dominic Joseph zenden
Bio
I love my life ! But it has not always been that way.
Writing has been a true friend and a very useful way of coming to terms with the events of the past.
Being positive, belonging and making time for others are three of my four principles.
Stories (7)
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Childhood Room
Childhood Room (Re Write) Radio Times Radio Times. It was not that late , I was huddled up in my bottom bunk , covers , quilt pulled up tight up over my head. One ear on the pillow and a small creamed coloured ear piece in the other. This time was my time , just the warmth of my bed and my little blue , battery driven , manually tuned radio. This radio was my window on the world. A world that could not be manipulated, a world that conjured up image after imagined image, filling my head with visions of the world. Introducing my young self to culture, language and all the different jarrahs of music. I have brought the radio from an old Electrical appliance shop in Lowestoft. I had saved up the £10 over a year, birthday money , pocket money, corona bottle money. Corona bottles were a brilliant way to find money. Three pence per bottle retrieved and returned to the newsagents. I would scrawler the building sites around our house, especially in the summer. The builders plasterers, carpenters, roofers would all discard the empty bottles. Three pence not much for an empty bottle for them, to me it all added up and helped to make my first large purchase.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
The Other Side I had little that I could claim as 'mine. A few games, an old red box drop record player and my collection of Subbuteo, and a large pile of 'Shoot's magazine. ( A football comic that published glossy colour photographs of all the English and Scottish football teams. )
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
Belonging. No exaggeration I hated school with a passion. Having just left all of my old school behind and moved a hundred miles my new school was a different world. Too much new' to get used to. The school I left was old in every way. Old classroom, old playground and most of all old teachers. These old teachers had long lost values and strange ideas of how children should behave. In todays world it is almost impossible to relate to the methods of teaching. I am talking about the days of free school milk, tiny bottles top with silver foil lids that at 10 30 am every morning would be given out free to every child in England . No doubt a legacy from war time, twenty years pervious. Mrs Kurd an elderly slender woman in her early thirties ! Grey hair would penetrate her naturally raven black straight shoulder length hair. She was okay as teachers went, I just hated having to read out loud to the whole of the class. The fear of ridicule as I stumbled over simple words would put the fear of God into me. I also dreaded getting my English text book back. It would be filled with red lines and spelling corrections, normally accompanied with 'See Me' in bright red letters at the bottom. Gold stars were for other children with a keener aptitude for the written word. Mr Cook the headmaster a round plump man with no hair would be rarely seen, but if you had to see him you were in trouble. An old fashion school that still put sixpence in the Christmas pudding. The whole school came together to celebrate all of the Christian festivals. Like many of the children of my generation I could not bare morning assembly, cold floors and Christian hymns ! Enough to put you off religion for life. One memory that I had of 'Merryworth' Primary School was how the whole school was gathered together one cold frosty winters morning. Mr Cook, who never took assembly, stood stern faced in front of the whole school. In a menacing soft voice only just bearable said, " someone has drawn on the school toilets." And he wanted the culprit to own up and face their punishment ! If no one owned up Christmas would be cancelled. Unbelievable - no sixpences in our pudding, no school play or half day closing, all because a child of 6 or 7 years old had drawn a 'V' on the wall of the boys toilets. It worked and the two boys were expelled from the school in disgrace. How times have changed. My new school was nothing like my old school. It was modern, with younger teachers. It was also newer, only just built with brand new classroom with sky lights pointing upwards towards the sky in the middle of the hexagonal shaped rooms. Central heating in the winter, air conditioning in the summer. A long way from the dirty wooden building of Merryworth C.P. I still hated assembly and lessons, but at this new school psychical education was fantastic. The P.E. Lessons for the boys were taken by an ex professional footballer, who also ran the local paper shop. On a Wednesday afternoon the shop would close half day and Mr Small ex Luton, Everton and Liverpool.F.C. would teach us how to play football.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
A Piece of Cake Our living room was the centre of all the actives we shared as a family. This room came into it's own on Sunday's. It was the only day of the week that guaranteed we would all be home together. My parents would not be up before ten am.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
