mum.' And on those occasions when I hadn't been able to get a small enough needle to prick with and used a much thicker knitting needle instead, I would blame it on a stray cat.

It felt fair grand to get one up on stupid adults. When I consider my past, I am frequently obliged to accept that telling lies is a common fault in any boy; it is an art in a lover, an accomplishment in a married man, and it becomes second nature to an author who needs to stretch the imagination of his readers and occasionally, suspends their critical judgement." William Forde: November 19th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/LanCLS_hIo4

November 18th, 2016

18/11/2016

Thought for today:
"When I was in my late twenties, I was employed as a Mill Manager on nights in a Cleckheaton textile factory. The night time complement of workers amounted to some one hundred and ten men. Halfway through the night, the men would take a thirty-minute break and out would come their flasks and sandwiches, the only nourishment to keep them going until 6.00 am when their shift ended. During their break, most would talk between themselves and some would have a brief cat nap before the noise of active machines broke the silence once more.

All over the mill, I could see the different groups of workers exercising their preferred option of amusement during their break and though it wasn't the done thing for a Mill Manager to eat with them, I often watched them play dominoes and cards or listened to their conversations. Like many men of boast who commonly believe that 'bigger is better,' especially in below stairs quarters of masculine anatomy, many of the stories they told among themselves were as tall as the piles of dirty underwear and working garments their wives and mothers washed on their behalf. Most mill employees were men who didn't have the start in life that the middle classes enjoyed and they seized every opportunity to take whatever small pleasure came their way. Few of the workers in the mill that I managed had experienced educational opportunities or apprenticeships which would have secured employment advancement beyond the level of labourer.

It was as though their lives was a constant struggle to make ends meet, and as far as holidays went, Blackpool and Scarborough represented the breath of their horizons. What they lacked in travel experience, however, they more than made up for in imagination. My dear mother, who could 'tell a tale' herself, would have been in good company with them. And although none had any spare money after their wives had paid the bills, like most working-class men, few were adverse to having a little gamble on the side to break the tedium of life.

One night during the break of one group of workers, the chaps started talking about some of the strangest jobs they'd ever done. When it looked like half of the group had held some strange occupations, one man decided to turn the conversation into a competition; naturally with a monetary prize. It was eventually decided that those who chose to tell about their strange job in the contest would outlay the stake of a florin from their next wages, while those who listened to the telling would become the panel of judges who decided which man had won the contest, along with the kitty of florins. (Please note that decimalisation had not yet arrived in England).

It was agreed that the competition would run over the next five nights of the week, as each shift break never allowed time for more than two contributions to be made. I recall a few of the odd jobs being mentioned as being too far-fetched to believe were true. In fact, few strange occupations mentioned by the contestants could not be proved ever to have been held by the man in question. Therefore, it was agreed that the winner of the competition would be the one who was judged to be the most credible of tellers and who'd held the oddest of jobs; the contestant who was 'most believed' by the listening judges; whether their tale was true or false!

One chap claimed to have been a Bubble Gum Blower for a Quality Supervisor in a Doncaster confectionery works. Another said that he and his girlfriend had once slept on a bed in a shop window display for three days and earned £30 for the privilege. One man, who was clearly stretching the limits of our imagination, claimed to have once briefly worked as a Flatulence Smeller in the underwear section of a finishing mill in Holmfirth. He said that if the linen cloth from which women's knickers were made had insufficient filling used in the finishing process, foul air when expelled, would remain trapped and could not escape into the atmosphere until the knickers were removed from the wearer! The occupation I found oddest and clearly in line as a potential winner was that of Chicken Sexer. It would seem that chicks are born in their thousands weekly at some of the larger Battery Farms. When they are born, their tendency is to cuddle together in a mass attempt to keep warm.The most important task after their birth is to sex them individually, as only the female chicks are relevant for egg-laying production, while the male chicks are swiftly fattened and culled for the table.

After one week of storytelling about the strange jobs they had once held, the clear winner of the competition was judged to be Charlie Stokes. Charlie had been born in a Rochdale slum area during the 'Second World War' years. The home in which he lived was, like the rest of his street, rat infested. Charlie said that one month after leaving school, he was taken on as apprentice trainee to a Ratter. His wages were poor, but once he became skilled at his work and had served his apprenticeship, he hoped that he would be able to earn enough for himself and his wife to live off, especially as he was the only Ratter for miles around.

Charlie told his mill mates that even when he did become a qualified rat catcher, he was still too poor to eat properly and provide for his growing family, so, he took on a second job and started 'moonlighting'. Under the protective guise of being the local Ratter, who sometimes shot his prey with a rifle, he started to engage in a bit of regular poaching on a night time. If ever the local Bobby on his beat noticed Charlie with a sack thrown over his shoulder and a rifle and traps at his side while on his rounds of the neighbourhood, he'd merely assume that Charlie had been out on a job, knowing full well that rats come out at night and that is the best time for the Ratter to catch them. While most of the rats would be trapped or poisoned, occasionally Charlie might have to shoot them. Charlie told his mill mates who were enthralled as they listened to his story, that there was many a night when it pleased him greatly to get one up on the Old Bill, as he chatted to the local Bobby with a sackful of rabbit or prime bird on his back.

I never forgot this manner of entertainment that the workers on the night shift whom I supervised would engage in. Indeed, I made it a central part of one of the books I would later have published in later life when I became an author called, 'Tales from the Allotments.'

That book is a Christmas story about redundant miners who become allotment holders. They grow fruit, vegetables and flowers all spring, summer and autumn, but when winter months set in and the ground hardens, they spend their allotment hours holding story contests with a money prize from their entrance fee of a florin. This book was read by the television presenter, Michael Parkinson, at a Barnsley school in the year 2000 when it was launched. It is dedicated to my father who was an ex-miner and all other miners whose lives and communities were shattered when all the northern pits were closed down by Margaret Thatcher during the 1980's.

The book can be purchased from www.smashwords.com in e-book format or from www.lulu.com and amazon in paper/hard/copy, with all book sale profits going to charitable causes in perpetuity (Over £200,000 since 1989). It is suitable for anyone aged between 12 and 100 and would make an ideal Christmas present for any ex-miner or allotment holder." William Forde: November 18th, 2016.

November 17th, 2016.

17/11/2016

Thought for today:
"It has always been a dilemma for every society without infinite resources, however moral or compassionate it believes itself to be, to decide who best to help; given the assumption that what we have at our disposal can only spread so far and that one cannot help everybody?

Take our wonderful National Health Service for instance. How does society rightly prioritise its limited resources now that we are all living longer and are able to extend our lives significantly during terminal illnesses through the advancement of new treatments and expensive drugs that were never previously available? For my own part, I know that whereas my terminal condition would have killed me off in less than one year, two decades ago, 'the average' survival length today for people with the same medical condition can vary anywhere between 1 to 5 years.

