http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan Sat, 04 Apr 2026 03:07:39 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4240/one-fine-day http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4240 I am not a daily diarist though I have four diaries for this year, one with appointments, one with book titles and the name of blog posts and the other two with random jottings.    Peter is a very reliable diarist and he has a set of diaries going back thirty years, recording the date when the Road Tax is due and how much he paid the plumber and that sort of thing. If one of our daughters wants to know when she last went somewhere or other, even if it was years ago, he can look it up. He deals only in facts, not revealing any thoughts he may have.
Now I mention this difference between us only to demonstrate how unalike we are. Yet we have been married fifty five years.
Picture this: October 3rd 1959. According to the calendar it is autumn yet the early morning grass is dewdrop green and the sky a scrubbed blue hue. A day, bright and warm as high summer, will follow.
I  wear a white satin gown fastened with twenty covered buttons down the back; the buttons and loops have taken the  seam-stress hours to make but the dress fits beautifully. Three scented gardenias form the headdress, held in place  by a short veil. A prayer book, decorated with swirling ribbons and a single gardenia serves instead of a bouquet. Together with a blue leg garter, white very high heels and mother-pearl ear-rings, I am ready for Church.
 Outside, two neighbours throw rice over me and I thank them, feeling slightly embarrassed, as it is an unexpected gesture.  As I step into the limousine I think of Peter, waiting for me in his morning suit.
On the short drive to church I notice groups of women hurrying along, and wonder where they are going. The car almost stops when it reaches the narrow lane leading to the  church because it is crammed with well-wishers, who have come to watch our wedding.
The rector, fully robed, hurries to meet me, saying  the church is full, packed with all my friends. At that moment, I realise the interest shown in me is because I am sixteen and about to get married.   
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:40:38 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4239/a-lovely-lovely-town http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4239
St Michael's, Cas Llwchwr, is an old church overlooking the River Loughor and standing close to the castle. Small white washed cottages surrounded it and not far away was the Trocadero Café, where a friend and I sometimes went for coffee in the evenings and to play the juke box. 
Today, the door of the church was left open for those standing in the porch to listen to the service.  I was pleased that the hymn Oh Perfect Love, which can be tricky if the congregation is not familiar with it, was sung with gusto.
After the wedding photographs outside the church, we went to the Stepney Hotel, Llanelli, for the reception. The tables were decorated with roses supplied by friends who were champion growers and, although it was late in the season, the pinks, peaches and creams of the flowers glowed against the white tablecloths and china. 
When the main meal was over, it was time to cut the cake.  A waiter arrived with an elaborate silver knife, almost as large as a ceremonial sword - (I do not elaborate).  The photographer positioned himself to take some (more) photographs. I gripped the knife, after managing to heft it into position, and Peter put his hand over mine. When the photographer had finished, I  looked for a place to put the knife down but Peter insisted on sticking the tip of the blade into the cake, asking how many slices we needed to cut, not realising it would be done for us. 
There was little time to fuss with the cake, though. We were married at ten o'clock in the morning and our train was leaving at 1.30, so we changed quickly and left for our new home, a rented apartment.  
Half an hour into the journey there was a six minute scheduled stop in Carmarthen and Peter dashed out and bought me a copy of Good Housekeeping magazine.  I would have preferred She magazine, because of the fashion and beauty in it, but I had always liked cookery and might even have become a cookery teacher if a Chemistry qualification had not been necessary.
It was about three o'clock when we arrived at our destination and the end of the line. We made our way up the hill, the gorse and the Irish Sea gleaming in the sunlight and arrived at  the lovely, lovely town that was to be our home for the next eleven years and the place where I was to experience terrible loneliness.    
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:38:26 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4238/kitchen-lore http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4238 We had jam buns and cheese for tea and I was still wearing my going-away outfit, a navy jersey two piece with very high stiletto heels. I had taken the little white hat off before shopping and now, after eating, I was relieved to pull my shoes off.
I didn't think I was hungry until I sat down to eat and we didn't rush the meal, going over the events of the day. (I have noticed that the longer I sit at a table, the more I eat).