COCONUT PYRAMIDS We never had any visitors . The house as it was only had just enough room for the six of us. Family did not come and stay, I did not know any of my mothers relatives. After her father died in 1969 I had no contact. Nor were they ever spoken about. Still to this day I have never met my mothers brother, or his wife. I didn't even know anything about my mothers real mum, her life or anything about the family history. The name 'Zenden, although uncommon was a mystery to me until recently. But that is another story for another time. My Grandad on my father's side had just died. I remember coming back from my early morning paper round to be told the news. My father who was never that approachable made a point of sitting us four children down and announcing he had something sad to tell us. In an emotionless voice told us the news. I felt nothing. I had only seen him once a year. I had no attachment or love for him. He was just an old man who smoked and sat in the same arm chair, smoking every time I had met him. Looking at me over the top of his small rimed spectacles. I had wondered whether or not if he had ever moved from said chair. Well apparently not, he had died in that chair. His last words were something in the order of commenting on the food he had just eaten. This man who had brought a regime of terror, ruling over his children with a rod of iron literally, just fell asleep after eating his dinner. A peaceful death for a man who had been feared but never liked. His wife my Grandmother had done everything for him. Even during war time he had refused to sign up claiming that the draft would effect his ears. And as he made his living from tuning piano's the loud noise of gun fire would inhibit his work after the war. He used the same excuse to avoid working in the ammunition factories. He left it up to my Grandmother to make what little money she could by writing. Whilst he found excuse after excuse not to work. My Grandmother bless her soul was a brilliant author fortunately. This kept the wolf from the door. There was plenty of reasons for the lack of emotion in my fathers voice, as he told the four of us the news. As a child you know very little about anything, especially relationships between families. All I knew was that both my parents had seldom showed me any forms of affection, warmth or love. So when at the end when my father added that 'Grandma' was going to be staying with us for a few days none of us really knew how to react, or how this would effect us directly. The first change was to hit me fast. My younger brother Ian was moved into our room. His small bed tucked into the corner of our room. I was now sharing with Adrian and Ian. No privacy or silence. The three of us in each others way. Ian was three, Adrian fourteen and me in the middle. Ian's room was now Grandma's for the duration of her stay. I admit to being excited at the prospect of sharing some time with my dads mum. I had never really got to know her. As a child you feel certain vibrations, atmospheres. And boy did I feel this distinct atmosphere from my Mother. She did not like her Mother in law and was prepared to share her dislike at any opportunity. My Grandmother had baked some coconut pyramids for us on one of our rare visits. The sweet coconut treat formed into little triangles and topped with a bright shiny red glacier cherry. Us children loved them ! But my mother would not eat them. She told us on the journey back that Grandmas baking should be avoided at all cost. My mother continued. "Your Grandmother never cleans her nails, she lets them grow long trapping all sorts of muck and dirt underneath" I was now listening intensely as my mother graphicly spelt it out. " When she bakes cakes she never cleans her hands first, in fact the only reason I know that she has been baking is because her finger nails are clean !" Could this be true ? Have I unknowingly been eating the dirt from underneath my Grandmas finger nails, disguised as cake ? I was now feel slightly queasy, what with the smell of my fathers cigarette smoke, the rocking side to side of the car plus the smell of petrol fumes, and the thought of my Grandmothers baking, I must have turned a very pale shade of green. How could I ever eat another coconut pyramid ever again ? Some conversations you never forget. And this was one of them. All these months later the image of my Grandmothers coconut 'finger nail dirt' pyramids had stayed with me. I had that feeling, the one you get just before a birthday or Christmas morning. The excitement of expectation. That feeling is far better than the event nearly always. Watching the road from the bedroom window, I could see all the comings and goings. I had lifted the net curtain up and tucked it into the wire cord that it hung from. I hated that net curtain that my mother had insisted that we had. No only would it block the light out, it would stop me from seeing out ! After what had seemed like hours I spotted my fathers harvest brown Morris Marina slowly coming down the hill. It was her Grandma had arrived ! The whole house stopped, mother put the kettle on and even Fred the cat awoke from his basket. The house became alive with expectation. And there she was, a little lady, much smaller than I had remember her, in an ankle length coat, round box top hat and a smile from ear to ear. In all the years of living in our house this was the first time she had ever seen it. The boot bounced open revealing a heap of boxes bags and one old cardboard brown suitcase with brass locks. "How long have you come for Grandma ?" I could hear my voice asking. Grandma not wishing to be drawn into conversation just stretched out her arms and gave me the longest, warmest hug I had ever had. Her joy at seeing us was etched all over her winkled round face. She smelt like my father, cigarette