With an ever increasing ageing population, and in a National Health Service where priorities have to be made, do we treat an older person approaching the end of their life over that of treating a child who is starting theirs? Do we discriminate our limited resources in favour of the one who has longest to live and therefore the most to gain; even when the eldest is an Einstein and has the most to contribute to the benefit of mankind? Do we prioritise nationals over health tourists and immigrants of comparable ill health, or people who live healthy lifestyles, yet still contract illnesses, over those who have self-inflicted conditions created by drug and alcohol addictions, plus all manner of overindulgence? Do we prioritise treating the accidents of someone who chooses to climb mountains or engages in any dangerous activity over that of a person who never exercises and thereby takes no such risks, like the couch potato, whose greatest fall is likely to be from the sofa to the floor? Do we prioritise mental illness and treatment as highly as we do physical health when the mental condition is irreversible, whereas the physical condition isn't? Do we allow people who cannot have children under normal circumstances to benefit from highly expensive alternative methods and pay for the sex change of one person who would prefer to be a woman instead of a man while another dies from lack of drug funding or some other area of the financial deficit?

We have recently witnessed young men who have come from the Calais migrant camp in rescue buses for 'children' who are clearly over the age of 18 years. Indeed, recent statistics show that two-thirds of child migrants over the past ten years have been over 18 and are often in their mid-twenties. While I do not for moment argue that they ought not to be admitted to this country, I do contend that young migrants over the age of 18 years should not be prioritised over orphan migrants who are much younger, more vulnerable and are less capable of fending for themselves! Furthermore, I would argue that given any limitation placed upon numbers received, older migrants are taking the places of younger children of greater need.

I can already hear the thoughts spinning around inside the heads of those of you who genuinely believe that there should be absolutely no restrictions on any number of immigrants, whatever the resource level, and that until there remains not one extra inch of space to turn around in, our shores and resources should remain accessible to the world. It doesn't take much of a brain to understand that were we to take no action at all; nay, to positively invite everyone aboard our island vessel, that eventually open warfare and mass resurrection would break out and we would either have to decide, do we all sink or do we start to fill our boats in order that the maximum number may survive?

With regard to the ages of these 'child migrants', the nearest example that comes to my mind, I call 'Titanic Test.' Before the 'RMS Titanic' sunk in April 1912 on its maiden voyage from Southampton to New York, it received and ignored six warnings of sea ice and was travelling at maximum speed before it hit a colossal iceberg, resulting in the deaths of 1,500 passengers out of an estimated 2,224 on board.

The comparison I wish to make is simply this. When one ignores numerous warnings and uses one's total resources and presses ahead at full speed without having the necessary backup in the event of national disasters (IE not enough lifeboats to save all 2,224 passengers when the ship went down), more people will die and suffer than otherwise would have happened had the liner carried fewer passengers and more lifeboats!

Also, when the crew were expected to decide which of the passengers were prioritised to have a seat in one of the few lifeboats (knowing full well that those passengers who remained on board the sinking ship would most certainly die), it is interesting to note, to whom those precious seats were given. The natural answer, the only answer was to women and children, followed by the aged!

I want to see this great country of ours take in more migrants who are fleeing war-torn countries and lives of persecution and despair, but if like the situation faced by the captain and crew of the 'Titanic', there are insufficient resources to save all, I want to see women and young children prioritised above all others, with the next category prioritised being the aged. And that is what I suspect anger many British people when they see healthy looking young adults push themselves to the front of the line for rescue when there are women, young children and old people behind them.

It is the 'Titanic Test' of discrimination that makes me proud to be British in a world where too often power is might, men are considered superior to women and adulthood trumps childhood! Bring back the 'Titanic Test'." William Forde: November 17th, 2016.

November 16th, 2016.

16/11/2016

Thought for today:
'Come what may' by William Forde.

'There is a calmness to be found in every stream,
a stillness that's the core of every dream.
A loving parent searched for in the heart of every child,
a childlike moment capable of turning adult anger mild.

There is a place for worried hearts to go,
where solace can be found, not in twisted thoughts
of mangled minds, but in the midst of peace to flow.

That's where I'll find peace, discover self and fall in love with all I see.
That's where you are, my soulmate, the place you're meant to be.
Always there and always with me, in the midst of every day,
to comfort, love, protect and guide me, never fail to stand beside me,
come what may.'

William Forde: Copyright: November 16th, 2016.

November 15th, 2016.

15/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I was around eight years old when I first discovered the advantages of being on top of the shed roof.

At that time, our growing family had just moved into a brand new three bed-roomed house on a newly built council estate called Windy Bank. I recall being over the moon with our good fortune. While I still wouldn't have my own bed to sleep in until my twelfth year of life, at least our parents and their seven children now had three bedrooms to share instead of the one. Also, the old tin bath was exchanged for a proper bath and whereas we previously had to share an outside privy with other neighbours, we now enjoyed the luxury of having two loos; an inside one upstairs and one outside next to the outhouse shed which was attached to the house. We also had a great big garden which my father lawned and cut three times weekly with a mechanical roller mower that was guaranteed to keep any user as fit as a fiddle.

One day during my ninth year, the next door neighbour, eleven-year-old Silvia Hinchcliffe and myself were playing ball in the back garden and the ball went up onto the shed roof. Silvia, being a bit of a tomboy instantly climbed up to get the ball and not wishing to be outdone by any female, my masculine pride led me to follow her.

Once we were up on the roof, we were in no hurry to get back down again. It was a warm sunny day and we were in the long school holiday months of summer. It felt good up there, especially as we experienced the new-found power of being able to look down on others for the first time in our lives. All in all, the world looked different when viewed from above and even the plain-looking Sylvia began to take on the vision of being the best looking female around.

Sylvia, being two years older than me, was far more adventurous and advanced in the ways of the world than I was and before I knew it, she gave me a big fat kiss and laughed out loud as though she'd discovered happiness in a younger man's arms for the first time in her life.

Over the next few years, I would frequently find myself up on the shed roof with Sylvia whenever she invited me. While I initially kidded myself that she fancied me above all others, I eventually had to conclude that I was no more than her secret 'toy boy' who she used for kissing practice, and which would prepare her for her place in later life as 'a woman of the world.'

At the age of 11 years, a serious traffic accident resulted in me being kept in hospital for almost a year. When discharged from the hospital, I was unable to walk until I was 14 years old. I was 15 years old before I possessed the wherewithal to climb on top of the shed roof again. Sylvia was now 17 years old and had moved on in her life and preferred older men.

I started walking again around the time that the Rock and Roll era of the Teddy Boys had taken off big time. Soon, I'd started attending dances, which quickly became my latest way of keeping close to the girls in my life.

