Thou beauty Spot, Dear Werneth Low

Werneth Low, Hyde.

Thou beauty spot, dear Werneth Low

Upon thy hill I love to roam

Where the refreshing breezes blow

Thou art my favourite haunt, I own

I've often heard the lark's sweet song

And the thrushes in the clough below

And the little ones twittering all day long

When wandering on dear Werneth Low.

Nine hundred feet above the sea

She stands decked in a mantle green

And from the height there could not be

A view more gracious to be seen

I've been there in the morning grey

And watch the sun rise o'er hill

To see him mount his heavenly way

It does my soul with rapture fill

I've often been at eventide

To watch the sun before it sets

And view the country far and wide

A scene I cannot soon forget

And then I bid the scene farewell

And once again I homeward go

On thee I could for ever dwell

Thou beauty spot, dear Werneth Low

Pictures by

Brian Thornley

...

Poisoning At Godley

A Poisoning Mystery At Godley
From the book

OLD GODLEY

By Thomas Middleton 

Godley Hill was the scene of a brutal poisoning case during the 1840s, which resulted in the death of a man named Brook.  This man and his sons were coal miners, and lived in a small house on Godley Hill.  Brook’s wife became intimate with a pedlar, and some time after the commencement of this intimacy Brook died suddenly.  Then the widow married the pedlar, and the two lived very unhappily for several years.   At length the pedlar went to Chief Constable Little, of Hyde, and made a confession.  He stated that Brooks’s death was the result of poison, and that he (the pedlar) had purchased arsenic from a druggist in Stalybridge; that Mrs. Brook administered the poison to her husband by mixing it with a pudding which he ate, and that a piece of the pudding which was left was afterwards thrown away, and eaten by some hens belonging to Israel Stott, who at that time kept the Olive Tree Inn – the hens all dying from the effects of poison.  Brooks body was exhumed, and an inquiry instituted.  Mr. Lancashire, the coffin maker, testified that the coffin exhumed was the one which he had buried Brooks; Israel Stott testified to the loss of his poultry; a potion of Brook’s stomach was given to Dr. Alcock, of Hyde, and another potion to Prof. Calvert, Analytical Chemist, of Manchester, and both these gentlemen testified that the stomach contained arsenic.  The evidence against the pedlar and his wife seemed condemning, but at trial both prisoners were acquitted on a point of law as to the testimony of the husband against the wife, and the wife against the husband.   The public however, were convinced of their guilt. There was a ballad composed concerning the above tragedy, which runs as follows:

Oh, give attention, both young and old,

To these few verses which I unfold,

It’s of a murder, as you know,

Which was committed six years ago.

The neighbours all do remember still

That one J. Brooks lived on Godley Hill

For many years free from pain and strife,

Till he was poisoned by his own wife.

This wretched women, you’ll understand,

Kept company with another man;

Her faithful husband she did betray,

And cruelly took his life away.

How could she harbour it in her mind

to slay a husband so good and kind?

He was respected by each degree,

And laboured hard in a colliery.

‘Twas Satan tempted his wretched wife.

With deadly poison to take his life,

Of which she gave him, good people all,

But no suspicion on her did fall.

Poor Brooks was buried, you’ll understand,

And she got wed to this other man;

Robert Thornley is his name,

And he assisted her in the same.

They had been parted a year or more,

His guilty conscience being wounded sore

By night or day he could find no rest,

So to the murder he now confessed.

Then she was taken and brought to Hyde,

The dreadful murder she has denied,

But Thornley has confessed the whole

And God above knows her guilty soul.

In Mottram Churchyard, as I have heard,

His moldered body was disinterred,

The stomach carefully was analysed,

At which result you will be surprised.

The poison found by the medical men,

As much, they say, as would poison ten;

What a wretched partner must she be

To slay the father of her family.

They’re both committed, in woe and wail,

For wilful murder to Chester Jail,

To stand their trial for the horrid deed

Which causes their wicked hearts to bleed.

Charge of the Hyde Brigade

Charge of the Hyde Brigade

HYDE v. DENTON

 PLAYED AT WALKER FOLD, HYDE

1887.

HALF-A-FIELD, Half-a-field,

Half-a-field onward,

Into the Denton goal

Our forwards they thundered,

Stormed at with shot and shell,

*Lowe bravely fought and well,

But down went his citadel,

And *Denton folks wondered.