smoke and talc. That day was joyous. The house seemed more relaxed, more fun that I could remember. The truth was it was just different. Still as a child you have little to compare your thoughts and feelings with. I believed every family was like mine, it never occurred that other families could be different. I soon got back into my routine, yes the house was different, but there was a different atmosphere. One difference was Grandma just would not spot talking. Knowing what I know now I can understand a little better. But during this time the only moments of quiet were during Coronation Street. Grandma would go silent for the deration of the programme. It was amazing like flicking a light on and then off, the reach of Hilda, Eddie Yates and Vera and Jack Duckworth was nothing less than a miracle. This mircle had not got passed us children. We agreed between us to not stop talking during said television programme. We only had one television in the house, so we had little choice than to watch what my father watched. I can still see the anger in my father's voice when he realised what we were doing ! But what made this so memorable was how my Grandma reacted. She did not get angry, she simply smiled at us all and left the room returning moments later still with a smile on her face and something tacked behind her back. With a grand gesture like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Grandma produced a large sweet tin from behind her back. Wow she has brought us sweets ! We only ever saw chocolate at Christmas. Mum would buy a large tin of Quality Street for us all to share. I would wait until everyone was in bed and creep down the hall, open the drinks cabinet where the brightly coloured tin would be kept, fill my pockets and sneak back. I would share them with Adrian so he would not tell, but he only got a couple of toffee's ! I eat the chocolate ones. So with a flourish this tin was produced, and as Grandma opened the lid, first the familiar smell not of chocolate, but of coconut ! Then the realisation, not sweets, but COCONUT PYRAMIDS ! Before I could help myself my glace went straight to my Grandmas hands, her nails were spotless ! "Here you are children I made them specially for you ! Our faces must have been a picture, from joy to horror in a matter of seconds ! I had never gone to bed without a fight ever, until that night.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
Match Stick verses Lipstick All families are the same, that is what I had believed up until I was twenty. The facts are each family is individual to themselves. Our family was certain different to those of my friends but only with hindsight could I have understood this. When you are growing up nothing really rocks your world more than a new brother or sister. My youngest brother was this unexpected bolt from the blue, understanding why just did not come into the equation. He just appeared one winters day at the end of November. Much to my sisters disgust as her birthday is 30 November. Ian was born in the early hours of 25 November 1967 five days earlier than his elder sister. I think this must have distracted from her birthday. My sister was two years younger than me and 5 years older than Ian. A difficult gap as I well knew being 4 years younger than my elder brother. The age gap can be a blessing and a curse all at the same time. I was not as charitable to my little brother as my older brother had been to me. Yes I did watch him grow up , and I did take him around with me as I got older, but in between times I have to admit I did not treat him that well. Practical jokes, dead legs, which he reminds me of today meant he become scared of me as he grew up. I now regret treating him that way. No excuse. I am sure his attitude towards me now was born during his growing up years. I can remember his first steps, his first words, the fact that he used to roll around the floor, never crawl. A mild manner baby that grew up in the shadow of an elder sister and brother. Adrian had left home at 16 and then again at 17 so although he was a part of the early years, an eleven year age gap is wide. I would take him out , play football with him but the age and strength difference would prove frustrating for both of us. One of my earliest memories linked to Ian was his joy of drawing. He could never get enough paper or pencils. He would draw on his arm and legs at the age of three. I can still see the boxed imagines of his people drawing in my mind today. I know my mother would have to watch him carefully as he would disappear , quietly vanishing into a corner just to draw on himself. I was not a good brother, I would encourage him to draw on his arms and legs just to annoy my mother, who would have to scrub his limbs clean. On one fateful morning my mother was busy in the kitchen, no doubt doing the clothes washing in her twin tub. Us children were all at a loose end and Ian had run out of paper and pencils. So the three of us took Ian upstairs into our parents bedroom. We were never allowed in under any circumstances. I knew we were doing wrong the moment we opened the bedroom door. My mother had a large unit wardrobe, not fitted just built in the room and lent against the wall. Dressing table in the middle, over head cupboard space and side wardrobe for clothes. The unit was very large, with much surface space. I think you are ahead of me ! I gave Ian my mums lipstick and pointed him in the direction of all that waiting space ! Needless to say he did a good job covering the whole unit including the mirror, in lip stick match stick drawings ! I think he was very quiet for well over two hours, finally returning downstairs by himself with his hands ,arms and legs covered in mum's makeup. Watching the horrified looked on my mother face , priceless ! Then the realisation of why Ian had gone unnoticed for a few hours. Following her as she ran up the stairs pushing her bedroom door open slowly, the four of us closely running to keep, hardly daring to look, peering from behind her loosely fitting apron. Ian had indeed been busy. His unique art work covered every square inch, including the mirror and the strip light. Red lip stick match stick men, women and dogs. This was brilliant ! Ian had done a far better job than any of us could have expected, even the walls had not escaped. Our mother's face, etched in horror, her over reaction to any situation legendary to us children, was for once warrantied. If you have ever tried to get lipstick off anything you would know how difficult it is. Even after my father had taken to sanding down some of the panels in a vain attempt to remove the lipstick the faint outline of Ian's efforts remained. My mothers dresser carried the scares of that morning for many years. Faded areas where the sandpaper had taken all the varnish off. Faded match stick men and match stick women enbeded in time. Ian has told me since this was one of his earliest childhood memories. He did not espace my father roff. He was mad, and even taking Ian's young years into account, poor Ian got the hiding of his life. Violence sticks in the memory. I am sure that my father knew no other way, repeating how his own father would have reacted. Learnt behaviour is no excuse for violence. But it goes some way to explain why. This took me many years to understand. This episode was not Ian's fault, nor should the responsibility fall on my shoulders. A lack of supervision was the issue. Children are unaware of dangers, right and wrongs, they need the attention and love from their parents. This was always lacking in our home. They would react and blame when we misbehaved but would seldom praise or encourage. Ian has recently said to me that he did not blame our mother for her lack of empathy, love and understanding. He believed that her own childhood had scared her so deeply that coping with the stresses of bringing up children was just too much for her. For a younger brother he has good insight. He has forgiven her for everything she lacked. I am still catching Ian up. That day still plays out in my mind. My part in it still hangs around, laced in guilt and laughter. But instead of anger, I have learnt to thank my mother for the lessons that I have come to learn and understand many years later.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
My Childhood Room
Childhood Room. Secret Plan. It was the dead of night , I lay awake thinking of what I had to do. If I got this right it may change the all of our lives. The pervious day I had brought with my pocket money (10 pence ) a small packet of cigarette crackers. I had found this tiny shop tucked away up a long street in Cambridge. It sold every type of practical joke you could imagine , squirting flowers , black face soap , nails through fingers and so on. I was to become a regular visitor over the next few years. The shop it's self was crammed full , selves overflowing with slightly faded packets , dark corners , an old fashioned till stood upon a glass counter. Laid under the glass flip top lid , were small white packets with a comically drawn face of a man, with an exploded cigarette in his mouth. His face blacken and puzzled , the remains of a once long and slender cigarette now shredded and in taters, still between the lips of the cartoon pictured on the packet. For a child who was backwards in Maths and English I had not trouble in plotting. I could see my father's face manifesting on the pack, the wheels in my head had been firmly engaged. With a wicked grin, and a quick point of my index finger, I paid the old man behind the counter, and in an instant had the packet safely secured in my pocket tightly wrapped in a small brown paper bag. The corners of the bag neatly turned over in a fast well practised motion by the old man in the joke shop. I could tell by the way he looked at me he knew I was up to no good, but he did not care, his shop was a Mecca for all children , some as old as my father. The journey home was longer than normal, I longed to open that brown paper bag, but never no privacy on the back seat of the car. Just a slight rustle of a bag would attract the attention of my siblings, nothing was ever just mine. Sweets had to be passed around, shared. I would never open a packet of crisps till the coast was clear, though I had mastered the art of hold the bottom of the packet very firmly so when offering the open bag to my brother he could not grab a whole hand full ! We were nearly home, If I was smart I could get in the house first. The car coasted down the slope of the drive way I jumped out. Pushed the telescopic car aerial down, and opened the unlocked up and over dark blue garage door. Quickly running inside the house through the convient joining door. Straight into the down stairs toilet, the only room in the house with a lock on. This would give me the privacy to unwrap and examine what is was lurking inside the small white match box sized packet. Opening packet with the care of a surgeon making his first incision, it contain what I may only describe as little triangle pieces of cardboard , no bigger than a babies thumb nail. I laid them out on the palm of my right hand. Counting