I have often wondered what became of Sylvia and how she fared in later life. After she'd left the scene, climbing on top of shed roofs never seemed to offer the same attraction and soon stopped being on my daily list of things to do.

The 50's had come into my life and lifted me to new heights of expectation. Thanks to Sylvia's earlier tuition, I was well able to kiss with the best of them and leave the girl's gasping for breath; not quite knowing what had hit them!" William Forde: November 15th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/kq21iPt8Z2o

November 14th, 2016.

14/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Think of me as you will, but let me tell you that there is a beauty in all things black that no white person can ever know." William Forde: November 14th, 2016.

November 13th, 2016.

13/11/2016

Thought for today:
"We are each brought up with different preconceptions about nuns, which I'm sure for the most part, are often unrepresentative of this holy order. My mother, whose classroom teachers in her Irish youth were nuns, often told me tales that indicated her teachers to be as strict as they came. Indeed, some were even spoken of as being cruel, bordering upon sadistic and seemed to derive pleasure from inflicting pain upon their child charges. I once heard of a nun who was a school teacher who got particular pleasure from giving her pupils six of the best. When she retired from teaching, it was rumoured that she took her faithful swish with her.

The Magdalene Laundries in Ireland (also known as Magdalene Asylums), were institutions from the 18th to 20th centuries that were originally established to house 'fallen women'. The first inmates were largely prostitutes but gradually changed to include unmarried mothers who were often forced into such establishments by the combined powers and alliance of the Catholic Church and 'shamed' parents. Many of these 'laundries' were effectively operated as penitentiary work-houses by the Irish nuns and were named after the reformed biblical prostitute, Mary Magdalene.

Many of the classical writers and artists from European countries have, since the middle ages, included erotic images of nuns in their writings and paintings, besides providing copious accounts of the hanky panky they often got up to with priests on the prowl. I have never been able to determine whether such was an accurate reflection of medieval times or the propaganda and vivid imagination run wild of bitter atheists and anti-papists.

None of the many nuns I have known have fitted into any of the above categories and they have usually been cut from the same cloth as the late St-Teresa-of-Calcutta. These nuns give everything they have to give to the communities they religiously and socially serve. I have known them work in soup kitchens or walk the dark city streets in the dead of night administering care, love, advice, food and friendship to the homeless, the prostitute, the alcoholic and the down and out vagrant.

I'll never forget my first cold day on a snowy January when I alighted the Cunard liner (The Sylvania), in Nova Scotia, Canada in 1962, to take a train to Quebec. As I walked into the railway station, my freezing toes inside my foolish English winkle-picker style shoes were dropping off my feet. As I shivered, the first person to greet me with a smile, a free warm drink and the gift of some rosary beads was a Canadian nun. She didn't know that I was Catholic and probably didn't care; all she wanted to do was to welcome me to her country in the name of Jesus Christ. I can still taste the refreshing warmth of that cup of soup, and had I been Protestant, her friendly gesture would probably have been enough to turn me Catholic!

I'm sure that many Sisters of the cloth are no different than the vast majority of us when it comes to giving way to the temptation of the flesh or indulging the satisfaction of our baser instincts. As for the occasional dalliance between priest and nun, or for that matter, nun and nun, I am prepared to believe that there has always existed suspect sisters within our cloisters where a potentially dangerous chemistry has constantly flitted between saint and sinner. I am sure that many of the temptations they face can prove too difficult on occasions to turn away from. As Mae West pointed out, it is a sad truth about life that whenever women are prepared to go wrong, men will usually go right after them! The psychologist in me tells me that is sometimes too easy for us to lose direction in the maze of any convent or monastery. A part of me also suspects that some nuns take on a new habit in order to distance themselves from past ones. Let's face it, most of us are in the process of running away from some uncomfortable aspects of our lives or have done in the past.

During my life, I have dated half a dozen convent-educated girls/women, who would more easily fall into the categories of either saints or sinners, dependent upon how they reacted to their single-sex educational experiences. In the main, the nature of their restriction of thought and the suppression of sexual emotions produced one of two types; the redeemed and the repressed. Whether we like it or not, every life is no more and no less than a march from innocence, through temptation, to virtue or vice; and as we journey along this road, both God and the Devil will beckon us to their side to take up arms in their cause. It is the choices we make that determine our eventual destination and the nature of the habits we adopt.

The writer's part of me would love to sneak into the mind of every nun as they grapple with their demons as you or I might be occasionally tempted. I can imagine some nuns sneaking a puff of a cigarette late on at night, or drinking the odd can of beer during a hot day while working out in the garden, or even daring to splash about in the sea like a pair of giggling girls when the Mother Superior's eyes are elsewhere. I can imagine a group of them gossiping about the eccentricities of another, and were I to stretch my imagination far enough, I can even accept that constantly playing with their rosary beads during lonely nights must prove a valuable distraction to some and prevent them from playing with more forbidden things.

Now then, come on girls; we want none of that around here; it's Sunday!" William Forde: November 13th, 2016.

November 12th, 2016.

12/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Thank you, Danielle O'Shea, my friend from County Carlow, Ireland, for giving me permission to use a photograph of your daughter Matilda that was taken five years ago when she was aged three years. Her captured image is a perfect companion to accompany the words of today's thought.

Whether a child is a boy or girl, most of us recall those happy days of childhood and family life, playing our part in those simple things that pleasure us a lifetime. Can you recall the times we picked apples with our little hands so that mum could make an apple pie, or occasions when you hunted country lanes for blackberries which your wizard mum stirred with her magic wand in the cooking pot and turned into a lovely jam which tasted better than any shop produce ever could? And, the magic of it all, the thing which took an everyday family experience and turned it into something memorable that we would take to our graves, was made possibly by one thing only; by ourselves being part of the production team.

And so it is with life when we are able to turn happy moments of our childhood into unforgettable memories of old age. It is only through our active involvement with our loved ones and our world that our experiences become more meaningful to have, richer to recall, and far more pleasurable and memorable than they otherwise would be. Just imagine how much we miss out on when we remain mere observers, clapping from the sidelines, unprepared to roll up our sleeves and get involved with the world around us!

Deep down, we all know that the best and most fulfilling way to help oneself is to help others and that what we give out we get back in spades. We know that the most enduring way to 'become' is to 'belong' to something greater than ourselves; our universal family. Ask not, 'Who is my neighbour?' Is he/she the person who lives next door, or the house down at the bottom of the street; or perhaps someone who lives in the next town, the adjoining county, another country, or across the sea at the other side of the world? If you know he/she is there, then they are your neighbours and part of your universal family. And should they come knocking on your door, it is no less than common courtesy to open it and bid them welcome. Only those among you who bid them, 'enter' shall never find the Gates of Heaven closed.