Wondered how it was done,

Wondered to see the fun,

Wondered whom Bunyan

Had thrown o'er his head;

Didn't they rave and rant,

'Twas their beloved *Plant,

Into the mud thus sent,

As though he were dead

.

Hark ! how they yell and scream,

Little did Denton dream

That our respected team,

Would conquer them so !

Now all their gas has gone,

And ready brass they've none,

A dollar, alas ! not one

Of them can show.

Hark ! to that deafening roar

Proclaiming the fight is o'er !

And likewise the fact that four

Goals have been got.

Denton have lost the day,

And as they wend their way

Homewards, they seem to say

Sad is our lot.

Now they are put to rout,

And as they face about,

Twenty-six none they shout,

Poor Dentonians.

Do not your fingers flirt,

For with your Sunday shirt

Hyde has wiped out the dirt

Rubbed in by Prestonians.

Pity poor Denton's plight,

Oh ! what a mournful sight

As they went home that night,

Vanquished Dentonians.

Honour the Hyde Brigade,

Honour the win they've made,

When will their glory fade?

Noble Hydonians !

*Lowe and Plant were Denton players,

Bunyan was the Hyde Goalkeeper.

Hyde start their second season in the Conference League away to Forest Green Rovers this weekend... Good Luck to all involved.

Just for the ones who like their United's a nice shade of Red ;O)  

A Sonnet to Joshua Bradley

SONNET

Inscribed to Joshua Bradley, 

the Donor of Hyde Town Hall Clock and Bells.

HOW CAN WE THANK THEE TRUE, DEVOTED FRIEND,

FOR THIS RARE OFFERING TO THY NATIVE TOWN, BUT BY PROFOUND REGARD?

FAIR HONOURS CROWN IS THINE.

THIS NOBLE GIFT WILL EVER TEND

TO SHOW THE PROMPTINGS OF THY GENEROUS HEART,

WHICH FREELY GIVES, WITH AN UNSPARING HAND,

FROM HARD EARNED STORE.

BASE SELF CAN NEVER STAND ON FAME LIKE THINE, WHICH WILL TO THEE IMPART,

IN THY DECLINING YEARS, A JOY UNKNOWN.

SAVE TO THYSELF, WHOM WE REVERE THE MORE

FOR THIS GOOD DEED. WHO KNOWS WHAT LIES IN STORE

FOR THOSE WHO WORK AND GIVE FOR GOOD ALONE?

THIS TREASURED BOON THY MEMORY WILL ADORN,

AND RING THY PRAISE TO GENERATIONS YET UNBORN.

Werneth Low

The name Werneth derives from the Welsh Verno for alder meaning 'the place where alders grow'. The term "Low" does not refer to any lack of Height. It is a Northern English word for hill.

This is the reason why Alder Community High School was so named, due to its proximity to Werneth Low.

The cenotaph can just been seen in the top left of the photo whilst Alder High school is on the bottom right.

 

70's Views

Our thank to Aiden Prince for these shots of Market Place Hyde... Nice to see another view of the Fountain... I'm sure the old 'Town Map' can be seen on the same picture, just left of the tree, above the heads of the folks taking a rest on the benches. As a small boy I'd press the buttons and watch the map light up... I'd like to see a picture of that map or even one like it... 

The Battle of the Bridge by Bill Lancashire

Here is a poem that was recently sent to us by Bill Lancashire. 
He also included this message....

 "A few weeks ago a friend of mind challenged me to write a poem about Hyde United, so considering the triumphant season we have just enjoyed it may be an appropriate opportunity to post it. It's been written with a strong nod and a wink to James Leigh and if you you feature it I hope that the readers can spot my cryptic allusions to the ten pubs mentioned in the poem...."

Did anyone manage to spot the ten pubs he mentioned?  
Many, many thanks, Bill. Great poem, as always !! :)

The Owd Green Plaque

THE OWD GREEN PLAQUE

I laced up mi boots and buttoned mi coat
cos I fancied a walk owert Low.
Weather wasna very clever like
but I thowt it were a good day for a blow. 

I shortened mi stride up Higham Lane
when I heard a strange sort of wheeze.
That conna have bin me I said with a gasp
So I put it down to t’ breeze. 

On threwt farm yard and up gravel path
until I finally reached very top.
Then I heard that wheeze again
And I thowt it were time for a stop. 

I lent ont railings at cenotaph
an I read thowd green plaque agen.
How many men were it who ne’er come back?
Ahh that’s reet, seven hundert and ten. 

