I re-call my “Good old Days”.

“The good old days” is a phrase often accompanied by a sneering tone.
They are always the good old days to the those, who live through them, as children and young adults, because for each generation, they refer to the golden days of youth.

That is often the only reason, they are deemed good.

In my good old days, I had holes in my shoes and trouser cheeks.

I had a perpetual cold, because my bed cover consisted of my dad’s army greatcoat and my bedroom floorboards didn’t even have a rug.
By Today’s standards my childhood was deplorable but as a child the World was a wonderful place of discovery.

For every Winter’s night that I cried myself to sleep with the pain of being cold, there was a Summer’s day of lying on the baking hot limestone slabs of the pavement, the pricking of tar bubbles on the cobbles, recently tarmac-ed over after the removal of the Nissen huts along the centre of our street.

Even our parents thought of them as the Good days.

They had survived the Second World War, when most of them had lost at least one relative, or dear friend to the hated enemy. (Huns, Nips, eye-ties)

Such a racist attitude was practically a legal requirement at the time.

Our parents had not only survived The War, they had lived through The Depression, which even my generation (Baby Boomer) can’t properly imagine.

It had been a time when parents were lucky if they could live and be employed in the same town; a time when records tell of women dying of starvation to ensure that their children didn’t.

My own father told me of walking from his home to Kirkby (5miles) to stand at the end of a queue of 200 men waiting in hope that a worker had been sick and failed to attend work.

Thousands of men gathered at the Docks hoping to be one of the hundred, or so, who would get a day’s work.

You left school at 13 and got a job, if you could, unless you got a scholarship.

My Dad got a scholarship but had to go find work instead, because his dad was killed by a dropped bolt, in the days when Industry wasn’t hog-tied by Health and Safety rules, such as supplying hard-hats for construction workers.

Post-War, I was lucky that my father was a skilled cabinet-maker, able to earn good wages in an age of piece-work.

Our neighbour’s were lucky, in that the Welfare State was born, just a short while after I was.

For the present generation, who’ve grown up well-nourished (most are several inches taller than my baby-boomer generation), with technology leaping forward, making life easier, the Internet making them more knowledgeable (less naive) these will be their Good Old Days, although the present political climate does not bode well for their future..


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