Between 1989 and the present day, my writing, book publications, and charitable works helped to raise over £200,000 for charitable causes. While I have often been the one credited with this achievement (having being the front person and writing dozens of books), anything I did could not have been done without the help, support and involvement of thousands of others working away quietly in the background and giving of themselves unselfishly. I learned very early on in my charity fund-raising career, that given the choice of raising £1000 from one wealthy donor or having 1000 poorer people each give £1, it is far better to opt for the latter course. The reason was simple. Whereas the rich person's involvement would probably stop after they'd passed on their donation, I knew that I could count on the 1000 poorer people who gave their £1 to remain involved with the project and committed to it until the overall aim had been achieved.

It was as if they understood that the greatest thing one can give is their time and effort; a portion of oneself. Paradoxically, it was as if they instinctively knew that the best way to find their finest self was to lose oneself in their service to others. The single thing understood by all good people I ever met, is that everyone counts and everything we do in life matters; every action touches another and no feeling is immune to hurt. And when it is the good and generous in us that is played out through our dealings with another, a chord of compassion is vibrated that is capable of stirring humanity for the rest of eternity.

Ask anyone the things they remember doing with their parents and family or to recall their happiest childhood memories when they were growing up. Their answers will be remarkably similar. It will always be the simple acts of family sharing they were involved in that will prove to be the most enduring. This sharing will be the thing that reminds them of those early childhood years when they were the apple of their parent's eyes and God's innocence, made flesh." William Forde: November 12th, 2016.

November 11th, 2016

11/11/2016

"Thought for today:
"Today is 'Remembrance Day', which over the years has become informally known as 'Poppy Day'. It is a memorial day which has been observed by member states of the Commonwealth since the end of 'The First World War' in 1919, to remember their armed forces who died in the line of duty. Remembrance Day is observed to recall the end of hostilities of 'The First World War', which formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It was hoped at the time that 'The First World War' would be a war to end all wars, but sadly as events have shown since, such was a forlorn hope.

Between 1990 and 2005, as a children's writer, I held over 2000 story-telling assemblies in Yorkshire schools. During this fifteen year period, I became very familiar with the school curriculum. During the early 90's, I was amazed to discover that the Department of Education had issued national guideline policy to all schools not to provide any lessons that related to the two world wars or our country's part in them, lest it ran the risk of being viewed as 'glorifying war'. It was indicated that all schools should refrain from teaching about The First and Second World Wars.

Around this time, there lived in the area of Leeds, a retired Headmaster who had also been a war veteran of 'World War Two'. When this ex Headmaster, who'd been retired over seventeen years, became aware of these national guidelines, he was disgusted and felt ashamed of the teaching profession for going along with this government policy. He believed that if brave soldiers and their families fought in the world wars to make our country a safer place to live, a country where democracy and freedom would continue to flourish in future generations, then the very least we, as a nation could do, was to tell our children why such brave men and women were prepared to die for them! The very least we owed our brave soldiers who gave up their lives on the battlefields, was to convey to our young 'what they did' and 'why they did it'! We owed each last one of these warriors no less than to honour the national promise, 'never to forget'. This headmaster held a belief that I shared wholeheartedly.

During the mid 90's, this ex-headmaster, ex-soldier approached me with a project in mind that he was prepared to financially back through the part payment of his pension fund. He had recently become widowed to a woman he'd met and married during the 'Second World War' years and offered to fund a 500 limited-edition of a book that told present day school children details about 'The Second World War', which their schools were reluctant to inform them of due to some warped sense of political correctness gone mad! He asked me if I was prepared to accept this commission, on the proviso that his name would not become public and that the profits from the sale of all 500 published books would be given to charity. I was more than happy to agree to undertake this task.

Over the next 18 months, I researched background details for the book and wrote it. Being a history buff, I found the research very easy, but it was the construction of the story plot, I found more difficult. Whereas I knew some children liked history, I also knew that for the overwhelming majority, and in particular all children approaching teenage years, that 'Second World War' history wasn't their favourite subject. I finally decided that I could fulfil my brief to the ex-head funding the book publication as well as write a story for the modern-day child/young person that was contemporary. At the time, another burning topic that was regularly reported in the national press, was the rapid increase in difficult-to-teach children being permanently expelled from school and essentially being written off as being too hot to handle and too disadvantageous to the school's position in the league tables.

So, I wrote, 'Butterworth's Brigade' which was designed to be a cross-over book that was suitable for any child over twelve, young person or adult. The book needed to be one that a teenager would find contemporary and interesting, while supplying copious details about the 'Second World War' years in Great Britain within the subplot.

Synopsis:
The worlds of 12-year-old Axel Tyler and 73-year-old Brigadier Butterworth couldn’t possibly be farther apart. While one is content to live life to the full on the fast track of 1990’s Britain, the other yearns for the day when the country regains its senses and returns to those pre-war values that once made Britain ‘Great’. When events conspire to bring the 12-year-old rebel and the madcap Brigadier face-to-face, conflict becomes inevitable as the irreconcilable values and beliefs of two widely different worlds collide.

The war between the two combatants is fought within a privatised, concentration camp, which is situated deep in the heart of Arundel Forest. All of the school rebels around the country who face expulsion are rounded up and are ostensibly sent to a boarding school down south to be retrained, before being returned to the normal school system as reformed characters. Instead of landing in a boarding school, however, they find themselves confined within a glorified boot camp which is run by a mad-cap Brigadier who relives every day of his life through events of the 'Second World War.' Who will win the hearts and minds of the 59 teenage-rebel prisoners who have all been expelled from their schools and imprisoned in Arundel Forest: Axel or the Brigadier? At stake is nothing less than the future of Great Britain and the values of its young.

‘Butterworth’s Brigade’ was described by the media at the time of its initial publication as being 'a thought provoking story; a book of the 90's that will be remembered in years to come for the issues it raised and the questions it posed'; in particular the prospect of England leaving the European Union.(Please note that this book was written twenty-one years before Brexit).

The book is available in e-book format from www.smashwords.com or in paper/hard copy from www.lulu.com and amazon. All profits from book sales will be given to charitable causes, as have all of the £200,000 profits from the sales of my books since 1989/90. Enjoy." William Forde: November 11th, 2016.

November 10th, 2016.

10/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Today is a double celebration. It is my 74th birthday, a landmark in my life that it is a pleasure to reach as well as being our fourth wedding anniversary. Sheila and I married on my 70th birthday. It is a day that leads me to recall some of my past life.