I tried to picture that day in mi mind
whent cenotaph were first revealed.
And owe th’Heyd folk came up to remember
as thousands were crammed on t’ field. 

There were school kids, churches an dignitaries.
Thousands o’ folk who braved the cruel chill.
Mothers, wives, faythers and childer
made thi pilgrimage up to t’ top ot steep hill. 

Thi listened to bands, heard speeches and prayers
on that cold windswept day long ago.
When everyone stood and sadly remembered
Th’Heyd lads who fought the King’s foe. 

We know now what these young men owe went through
in scenes carved straight out of Hell.
The trenches, the mud, the bullets and bombs,
the vain charges when so many souls fell. 

So many Heyd homes must have hung up black drape.
So many mothers and wives lost their men.
So many young boys who never returned.
Now remembered as the seven hundert and ten. 

Just like the folk who gathert that day
I come back up here each November,
and while that cenotaph still looks out over Heyd
I know we will allus remember. 

I confess there was a tiny tear in mi eye
when I decided it were time to walk back.
But before I turned and walked down th’hill
I gazed one more time at that plaque. 

It’s a place that means a lot t’ me
as I think about owe wars sin then.
All th’Heyd lads who’ve fought and died.
Now it’s a lot more than seven hundert and ten. 

© Bill Lancashire March 2012

I would first of all like to thank Bill Lancashire for once again sending in and allowing us the use of another one of his poems. I was well impressed when I read this and wanted a suitable picture to go with the post.. I knew Tony Husband as supplied us with photographs in the past and knowing his love for Werneth Low I sent him an email to see if he had something we could use.. I included the poem so he could decide which if he had any he could send... I was overjoyed to see what came back... and think it fits the poem and the sentiment behind it perfectly.

It was Tony's father Ron Husband who researched the 710 men named on the plaque... his research can be seen on Hyde War Memorial Trust's site  http://www.hwmt.co.uk/pages/710men.html   

 

If you'd like to see more of Tonys work follow this link - you won't be disappointed ! http://www.tonyhusband.co.uk

Heyd Market by Bill Lancashire

HEYD MARKET

Heyd market’s changed a lot tha knows

Sin a used goo when a were smowe.

Owd cobbles, gas leets an wooden stalls av o’gone

A dunna know what’s appened to em owe.

Now a conna remember like mi owd Granddad did

About tooth-puller who sat in a tent.

Wi a brass band outside to drown out screams

Were it true, or just summat he dreampt.

There were other tales a yerd as weel

Like Harry Gilbert, an owe watches he sowd.

An Mrs Goodwin wi her big pile o’ pots

They’d allus attract a good crowd.

Mrs Crossley were famed for her curtins

There were cotton, velvet and lace.

And you could get veg from Riskit Riley

Now he were a top dirt-track ace.

Next to pie stall gathert ‘market committee’

From all ower town they came.

And when they weren’t arguing politics or pigeons

They’d pick Heyd’s team for’t next game.

Now on Saturday neetes, so av often bin towd

Market were late to wrap up.

And folks ud usually hang around

So they could get thi Sunday lap-up.

Now a con remember dobby horses

Swing boats, an owd Jock’s stall.

An a con remember Mester Nightingale

Meckin toffee int thowd market ’all.

Wi ’is little stove an thowd copper pan

Tha could wach him meckin his stock.

Ther’d bi cough candy, pear drops an humbugs

Bur his best wert Godley Rock.

He’d pull and raunch it ower a big hook

An cotch it afore it could sag.

Then he’d rowel it out an chop it up

An tha could buy it fer a penny a bag.

Every September Wakes ud come

Now a allus thowt it funny.

No matter ow easy games ud look

Tha could count on losin thi money.

There wert caterpillar, spider and jungle ride

Dodgems, waltzer ... it could cost thi a mint.

An after black puddin an pays, if tha didn’t end up sick

Tha could be sure thad bi gooin wom skint.

But thowd days ave gone an market’s bin dun up

It’s owe becum modern, hygienic an clean.

It’s getten paviours, an planters and colourful stalls

But thi sell nowt nobber trainers an jeans.

© Bill Lancashire December 1998

THE RAMPAGING HORDES OF JAY CROSS

 Yesterday we received this super poem by Bill Lancashire , one of our readers, with a message of which the following is part   ....   I love how it has been written in Hyde dialect, too !