After a while we made our way to the kitchen to wash the dishes.  (Peter had already decided that the earliest time we could go to bed that wouldn't look too hasty was nine o'clock.  This was because the landlady's mother, who was in her eighties and lived in the other half of the house, would notice and tell her daughter if we went too soon).  So, it was  chores for us until nine o'clock. 
The area designated as the kitchen qualified as a kitchen because it had a 1930's gas cooker, a cream painted  larder lined with faded blue paper and a sink and draining board. All the modern housewife could possibly need! It was teeny-tiny and to close the door we both had to squeeze up to the sink, so we didn't bother.
The division of labour was decided when I said I'd wash and Peter could wipe.  The task did not take long and as I tipped the pan of soapy water down the drain I heard Peter say, 'Can I tell you something?'
I was still in happy-bride mode and turned to look at him excitedly, wondering what wonderful thing he was going to tell me.
'Wipe the draining board when you've finished.'    
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:36:25 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4237/and-so-we-went-to-bed http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4237 Our bedroom overlooked the main road. (The landlady's mother, who by now I had christened 'Ladyfach' because she was so small, had her bedroom a short flight of stairs away from ours.  We'd seen her briefly when we'd arrived, but she had since disappeared.  I later realised she spent most of her time sleeping by the stove in her kitchen). 
Apart from the bed there was a double wardrobe and dressing table in our room, but there was no other way of storing our belongings. Deciding that the quilt and one of the blankets would be enough to keep us warm, we  covered the mattress with the other two blankets before putting the bottom sheet on.
Carefully, Peter checked that the blankets were placed squarely on the mattress, with the overlap on both sides being equal. We did the same with the bottom sheet, then tucked them in carefully. (Peter had done two years National Service, where things like that mattered, but he was naturally tidy, anyway). 
We finished by putting the top sheet and the rest of the bedding on, Peter checking again that everything was centred properly. Then I remembered a bag I had left downstairs with a hairbrush and slippers and asked him to fetch it, while I finished the tucking. 
I had seen little of the town on the only previous visit I had made, when my mother and I  had come to view the apartment, so we went for a walk.
The old part of the town was approached by a very narrow street. Lime washed cottages, which had been the homes of fishermen during the nineteenth century, overlooked the quay and there was a steep bank nearby, covered with wild purple rhododendron.  I could have lingered, but the breeze was cool, so we headed back up the hill.
Once  home, I put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Peter drew the living room curtains and found they were too narrow to meet in the middle but, fortunately, a large safety pin on the window sill  solved the problem. 
'I hope the bedroom curtains are alright',  said Peter, opening the biscuits. (Did I mention he's a pessimist?)
'We 'll put a sheet over the curtain rail if we need to', was my response.
Nine o'clock came, our appointed bedtime. We tiptoed upstairs very quietly and closed the bedroom door behind us. I was beginning to feel a bit like a fugitive.
Peter drew the curtains, checking there were no gaps, because any chinks of light would  mean he'd be unable to sleep. (I was learning new things about him all the time). He checked  his watch and wound the clock. At last we were in bed and as soon as we got in,  Peter pushed his foot down to the bottom of the mattress and ran it back and fore.
'What are you doing that for?' I asked.
'Just checking everything is tucked in properly otherwise I'll have to get up in the night to put it right'.
What makes a lasting partnership? I've absolutely no idea.
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:34:28 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4236/jugs-hares-and-rabbits http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4236
I didn't explain that as we were married during term-time, we went straight to our apartment, instead of going on honeymoon. On the following Monday, Peter  would start his fourth teaching week at the local junior school.
We were up early on Sunday morning to go to church by eight o'clock. The church was in the centre of the town, a short walk away.
Ladyfach, (the landlady's mother, who lived in the other half of the house), moved about almost silently and I was surprised, when we left the house, to see her black clad figure walking down the road in the opposite direction, towards the Catholic church and morning Mass.
One of the things I noticed about the double fronted stone cottage where we now lived that it lacked any throb of energy. There were no brass jugs on shelves or potted plants in the hall, not even a vase of garden flowers. The walls were bare and the furniture in the house was  like part of a stage set, not a home. We would be out of there as soon as possible, I decided.