The photograph is of me, taken thirty years ago, when I had the world by its tail and swung it in the direction of my satisfaction. At that time, I'd established myself internationally in the field of 'Anger Management' that I founded, and the success of my relaxation training groups in probation offices, hostels, hospitals, psychiatric wings, prisons, community halls, churches and educational establishments had proved highly successful. My body of work was nationally acclaimed and assured me of regular media coverage on the television, radio and the press (Over two thousand photographs and news paper articles of me between 1971 and 2000 in Yorkshire regional papers and a few nationals). I had much to feel good about and so much to be grateful for.

Shortly after this photograph was taken in 1986 my mother died. The suddenness and unexpected nature of her death momentarily knocked the emotional stuffing out of me and for a while, I carried on with my life and for a few months, I operated on 'automatic pilot.' After the death of mum, and for the next five years until my dad died, I visited him daily. Over our many chats we had together, I got to know him and identify with him in a way that I hadn't previously when mum was alive. It's strange, but the dominance and emotional influence of one parent in a child's life, invariably prevents that child's relationship becoming as close with the other parent as it could and would otherwise have been. It was as though my mum needed to die before I could fully engage emotionally with my staunchly independent dad who had always been one of those men who said little, always did what was required, and kept his own company. It was as though mum's passing had enabled our emotional 'coming together', the late bonding in life of dad and me.

As I got to know my father anew, I began to see in him qualities I'd never previously seen, along with character flaws of which I knew not. Over the next five years, I was able to take my aloof dad down from the pedestal I'd placed him on since my early twenties and see him as a good, yet ordinary man, who had done many exceptional things in his life, yet had faults like any other man. I had effectively humanised him and this enabled me to get much closer to the man he truly was.

It was dad who once told me one day when we were chatting away, that everyone has a song for every important occasion and significant person in their life. I knew that his own favourite song had been 'Sweet Sixteen' and he told me that his and mum's song was, 'Some Enchanted Evening'. These were the only two songs I ever heard him sing or hum when he was in the bath:
https://youtu.be/z265BuKCQrc
https://youtu.be/cbskoBOHyc8

This got me thinking about songs and the importance they play in our lives. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the clearer became their musical significance. I now believe that strangers will probably get a deeper insight into and learn more about any person, by listening to the songs which shaped the different stages of their lives, the songs that enjoined the people they loved. This catalogue of musical taste probably charts out the developments in my life far better than any autobiography ever could.

Throughout my childhood, my mother would sing the same song (always out of tune), day in and day out. As Les Dawson might have said, 'She would sing all the right notes, but in the wrong order.' Whenever I told mum that she couldn't sing for toffee, her reply was, 'Who says good singers have a monopoly on singing, Billy Forde. Didn't God give everyone the right to sing!' The song mum sang daily was 'Far away Places' by the force's sweetheart, Vera Lynn. Little could she or I suspect then, that I would in later years become a friend to Vera, her idol, who would help me many times with my charity work:
https://youtu.be/Y5RhWVlXF0Q

The very first song that I fell in love with for my own choice was when I was aged nine years old. At the time, I was a good singer and I entered a singing contest at the Savoy Picture House (Cinema) in Cleckheaton. I won the first prize of £10. At the time, £10 represented a man's wages for the week. I'd never seen so much money in my life and ran home one and a half miles waving the two fivers which I tipped up to mum to help with the housekeeping. The song I sang was 'Too Young' by Jimmy Young, who would become one of the country's best disc jockeys over the years ahead, and who died aged 95 years old, a few days ago:
https://youtu.be/HLpBSaTEpIY

The first time I became infatuated with a girl was about a year later. She was 11-year-old Winifred Healey, and we shared the love of a song. It was by one of my favourite singers of the time, Slim Whitman, singing, 'Rose Marie':
https://youtu.be/Q66yTkrzosI?list=RDQ66yTkrzosI

The song that I shared with my first Irish girlfriend, Dooney Quinn, who introduced me to 'Skinny dipping' up in the streams of Curramorough during my early teenage years, was naturally an Irish tune/song. It was 'The Isle of Innisfree' theme tune from 'The Quiet Man' film starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. This film is a must for the Forde family every Christmas. Indeed, Christmas in the Forde household wouldn't be Christmas until the Christmas tree is up, and in the background can be heard this haunting and memorable tune which evokes such Irish memories of mine of my youthful teens:
https://youtu.be/z4bfiTR2kBA

By the age of 18 years old, I had a reputation with the girls of being 'a bad boy' who moved from girl to girl as frequently as I changed my shirt. Anyone would have got 100-1 odds that I'd never marry and settle down. Indeed, my signature tune at the time was 'The Wanderer' by Dion:

https://youtu.be/IkoidwsLXCg

Between the ages of 21 and 23 years of age I lived in Canada where I knew true love (not infatuation), for the first time to a lovely young woman called Jenny. The song that enjoined us at the time was 'In Dreams' by Roy Orbison. That relationship was regrettably ended by me when I returned home to England in 1965. Jenny was the daughter of the then British Trade Commissioner based in Toronto, and believing that I could never give her a life style to which she was accustomed, I felt it only right to give her up. That was probably the first big mistake I ever made in my early life:
https://youtu.be/TPqZs7Vl_xg

By the age of 26 years, I was married to my first wife, Janet. The song shared between me and Janet was 'Somewhere' by P.J.Proby. We loved the song so much that we had it played at our wedding. Unfortunately, neither time nor place was ever found by us to make our union work, but we had two beautiful sons, James and Adam from our union:
https://youtu.be/BcWIUTBjvJo

My second marriage was to Fiona. We both loved country and western singing and our song became 'Annie's Song' by John Denver. That marriage was very good for over twenty years until we grew apart. After both our children, William and Rebecca, had passed through university and had left home, we gradually had to accept that our marriage had passed its 'sell by date':
https://youtu.be/C21G2OkHEYo

Towards the end of the century, after having written many books for children, the National Lottery funded my production of the 'Douglas the Dragon Musical Play.' We had six new songs written, composed, professionally recorded and produced, which included the very first song I ever wrote, 'Our World'. That song was promoted by the two leading world environmentalist at the time, Robert Swann (the first person ever to walk to the North and South Poles), and the 'Body Shop' pioneer, the late Anita Roddick. I will never forget me and Anita walking over 1000 disabled children from the railway station in Huddersfield to the Town Hall, where another 1000 school children joined them to sing the 'Our World' song. That is the only time in my life when I managed to stop the traffic through Huddersfield centre for forty minutes. I felt proud to hear so many children sing my song. Even the then Prime Minister, John Major and his wife, Norma wrote an open letter of congratulations to the children of Kirklees for their part in the 'Our World' song project:
www.fordefables.co.uk/uploads/1/0/1/5/10153721/04_our_world.mp3http://www.fordefables.co.uk/uploads/1/0/1/5/10153721/04_our_world.mp3