"As a born and bred Hydonian (Aspland) it's brought back many memories and I've spotted quite a number of old, familiar faces and places.

Anyway, a few years ago, after reading the 'Homes for Sale' pages in the North Cheshire and the Advertiser, it struck me how - according to the estate agents - Gee Cross was seemingly expanding almost week by week.

It prompted me to write this small poem.  It still makes me smile.  So maybe it will tickle a funny bone for some of your readers.  Especially the 'older Hydonians' (like me)."

THE RAMPAGING HORDES OF JAY CROSS

A long time ago when’t Big Tree still stood
Jay Cross boundaries were fixed.
Then, most o’ folks kept thisen to thisen
And Jay Cross an Heyd rarely mixed.

Booth’s, Barton’s and Bagsher’s
Them were’t most prominent clans.
But they ne’r ventured much outa Jay Cross
They liked to stay on their own lands.

But now things are different and Jay Cross has grown
Thanks to their invasion plans.
Rampaging thro’ Heyd, annexing street after street
Like a swarm o modern day Ghenghis Khans.

They’re led by marauding estate agents
Intent on conquering all of Heyd’s land.
If thi can say th’ouse stands in Jay Cross
It’ll put up price a few grand.

Marlborough and Dowson Roads soon surrendered
Crushed ’neath the invader’s cruel boot.
Then Cheetham, Grosvenor and Foxholes
And Clough Fowt soon followed suit.

Reading a recent North Cheshire
Am sure as it conna a bin reet.
It said, “For sale, located Gee Cross”
And that were in Bradbury Street.

The estate agent colonels keep driving their troops
And Heyd’s streets continue to fall.
It wunna be long now afore folk haf t’ shop
On’t market, opposite Jay Cross Town Hall.

Heyd’s only hope is to sign a few treaties
Wi towns who can lend ’em an hand.
Bi sendin in troops to help Heyd feyt back
As they try to reclaim their lost land.

But it’s all too little, too late now
Because Jay Cross battle flag’s unfurled.
So far it’s only Heyd that they’ve invaded
But tomorrow, they’ll conquer the world.
___________________________


© Bill Lancashire December 1998


Gee Cross 1910

I hope you enjoy it as much as we did!  
Thanks a million, Bill ! :)

Childhood Hero's

This is a poem by Barry Lewis which he wrote some years ago and reflects on his childhood days in Hyde.

Barry writes: "Imagine me as a kid in the mid 1950s on a council estate in Newton, we watched our kids TV shows and believed in them implicitly.  After the show we would go outside to the local fields and play cowboys and indians with our friends, cowboy hats on, shooting plastic guns and riding imaginary horses.  This poem reflects those happy days. 

Childhood hero's

As I sit here on my neddy with my guns strapped to my hips,
eyes in half closed concentration and a sneer upon my lips,
I'm the toughest dude in Hyde with a draw thats oh so slick, A sherrifs star and black hat which says "Blackpool - kiss me quick".

I know how to win the west, I know that I'm 'the man',
I have skin thats tough as rawhide, cos my hero's Desperate Dan,
I like Cisco Kid and Pancho, Kit Carson and his kin,

Roy Rogers and horse trigger, and good old Rin-tin-tin.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Cheyenne Bodie, Texas Jack,
The Rifleman and Maverick, Hopalong Cassidy dressed in black,
These guys are all my hero's but none of them compare,
to the toughest dude in Hyde with the short red curly hair,

He spies a lone red injun, chicken feathers on his head,
Wrapped around his shoulders is a blanket from his bed,
Our hero shouts out "Yippee" and kicks Neddy in the guts,
Head down he slaps his horses rump and heels him in the nuts,

He builds up speed towards his foe, hair flowing in the breeze,
His horsemanship outstanding, controlling with his knees,
The sneaky injun draws a gun and pulls off a deadly round,
Our hero holds his tummy and falls towards the ground,

Hold on, thinks he, there’s girls in sight I must make this look grand,
He completes a stylish somersault and prepares himself to land,
Whilst trying to impress the girls with fetes of daring do,
He fails to spot the water and the dollops of dog poo,

Head first into this mire he falls, his Knightly visage stained,
With water dripping from his hat and his badge in poo - ordained,
His battle for the west is gone, he has no chance of winning,
His Mums now on the warpath and all those girls are grinning,

He flys into the sunset as his little legs propel,
His Mum keeps him at arms length just to minimise the smell,
Our hero now has done his dash, a hiding place to seek,
But Mum says "Righto Desperate Dan - no T.V for a week".