I strengthened my resolve with the thought of our next meal. We'd been too late to buy a couple of chops from the butcher the day before. He'd already scrubbed the shelves and put the plastic parsley in the window by the time we got there. Still, we had a steak and kidney pie, potatoes and carrots, all to be cooked on the museum-piece old stove.
Opposite the church was a shop that advertised shark fins' soup, gnocci, tuna steaks and capers. I'd be up there the first thing the next day.
Whilst our food was cooking I picked up Good Housekeeping magazine and flicked through the recipes, stopping at one for Jugged Hare.
Being a country girl, I was used to rabbit stew, with leeks, carrots, parsley, a glass of white wine mixed in, mushrooms, mustard, pepper, some cream. 
However, Jugged Hare was a delicacy I had not come across before and. I scanned the recipe: Drain the blood from the animal and put one side, to use for gravy. Any clots will need to be sieved and discarded. Vinegar may be mixed into the blood to prevent further coagulation  I'd read enough.
It was approaching noon now and our food was ready. As I went to the kitchen (down a passage way) I thought I might have a whiff of Ladyfach's meal, but it was only our pie I smelt. Next Sunday, we would have roast, with rice pudding and there would be an apple tart in the oven as well, for our tea. I was determined to bring some vitality into this lifeless place and see that we were well fed, too.
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:32:38 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4233/profession-housewife http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4233 Following the Girl Guides rule, I washed the dishes then made the bed. I had no dusters but flicked around the room with a scrap of tissue paper, which I'd found inside a vase, one of our wedding presents. (I recalled some advice I'd had from a relative: don't buy any ornaments because you will be given plenty. She should have added: Though in all probability you will not like them.) 
Half an hour later, I had a list ready and made my way to the few shops in the town. Tall Georgian buildings, Victorian terraces with tiny gardens and privet hedges  lined the streets, bounded by a spectacular blue bay.  The sun  brought a bounce to the morning and I decided  there was no prettier place on earth. (Though I had not travelled extensively, I was still correct in my judgement. It was a beautiful town.)
 I bought vacuum sealed bacon, very new at the time and slightly more expensive than the loose slices the grocer sold but better, being less fatty. (My mother thought I was wildly extravagant, but it lasted us the week.  I also preferred washed potatoes, in preference to those covered in mud).
I needed sugar for baking, margarine, lots of flour. Going against Good Housekeeping and what I'd learnt in school, I used self-raising flour for cakes and pastry, deciding not to fuss if the pastry rose a little. 
A stroke of inspiration was deciding on mixed spice instead of jars of nutmeg, ginger and cinnamon, which would probably go stale, anyway, because I would use them in small quantities only. 
Before going back to the apartment I visited the little shop advertising sharks' fins, but I was to be disappointed. The owner had long given up stocking the items listed on the board but kept it in the window because it attracted tourists into the shop.
Then I showed him a recipe I had copied from one of  Good Housekeeping's publications, called Gobi Aloo Saag.
Frowning, he said I might have to send to London for ingredients like that.  Soho, perhaps. Curry powder was off the menu, too. Jam, tea, biscuits were   were popular in these parts.  'Where do you come from?' he wanted to know.   
That evening the most exotic meal I could produce for our tea was fried  mushrooms (a favourite of Peter's) and bacon, followed by crumpets (bought) spread with butter, sugar and cinnamon and toasted under the grill.
The previous week, Peter had left money with Ladyfach to pay for a sack of coal and I was looking forward to sitting by the fire. I'd seen nothing of Ladyfach during the day, only the occasional muffled noise as she moved around her kitchen. Now, when we were in the garden getting the coal, she appeared at the open window, offering us  newspapers for the fire. (This saved us  tearing up the cardboard box containing the porridge oats.)
It wasn't long before we had a bright fire going. Tomorrow I decided I'd light the fire myself. Little did I know the bother that fire would cause me.         
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:22:45 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4232/coming-cleanwash-day http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4232
It was a fine day and time to tackle Peter's shirts and socks.
I  gave the collar and cuffs a good rub before rinsing them and as they were drip dry I did not need to wring them.