My third wife and the love of my life was Sheila. We met in 2010 and got married on my 70th birthday in 2012. Sheila is a very beautiful and spiritual person; the most selfless person I've ever met.The day she came into my life was the happiest of all days. When we met, she played the organ weekly at her church. So on the day before our first Easter Sunday, 2011, I composed her, her own hymn, 'Be my Life':
http://www.fordefables.co.uk/be-my-life.html

When Sheila and I got married, our song that enjoined us was 'Secret Love' by Doris Day. I have never been happier in my life since that first day we met in Haworth and as any of my Facebook contacts will know, there is absolutely nothing secret about the love we share. We even shout it from the highest hills every now and then,'I love you, Sheila Forde':
https://youtu.be/bZALA7sPhYU

I suppose it would be fitting on this, the anniversary of my first day of my life on earth, and the anniversary of my first day of married life with Sheila, to end this post with a sweet contemplation of my favourite hymn that I will request playing at my funeral service on my last day of life. This hymn was played at my wedding service to Sheila. Despite having being born an Irishman who has remained a proud Irish citizen all my life, it would be churlish of me not to recognise my love for England; this great country that gave me, my parents and siblings everything we ever needed after we emigrated here in 1946. What more fitting song and words therefore to end my days than those immortal words of William Blake in that stirring rendition of 'Jerusalem, a song that invokes the spirit of England, this great land." William Forde: November 10th, 2016:
https://youtu.be/bKaJ4b0XYmI

November 9th, 2016.

9/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Mental Health is unfortunately the Cinderella of the 'National Health Service' today, despite the growing rise over the past sixteen years in mental illnesses. It was recently recorded that one adult in six had a common mental disorder (CMD). These figures were broken down to one in five for women and one in eight for men. Since 2000, overall rates of CMD in England have steadily increased for women and have remained largely stable in men. Higher incidents of self-harming, suicide, post traumatic stress and bipolar disorder have also increased. Most mental disorders were more common in people living alone, those in poor physical health and the unemployed. In my mind, I strongly believe that there should be no distinction drawn between physical and mental health when it comes to the allocation of resources.

In the town of Portlaw, County Waterford where I was born, mental illness, although it may not have been called thus, was a condition that remained the prime responsibility of the immediate family and the community at large. It was as though the Irish understood that the shameful thing about mental illness was the stigma attached to it. They essentially saw mental disorder as an illness of the individual, not a weakness. If the Portlaw villagers had a philosophy, it would have been not to try to understand the inexplicable, not to blame anyone for it, but instead, accept it. They seemed to understand that though a person's behaviour may seem strange to us, to them it makes a great deal of sense and is the most natural thing to do. Sometimes when people look as though they are in the process of falling apart, they may actually be falling into place in the mental world they inhabit.

Many times in Ireland, I saw someone with a mental handicap behave bizarrely. The very first time I witnessed this, the people surrounding the person with the mental disorder would simply make the sign of the cross and otherwise ignore their behaviour. When I later inquired why the people had blessed themselves instead of restraining the mentally disordered person, they told me that such a person was blessed by God and would be guaranteed a place in Heaven. I recall during my early years in 'St Patrick's Catholic School' in Heckmondwike, having a classmate called Tony, who'd displayed a mental disorder since his birth. The Heckmondwike Catholics also believed the mentally disordered person to be blessed; someone to be never pitied. We cannot ever change the direction of the wind, but we can adjust our sails of thought, feelings and actions to accommodate the circumstances which surround us. I will never forget being told by Mrs Brennan, one of my favourite school teachers, that 'wonderful things can happen, even to those with a mental condition and slow of mind.'

In my adult years, after I'd joined the Probation Service, I became more closely and personally acquainted with some of the difficulties thrown up through mental illness. Within a ten year period, I had a friend, a niece, a brother and a mother who were all patients at the local psychiatric hospital of 'Storthes Hall' in Kirkburton, Huddersfield. 'Storthes Hall' first opened in 1904 and was originally founded as an asylum that catered for the insane as well as unmarried mothers of low educational levels. Over the years it became a Psychiatric Hospital, hidden somewhere out of the way in Kirkburton, Huddersfield. Between it opening and its closure in 1991, it came to be derogatorily referred to as 'The Loony Bin', and anyone who had a relative patient there would invariably go to extreme lengths to keep their presence and circumstances unknown from their friends and neighbours.

I have worked with many people who had been diagnosed with a mental illness or personality disorder over the years. For many of them, a traumatic episode which had produced severe stress, essentially triggered the psychiatric condition and left their life and health in a mess. I came to understand that many people who have mental disorders are often left feeling isolated and hopeless and that such people's mental health starts to improve once they know that other people are caring and sympathetic towards their struggle and display empathy to their plight.

I have also worked alongside colleagues who had mental disorders and who were able to keep their condition under control through the use of daily medication. Had they never told me that they had a mental disorder, I would never have known.

Society often forgets the burden that falls upon the close relatives of those with a severer form of mental illness that can frequently display itself in unpredictable violence. I once worked with a married couple in their sixties whose son, frequently and physically assaulted them, to the point that they even feared that one day he might kill them. Their son's violent outbursts would happen once or twice a year, but when they occurred, they always resulted in one of the parents getting hurt and the police being called out. This was invariably followed by their son being hospitalised in 'Storthes Hall'. It was natural that the parents felt to be at their wit's end and didn't know what to do; especially as cutting their son off from their lives completely seemed to be the only answer to them being able to sleep safely in their beds. My immediate advice to them was not to overreact and by doing so, make a bad situation worse. I indicated that we should never make permanent decisions for temporary emotional outbursts. In consequence, they sought additional help in controlling him instead of cutting him off forevermore; especially as they loved him; him being their only son.

After they had successfully spent six month's membership on my two-hour weekly course, of which learning to relax, reducing one's stress levels and changing one's behaviour were all covered, they asked me if I would consider taking their son as a member of a future course. I agreed, and their son attended every one of the twenty-six weekly sessions. While my final evaluation led me to believe that the young man did not benefit as much as other group members had, learning to relax as well as learning more acceptable ways to express one's anger did undoubtedly help him; much more than I initially realised. His parents, especially his mother, Nicky, was eternally grateful and reported a massive decrease in the impact of his explosive anger states and violent behaviour. Even after Nicky's husband died, her son, who now had his own accommodation, would visit her regularly. No Christmas ever passed without me receiving a Christmas card from Nicky, along with her expressed appreciation yet again.

Around seven years ago, Nicky's daughter contacted me and told me her mother had just died and as someone she had always spoken highly of over the years, the daughter asked if I would I like to attend her funeral service. After the funeral service and during the reception at a hotel in Denby Dale, her son came up to me and thanked me profusely for helping him and his parents many years earlier through their group membership. During our brief conversation, he told me that my course had helped him more than I could ever know and that whenever he looked in the mirror every morning, it wasn't a sad face he saw, but a person who had done his best with what he had. His parting words to me were, 'Don't worry about me, Mr Forde, I'm okay,' and as I walked away he added. 'Before she died, my mother said I was okay; so I must be!'" William Forde: November 9th, 2016.

