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Meetings are held on the first and third Tuesdays of the month at Dancox House Club Room, St Clements Gardens, St Johns, Worcester from 7.30 pm to 9.30pm.
If you want to know more about Worcester Writers' Circle, please telephone Sue Round, Secretary 01905 619062.
Probably the oldest writers' circle in the country, we have grown from half a dozen enthusiasts in the dark days of the Second World War, to a thriving and productive group of people who share their experiences, successes and pitfalls at each meeting. We have a wide range of writers, some published professionals, some occasionally appearing in magazines, and many newcomers eager to see their name in print.
At a normal meeting, we read from our work, sometimes on a theme set for the evening and we offer advice and reactions. A cup of tea and a chat of course, and discussions about markets, successes and rejections. Sometimes we have a speaker from amongst our ranks, or a guestjoining us for the evening. Our interests are wide - stories, Westerns, nostalgia, poetry, biography, roofing and cats have all featured at our meetings. If you can get to Worcester, (that's the one in Worcestershire, England) give us a try.
What Price Nostalgia?
by Tony Robinson
I came across one in an antique shop a month or two ago; seven pounds they were asking for it - seven pounds - when mine had been a present from the King! Then I thought to myself, "It must be at home somewhere -I wonder if I've still got it."
I found it at last, tucked away in the loft in a box of one-time treasures. Perhaps it was trying to hide its shame, for instead of gleaming and glistening in the light of day, a smile on its face as it prepared to lend its help, it seemed a tired old thing, sad and sorry, badly bent and partly covered in dried paint or mortar, where someone had used it as a paint scraper without knowing what it really was. But even as I lifted it from its long-time place of rest, the memories came flooding back - memories, especially, of our early days when we faced the world together.
It was late afternoon in January I952, and I was with maybe fifty men of my own age who had been loaded onto three Bedford three-tonners and driven the two or three miles from a Shropshire railway station to an army camp. Our two years of National Service had begun, and 2263**** Gnr Robinson RA was about to report for duty..
When we reached the camp we were tipped unceremoniously out of the trucks; we answered out names to a roll-call, and were divided into two sections to wait outside adjacent barrack rooms. A smartly dressed soldier with two very white chevrons on his sleeves approached, and halted before our group.
"Squad!" he barked, and we froze. "Stand - still - and - listen!" He paused for effect, and then continued, "You don't call me Sir - or God; you don't call me Bomb; you call me Bombardier. Bombardier Kent; that's my name and my rank, and I'm proud of both. Now follow me; when we get inside, find yourself a bed, put everything you aren't wearing onto it, and wait."
Our new home was a long wooden hut, with twelve beds along each side, heads to the outside wall, feet to the centre. I picked a bed that was not immediately underneath a draughty window, and reasonably near to the pot-bellied stove that was the sole form of heating. Four unshaded light bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting only limited light onto a scene that was already beginning to look grim, gloomy and forbidding. Bedding was stacked neatly at the head of each bed; the permitted two blankets carefully boxed, pillow on top. A small bedside locker, and a folding chair at the foot of each bed, completed our allotted personal space. At the far end of the room was a long trestle table, set parallel to the end wall.
"Take a good look at your bedding," ordered the bombardier, "because that's how you'll do it for barrack room inspection at 0800 tomorrow. Now gather round, and watch." With a quick dart at a bedding stack, he extracted a blanket and shook it out. "Fold in half; fold in half again; left side to the middle - right side to the middle - left side over right - place at the head of the bed, long side to the front. Here it is again -come on, change places, back row to the front." He repeated the performance, then replaced the blanket "When I have finished speaking, form up outside in three files of six." He paused, and looked round the assembled group, then began in a more friendly tone:
"While you're here ten or twelve weeks altogether - we're going to make soldiers of you; you're going to see a lot of me, and you'll parade at least once a day under Sergeant Brown. You play ball with us, and we'll play ball with you. Four places you'll need to find: somewhere to sleep, somewhere to drill, somewhere to eat - and somewhere to shit." We smiled dutifully; he was human after all, even if the last couple of sentences were obviously well rehearsed. "We'll visit all of those now, then finish at Stores, where you'll collect all your uniform and equipment. Check it carefully; you'll be signing for it on your 1157, so don't sign for something you haven't had."
We were briefly introduced to the army's mysterious system for issuing stores; after a while it seemed perfectly normal to refer to Boots, Black, Pairs One, Shirts Khaki, Long Sleeve, 2, or Badges, Cap, Royal Artillery, One. Soon we were to meet Chairs, Folding Flat and Brushes Paint, 3-inch; but I never did discover what that wonderful item Brushes, Writing, Duck was used for.
After our tour and visit to the stores, we returned to our new home to sort out our kit, to fathom the mysteries of dressing like soldiers (all belts and gaiters) and to mix with our kennel mates. There was no doubting where the majority of the group had come from, for the musical intonation of the Welsh valleys was in their voices. Just two of us had come straight from school; all the rest had come from jobs - several miners, labourers, a couple of local government clerks and an apprentice professional boxer among them.
We queued for our first army meal, served by giggling WRAC girls; the younger ones passed sotto voce remarks concerning our likely virility while one of the older ones clearly felt some sympathy for us. "Poor little buggers - most of them look scared to death!" She was more right than she knew; not much later that evening, some of the aforesaid little buggers were on or in their beds, crying their eyes out; because this was the very first time they had spent a night away from home. It was a sight and a sound that tore at the heart, and one that I shall never forget.
Bombardier Kent paid a visit, leaving a hammer and a set of numbered punches. He held up a brass button stick. "You've each got one of these - a present from the King. Punch your army number on it - you'll use it often, and you'll need to keep it."
I did, and I have it in front of me as I write, a link with days gone by, and with a special room in my life. Just seven pounds, then; can nostalgia really be so cheap?
Just one postscript. Whenever I hear a radio programme for oldies playing "They Tried To Tell Us We're Too Young," it takes me back at once to my first days in the army, standing in the latrines at six o'clock on a brass monkey January morning, and hearing someone sing that song while I had a painful shave - in cold water.
Copyright © 2004 Tony Robinson