Lifes hard being a hero, it aint all that much fun,
My sisters laughing her head off and my Brother stole my gun,
I think cowboys are all stupid, chasing injuns aint much good,
Tomorrow I'll be someone else, Oh, I know...Robin Hood ! 

Ha! Well done, Barry... I played the same games in the 60s... it really took me back this. If you have other poems send them in... If anyone else has poetry with a link to Hyde please send it in too.

Poem By James Leigh

O'er The Heights Of Werneth Low
AN IDYLL OF THE PAST

I'M a captain in the army, and a famous man I be,
And in all the British Army there's no braver man than me;
But of my warlike deeds, without a doubt you know,
I once marched with my regiment o'er the heights of Werneth Low.




We there endured great hardships amongst those rugged rocks,
My men were seized with a disease the doctor called smallpox,
So we built a wooden shanty down in the plains below,
A temporary hospital, to put them in, you know.


We had them vaccinated, at least the doctors had,
But, dear o' me, the nasty stuff it almost drove 'em mad ;
With arms as thick as sugar loaves their very hair they tore,
'Twas just a month before my troops were on the march once more.


The anti-vaccinators were loud in their protest
Against this vaccination, and vowed they'd never rest
Until 'twas non-compulsory, for every rank and station,
They said that vaccination was enough to vex the nation.


Now, anyone who disbelieves the story I have told,
Just take a walk o'er Werneth Low, and there you may behold
That grand and noble structure at the foot of yonder hill,
An everlasting monument of architectural skill.


We then besieged the palace of King Frederick the Great,
That tumble-down old building on the Back Bower Estate,
But not a "Godl(e)y" soul we found in that ungodly place,
So we razed the building to the ground, and left of it no trace.



We then marched through the city of Gee Coss, but, strange to say,
The city's ancient glory has long since passed away ;
The only ancients that we saw, beside old Freddie's whims,
Was Robin and his brother Jam, the famous Gee Cross twins.

We halted on Mount Pleasant, and as we gazed around
We felt that we were standing upon historic ground,
For at the foot of Treacle Hill stood gloomy, dark, and grim,
The ruins of a temple, His Majesty's first Whim.

Each warrior bowed his crested head above the Stone Pit wall,
And thus each one soliloquised upon the city's fall.

Oh, city of the ancients, we gaze upon thee now,
Shorn of thy former glory how desolate art thou ;
Thy Market Hall, without a roof, is crumbling to decay,
Thy public park and pleasure grounds have long since passed away.



But soon we noticed that the sun was sinking in the west,
And whether it was time or not, of course the sun knew best,
But we ourselves were weary, though only half-past nine,
The heat is so oppressive in that Oriental clime.

We sought a refuge for the night at Doorbar's famous inn.
The grapes upon the vine without told of the wine within ;
The landlord, though a Doorbar, said we might rest secure,
Against such gallant soldiers he'd never "bar his door."



Next day we marched through Bredbury, and over Haughton Green,
And there our scouts reported some Zulus they had seen ;
My men became quite frightened, and their duty tried to shirk,
But the Zulus turned out colliers that were coming from their work.

We then kept on advancing till we got to Apethorn Sound,
We there embarked on board a ship that was for England bound;
But as we lifted anchor, and were sailing from the quay,
One of old Bennie's boilers burst, and blew our mast away.



We had to put in for repairs at Gibraltar Rocks,
A sort of place that I should call old England's sentry box ;
When our repairs were finished, they fired a great big gun,
In honour of the glorious deeds my regiment had done.

When out upon the open sea a gale began to blow,
The vessel soon went mountains high, and then went mountains low ;
The captain cried, "Put on more steam, for we are sorely pressed,"
When the driver shouted from the shore, "The horse is doing its best."

When we got into port that night Old Joss was striking ten,
We all were proud to set our feet on English soil again ;
My men were all fagged out, and hungry, too, as well,
So we ordered beds and supper at "Isaac Eyre's Hotel."!

My army I've disbanded now, I've had enough of wars,
I am resting on my laurels, like a valiant son of Mars ;
My men now wear a medal each, for deeds of great renown,
They were struck off by a friend of mine, a currier in town.

But now, my friends, I'll say adieu, I've said enough forsooth,
And some of you, no doubt, may think I haven't told the truth ;
However, be that as it may, if you'll be honour bright,
You'll say I'm not far wrong if you but understand me right.