November 8th, 2016.

8/11/2016

Thought for today:
"This year has been a good year for me, despite the many medical hurdles I have had to jump and clear in order to keep myself in the race. This morning, at a time when I would normally be eating my breakfast, I find myself in the Yorkshire Hospital facing my tallest hurdle this year as I have the consultant take two biopsies from suspicious facial marks to determine if they are cancerous to my skin. Given my medical condition, the development of skin cancer for me is highly likely at any stage of my remaining life, and unfortunately, if found present, the vast majority of skin cancers cannot be cured with my particular terminal condition. So, my hope today is that I have a type that may offer successful treatment when examined.

All mornings should be mornings that have a place for prayer and today is no exception. I ask for your thoughts and prayers and hope that they are loud enough and sincere enough to help me cross that finishing line at a more distant date. I am not yet ready to hang up my running shoes as I still have a few more races in me to run. In short, pray that I may convert this one-hundred-metre sack race into a twenty-six-mile marathon. I don't mind in the least, should I be the runner who crosses the finishing line last; the one helped by my brothers and sisters in Christ!" William Forde: November 8th, 2016.

November 7th, 2016.

7/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Over the past few months, from the many private messages I daily receive and the questions asked, the most common relate to the mechanics of constructing a story. So, in response I decided that I would recount what I used to tell the students who attended my creative writing courses in the past.

I am blown away each time I randomly pick up a book and cannot put it down until I've read the last word. I'm blown away whenever I see some art or craft that it has taken the skill of a lifetime and numerous hours to produce being sold for mere pennies. I am blown away every time I see an extremely busy person give their time to the needs of a stranger, simply because that is what the stranger most needs at that precise time. There are so many things in this life that simply amazes and blows me away that testify to the innate generosity and goodness, the courage and craft, the care and concern of one person towards another.

I was blown away as a child when I thought that old age was so far away that I would never reach it. My childlike brain got blown away each time I flicked an electric switch and the room lit up, the radio and television came on, or when I first flushed the loo and my pooh magically disappeared down a rabbit hole in the toilet basin.

Falling in love most certainly blew away my sanity and kept me on cloud nine until rejection or rationale brought me back down to earth. Seeing my children born blew me away and now that they are all past the age of thirty, I am blown away by the fact that they can spend more today on a night out than I earned in a week before I was forty!

I am blown away by the actual cost of a university education or the price of a modest house today and particularly by the staggering difference in lifestyles between the wealthiest and poorest people in any country in the world.

I am especially blown away whenever I see the wonder in the eyes of a child as they observe the curiosities of nature with great scrutiny or a twinkle in the eyes of an old man or woman as they watch their middle-aged child learn the lesson today that their mother tried but failed to teach them in their childhood forty years earlier.

Of all the things that ever blew me away, however, was the day that I became an apprentice to a word sorcerer who revealed the magic process involved in becoming a writer. This secret process I now blow across the room to you with a kiss of affection:
(1) Think of an idea for your story.
(2) Imagine your story in a sequence of pictures; each picture representing the words written in one paragraph of your book.
(3)Write down the words of your paragraph on a blank sheet of paper that correspond with the picture you have formed in your mind and repeat this process until every page and chapter of your book is complete.

When you have taken these three steps, give the book you have written to your reader. Your finished book in effect becomes your magic wand that you have passed over. It then becomes the turn of your reader to complete the magic process by stirring their imagination. The magic process starts as soon as they open the book and turn the first page to read, by transferring the words and images that first commenced inside your head into theirs.
(1) First, the reader reads the words of the writer and allows those words to switch on their imagination.
(2) Next, when the reader's imagination has been switched on, the magic begins to take over and the writer's words on the page are instantly transformed back into a picture for each paragraph of the book that is read. The better the writer's match between words and image in each paragraph, the easier the magic spell works.
(3) By the time that the book has been read, the reader has a jolly good notion what idea and image the writer had inside their head when they wrote every paragraph of their finished story.

Now that is a process that really blows me away and that is why I love being an author! The power to lead the reader up one path and down another, make them laugh or cry, or change their prevailing mood from frivolous to serious; all within the short space of a few words or the odd throw-away line. All this I hope will help preserve the old grey matter between my ears a while longer until the memory starts to fade and my ability to construct the correct words starts to fail.

That is why I started to make my 'Thought for today' an everyday exercise over four years ago, and when my words match the picture in my daily post in as close a manner as possible, I know that magic is still at play." William Forde: November 7th, 2016.

November 6th, 2016.

6/11/2016

Thought for today
"In all probability, each of us will have a day in our lives when the heavens appear to fall in and our world comes crashing down around us; especially when fate or circumstances take a loved one from our presence. For a while after the event, our bodies will be traumatically affected and we may start to dysfunction as we slowly sink into a state of emotional disturbance. Most will healthily negotiate the process of bereavement, some will seek to minimise its more painful effects and others may even try to avoid and deny it!

Though others may try to console us, the depth of our sense of loss and the loneliness of the grief we feel often numbs us to their concern and compassion. We may become selfish in our sorrow and initially, refuse to share with another our overwhelming feelings of fear and uncertainty for the future that preoccupy our thoughts and bring us closer to a point of 'learned helplessness.'

Some people who are suffering bereavement, will, as their defence mechanism, adopt a stiff upper lip and put on a public face. They will opt to cry in the privacy of their own space and carry their burden unassisted.

Then, there are others of the opposite order who will express their grief to anyone and everyone they meet and who will listen; especially those good neighbours who proffer ongoing help and prodigious support, simply for the asking. Unknowingly, a bereaved person who willingly accepts all offers of this nature runs the risk of not processing their grief healthily. They may find it easier to develop a lifetime of 'learned dependency' on others who are willing to forever talk about the day their world fell in and changed their life irreparably, besides doing for the bereaved person those things they are perfectly capable of doing for themselves and ought to be doing for themselves!

Just as it is foolish to immediately rush into a new relationship after the sudden breakup of a lengthy marriage, then busying oneself with all manner of things that deny one's feeling of the loss and pain after the death of a loved one, is also unwise. After the trauma of either death or divorce, the body requires time to readjust and come to terms with the new situation. Such time is best done alone (outside new relationships), as one's thoughts and uncomfortable feelings are processed. The support best used is the support of a few good friends who will listen to your fears, talk with you about your feelings and at the end of the day, let you go home alone to start to live with your own feelings without distraction.