them out loud in my mind, ten, even in my tiny hands it would be easy to misplace or lose the incredibly small bringers of revenge. I was a little disappointed. How could such a tiny little piece of cardboard do all that damage ? Was the cartoon fake just to attract my attention ? The instructions read , " Push into the end of cigarette" , then in large letters "ONLY ONE CRACKER PER CIGARETTE" Of course I was going to completely ignore the last instruction. How could one of these microscopic pieces of card be enough ? My father was a man of routine. In bed most nights by 11 O clock , up for work around at 7 am. Each morning I would hear the same thing. The sound of heavy footsteps from upstairs , the loud rather musical sound of him passing wind with every third step of the staircase , the sound of him pulling out his chair next to the table , the fumbling for his packet of cigarettes , not looking just tapping around the table until his hand came across the familiar feel of the cold metal of the lighter placed directly on top of the packet , half dazed still , the rattle of the silver paper , then finally the 'click , click of the lighter before he drew his first long drag of the day , closely followed by a long coughing fit. It was the same routine each and every day. I would even smell that scent of smoke come wafting into my room , under my quilt and right up my nose. This day was going to be different , the night before I had pre loaded the front two cigarettes not just with one cracker , but four ! This will teach him to smoke without any consideration, I thought as I carefully replaced the foul smelling cigarettes back into the green and white flip top packet, making sure to place the box and the lighter back in the exact same position that my father had left them in before climbing the stairs to bed the night before. I fell asleep. I had not meant too. I had wanted to be wide awake, in prime position to experience my fathers downfall. But here he was already accompanying himself down the stairs to his usual tune. I gathered myself, rolled out of bed silently not to wake my sleep brother, who had no idea what was about to happen. I slipped out of my room, down the hall and stood by the open crack in the inside of the sitting room door frame. The light jutted out at a forty five degree angle straight across me, and on to the bathroom door. My heart thumping so loud in my chest , I saw my fathers chair being pulled out. His deep chesty cough echoing round the walls. I watched transfixed as his hands shaking reached first for his cigarettes. The rustle as he pulled off the silver paper guarding the filters, the same silver foiled paper that I had replaced so perfectly the night before. He hardly noticed the extra creases. Pulling one cigarette up he lifted the box to his mouth. The filter was now between is lips. I had no idea which cigarette he had chosen. An unknowing participate in a game of Russian roulette. I braced myself, hardly baring to glance through the crack in the door. Clunk, the sound of the heavy metal lighter failing to work. Again clunk, clunk and then what seemed like hours the familiar sound of whoosh as the flame leapt from the device much higher than was healthy ! Now I had made sure the crackers had been pushed about half an inch down inside the cigarette. The instructions had indicated that if the cracker was exposed it may go off perpetually. The idea was to get the victim to have at least two long drags before ignition and take off ! Now if you are a smoker you will know what my father did next. The first lung full of smoke for the day would create a coughing fit, so as he drew in a large lung full, finished coughing stretched his free arm out in front of him and to the side, sat back, relaxed and took the next fatal drag. Boom the cigarette disintegrated into a million tiny dust partials, the filter remained caught between his now quivering lips. I was now watching transfixed through the crack in the door, busting not to laugh. My hand stuck across my mouth my eyes wide. He stood up and whether or not he realised he was doing it, patted himself down to make sure he still had all of his limbs. This was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. My father standing up next to his chair, face black, cigarette filter impacted in his mouth, using his hands to check he still had all his bits and pieces. I will leave the rest to your imagination. The bang was so loud it woke up the house ! My mother came runny down the stairs, to see my father standing bewildered by the table, still shaking after the shock, white as a sheet. Face black as the coalman's. The house was so busy it was the best diversion. I had managed to run and to leap into bed before my mother had appeared. I was under my sheets trying hard not to shake with laughter. The image of my fathers blacken face etched with fear as he thought a bomb had exploded under his chair, had imprinted its self in my minds eye. He never did get me to confess. I am sure he knew who had spiked his fags, but there was no way I was going to own up. Maybe he saw the funny side, in private. But because I had been so careful to cover my tracks, not telling a soul about my plan the repercussions from a memorable childhood moment went unpunished. Sadly even the shock of being got by a nine year old was not enough for him to give up smoking. His morning routine stayed the same. A little more careful when lighting up his first cigarette of the day though, just in case I went for the rerun.
By dominic Joseph zenden5 years ago in Families