John Critchley Prince (1808-1886)

'Prince writes like an angel and lives like a devil.'

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE was not born a hydonian, but was adopted by the town. He was born in Wigan, Lancashire, to Joseph and Nancy Prince. What education he received came from a Baptist Sunday School. At nine years old he started work with his father who was a 'reed-maker'. A 'reed' was a tool used by hand-loom weavers to separate the threads. His father was a drunkard and a bully and often beat his son if he caught him reading. At eighteen, he married Ann Orme, a resident here in Hyde. Once he married Ann, a family followed and by 1830 they had a son and two daughters. Employment was bleak, Prince sought work in France, but it didn’t work out. After suffering much hardship on his return journey he arrived home to find his family in the poorhouse at Wigan. In later years he moved between Blackburn, Ashton and Hyde, searching for casual work. He supplemented his income by contributing poems to local papers and begging and borrowing off friends and acquaintances. Effort were made by friends and well-wishers to help Prince lift him from poverty. Several cash grants from the Royal Bounty Fund were given, but each failed because of his addiction to alcohol, which he tried to kick many times but couldn’t.

DEAR wife, we struggle in a time

Saddened by many a shade,

For warfare in another clime

Has paralysed my trade;

And 'mong the thousands of our class,

So meanly clothed and fed,

We've had our share of grief, alas!

Pining for needful bread.....

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE

His wife Ann died in 1858, and four years later he married Ann Taylor. His final years were marred by declining health and hardship from the near collapse of the cotton industry during the American Civil War, what was known around Hyde as the Cotton Famine. John Critchley Prince died here in Hyde, in 1866, he was by then almost blind and partially paralysed by a stroke suffered shortly after he remarried. He was buried in St George's churchyard.

　

His works of poetry are well worth seeking out and should be available in the library.. Two books to look out for are ‘The Life Of John Critchley Prince & The Poems of John Critchley Prince both by R.A. Douglass Lithgow

Hyde's 'home-grown' poet James Leigh and many other poets were so moved by his life and death that they penned poems about him... below is one of the 3 poems I've read from James Leigh concerning Prince.. Leigh was presented with Prince's prised snuffbox.

Line on being presented

with

Critchley Princes Snuffbox

This box is a relic
Thou you may not know it,
Of John Critchley Prince,
The Lancashire Poet.
It has been handed down
As an heirloom to me;
I, Jammie o’ Tim’s,
Better known as Jim Leigh

The Globe Inn, Lumn Road

What a truely sad site this makes.

.

If anyone one as any older pictures from inside or outside of the Globe, Nancy and I would be more than pleased to see then and include them here.

Sotally Tober

Starkle starkle little twink

who the heck you are I think

I'm not under what you call

the alcofluence of incohol

I'm just a little slort of sheep

I'm not drunk like tinkle peep

I don't know who is me yet

but the drunker I stand here the longer I get

Just give me one more drink to fill me cup

'cuz I got all day sober to Sunday up.

David Hudgins

The Globe in better days..... picture donated by Gerald England of Hyde Daily Photo

Hyde PSA

Hyde

Pleasant Sunday Afternoon

.

.

This building was on Market Street, just lower down than the junction with Union Street. I remember playing snooker here, but I can't say it was a place I went into often... there is however a memory I have of going here for an injection... but I'll leave that a while and show you these pictures first.

.

The PSA, (Pleasant Sunday Afternoon) a reformers answers to men languishing in the pubs and families left at home.

.

Until the day it closed it was only 1d (old penny) to get in and enjoy all the activiities with a cup of tea and biscuits thrown in.

.

.

I recognised the PSA

From years and years ago.

On Sundays we would spend the day

Around the radio,

And listen to a well-known tune,

Perhaps a story too.

That Pleasant Sunday Afternoon

Was PSA we knew

.

.

I can recall going here when I was very small to have some kind of injection.... a big line of mums and kids awaiting their turn did nothing to calm me down about having a jab... by the time it was my turn I was crying and as the nurse came towards me I kicked her shin and ran out screaming. That set off a load of others kids crying who must also have been just as scared. I ran off down Market Street with my mum and Aunty Doris chasing behind. I was dragged back by the arm, but mum was told to take me out as I had disrupted the other children... My mum and Aunty Doris 'never' let me live that down.

I'm pleased that someone saved this frieze which you can see in the top picture.