During my life, there have been many occasions when I have comforted a dying person or have tried to help the one left grieving. All in all, I'd have to conclude that it was invariably easier helping a person to die than helping the bereaved person to live!

Between 1989 and 2005, I wrote and had published many books for children, young persons, and adults. Often, the press and other media would frequently ask me what it felt like to be an established author, to which my response would invariably be that I considered myself to be more of a 'social crusader, masquerading as a writer'.During my early years as an author, my prime objective was to use my stories with children to deal with topics that would help them grow healthily. I was more concerned with selling 'ideas' more than 'books'. The books were merely a means of conveying my thoughts.

Through my books, I highlighted the many situations children face from day to day which involves dealing with feelings they found both difficult to understand and hard to resolve; unexpected happenings which made their worlds come crashing down around them. High up on my list of concerns were the feelings of loss and separation. Year-by-year, more of their parents' marriages were ending in divorce, splitting their family units and often resulting in their sudden separation from one parent and the adaption of a changing relationship. Parental separation and divorce often brought with it the changing of houses, friends, and schools, along with a greater degree of uncertainty they had never previously had to deal with about their future.

On those occasions when the death of a parent, brother, sister, grandparent or much-loved pet occurred, this was when their emotions got tangled and were hard to unwind. Their young lives appeared to stop and they quickly lost interest in school, home, and many other activities and things that they used to value highly. So often with children undergoing these types of trauma, their behaviour might become destructive and aggressive as they fought the irreconcilable forces of loss, separation, grief and uncertainty which suddenly blitzed their happy world. Some children seek refuge in comfort eating while some even resort to bullying behaviour as a revenge response to the world.

The themes of all my children's books involved experiences that most of us will experience from time to time, and which we all find hard to cope with. If such life experiences bring with them thoughts and feelings that all adults find difficult to cope with, think how hard must it be for the child having the same experiences? Common among my book themes is bereavement, loss, separation, bullying, racism, homelessness, anger etc. etc.

From all the traumas a child can experience, the sudden death of a loved one is undoubtedly the greatest. This is the single event which triggers the greatest emotional disturbance in the child and its impact on their lives led me to do more than I'd done before to redress this problem.

First, I wrote a book about the death of a father in a musically talented family called 'Nancy's Song.' That book was publicly read in hundreds of Yorkshire schools by famous people of national and international fame. Readers who brought tears to the eyes of its child listeners and their teachers, included Hannah Hauxwell, the late Richard Whitely and the late Brian Glover to name but a few. 'Nancy's Song' is available in e-book format from https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/77825 and in paperback copy from www.lulu.com and amazon, with all profits going to charity. Please note, that this is a book designed to acquaint children with some of the feelings accompanying the gradual death of a parent and how they might help both self and dying parent in the process, as well as better understanding the feelings and fears that one of their friends in this situation will probably be experiencing. It is a book that does not push death under the carpet but instead encourages children to see it as a stage in the existence of all creatures. All children can benefit from reading this book as well as their parents. When a child reads the book, it is helpful if the parent ensures they are around afterward to discuss any issues, or better still, read the book with them!The book was dedicated to the late Roy Castle and helped to raise much-needed money for his appeal.

Next, I persuaded the National Lottery to fund me to write, arrange and produce a musical play, based on my best selling book, 'Douglas the Dragon'. In my 'Douglas Dragon' stories, I used the opportunity through the mouth of an angry dragon character, to provide advice to child and adult how best to cope with anger, bereavement, and loss. As the founder of 'Anger Management' in the early 1970's, I felt suitably qualified and experienced enough to do this. When this project was completed, 1000 Yorkshire schools received free 'anger management packages' and the musical play was made freely available to every school and educational establishment globally through free downloading from my website. That play and all its original songs has been performed in a number of countries and can be freely obtained from my website by accessing:
http://www.fordefables.co.uk/douglas-the-dragon-play.html

In this musical play, a volcano erupts in anger, killing half of the villagers below, destroying their crops and houses and leaving them uncertain about their future as they cope with their deep sense of bereavement and loss. The oldest and wisest woman in their village, Granny McNally, is called upon to address the downhearted people. I include her speech from the play below as it represents the heart of the production:

GRANNY McNALLY:(Slow, solemn and assertive delivery)
“Our hearts are heavy with grief for our dead; our feelings of loss veil our pain. Even our mental images of their tragic deaths mangle our minds and press our thoughts of confusion into feelings of uncertainty for the future.”

“Our skies seem filled with the harbinger of doom and gloom, but believe me when I tell you that (determined voice) the sun will shine through again!”

“I’ve walked this earth for 90 years. I’ve seen all of you born and have witnessed more deaths than I care to remember. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ve forgotten more than most of you have yet learned.”

“And yet, despite the extent of my age and worldly wisdom, I know so little about what lies beneath this green sod that makes the ground shake so violently when ‘The Angry Hill’ explodes in rage.”

“But this I know with every breath of my being and tell you most truly (more determined voice). I know that sadness suffered in silence grows ever more bitter and sours the soul of humanity. I know that grief denied is grief extended and that bereavement borne alone is a cross far too heavy to bear.”

“I urge you, one and all, do not hide away your grief from family and friends. Share your fears and sadness with them, for a burden shared is a weight lessened! Let it out. Let them see it. Let others help you to carry your loss!”

“Do not conceal your pain behind false pride, good people. There is no shame in crying, no comfort to be found in silent rage, and no point in trying to cope alone when others will help you willingly; and be glad to have done so.”

“This is a time for you to share with friends and family; a time for all to rally round and to offer what we give best. This is not a time to isolate oneself from the lives of others, but a time to take part in all around you: the wisest time of all to express your feelings to those you love and trust!”

“Do all of this, my dear friends, and I promise you that the light will shine through your darkest day. Follow the substance of your future. Do not dwell in the shadow of your past. Put your past behind you and I tell you, that a brighter ‘morrow shall follow.”

“However sad you feel today, I promise, that in time, your feelings shall change for the better. Remember, the birds shall still sing, the sun shall still shine, the grass will still grow, the flowers shall still bloom and the wind will still blow.”

“Consider this, good people. Even mighty oaks have to bend to the force of nature. And then, even when they are battered and blown by the Earth’s storms; even then, experience encourages the trunk to grow ever stronger and its roots to spread ever wider. Are we no less?”

“So give heed to the ramblings of an old woman. Do as I advise, and peace and reconciliation shall enter your lives once more. This I promise you. This I know!”

Since I wrote, arranged and produced this musical play, I am proud to know that both children and adult drama/operatic groups in many parts of the world have performed it on stage and read my 'Douglas Dragon' books in thousands of their classrooms. For me, if I have helped but one person through their emotional disturbance of anger, bereavement, and loss, my lifetime's work and presence on this earth have not been in vain." William Forde: November 6th, 2016.