There was a long line in the garden and Ladyfach had told me to use it anytime as her daughter saw to her clothes. As I pegged the last shirt, I saw Ladyfach coming slowly down the path, saying there was a  pole I could use to hoist the line up.
She looked at the dripping shirts and I thought it might appear odd to her that I had not wrung them so explained the reason.  She said when her son had lived at home she had always ironed his shirts, drip dry or not, to make sure they were aired.
Later that day, when the washing was  dry, I put the shirts on the back of the dining chairs to air, because we had no airing cupboard, intending to take them upstairs at bedtime. The socks were on another chair.
When  I told Peter about the conversation with Ladyfach, he asked me if I'd iron his, too. Then he took the socks, held them to the fire and pressed them against the mirror.
'What on earth are you doing that for?' I asked.
'Making sure they are properly aired', was the reply. 
I was beginning to learn that you need the patience of a plaster saint when you marry. Not forgetting that the role is interchangeable, though.
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:20:10 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4231/only-words http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4231
When we first married, Peter had no  time for novels. His favourite books were on the subject of  Bomber Command and the part it played in World War 11.  Other 'specialist subjects' included the internal combustion engine, diesel engines and the circulation of the blood. Like Mr Gradgrind in Hard Times, facts were the thing,  not made-up stories.
(Professional quizzers, apparently, memorise  the titles and the authors of books, but have little idea of the subject matter. Emma Bovary is reduced to being no more than a bored wife, rather than Flaubert's masterpiece and the novel Moby Dick can be explained as a man  obsessed with killing a whale.)  
The art of the writer is to entertain and there is no reason to feel guilty about reading for pleasure.  When Peter discovered P. G. Woodhouse, One Moonlit Night and Scott Fitzgerald the literary landscape changed for him. 
Although I'm always reading something, my range is fairly narrow. Two books I have failed to read are  Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov and Tolkien's The  Hobbit, but  thousands of others have enjoyed them (and there are thousands of other books I would find unreadable).
During the first year of my marriage  I spent  many hours in the local library.  We lived in a very small, remote town in West Wales. Imagine a place that has a train service,  surprisingly, but no passenger trains on a Sunday. If you need safety pins the only place to buy them is in  the chemist's shop.  People come to this town to retire, open sweet shops, go for walks. Ambitious young people have all long fled.
We started our married life in this town. I had hoped, before arriving, to find a job here. Little did I know that there were virtually no jobs to be had.  It took me a year to find employment.  Consequently, I sat down and read and read. 
If you have a story to tell you should write, but don't write just because you want to tell a story. Not my words.  I shall blog tomorrow and I'm not sure if it's because I want to write or if it's because I have a tale. 
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:14:33 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4230/think-big-or-go-home http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/4230
I've been busy these last few months with various projects but I have missed blogging and shall make time, from now on, to jot down the whirligig of thoughts that enter my brain. 
 A college prospectus says the ability to keep to a topic is the sign of an educated mind.  I understand the point but for me, one idea sparks a myriad others, creating numerous possibilities and a state of complete indecision.
As a writer, I do a lot of churning;  I'm not sure if I could be hanged for my thoughts, but I would prefer to keep them private. Many employees who take part in those hideous staff-training days which involve  'bombing ideas', would, too.
This is where employees  'share' their ideas (sorry, their jargon, not mine), thus enabling the group leader to trash most of them, (I don't mean the staff, thankfully).  In the gritty remains at the bottom of the pot, they will pan for gold (fools gold).
This exercise has gone on for years but was declared completely pointless by a psychologist last week. Can't say I'm surprised, but here's an interesting point:
President Obama has a female employee whose task it is to think about possibilities and difficulties that might arise in any given situation.  Before you act, think of what might go wrong. Good thinking.
Ideas do not exist in a vacuum, though. They usually come from somewhere, like films, people we know, or books.
 President Hollande does not read books, according to Thomas Picketty, author  of Capital in the Twenty-First Century. I expect the President is too busy with matters of State but, like Paul Valery, the French poet who admitted to not having read Proust, he might save time by leafing through a critique. 
I have spent (squandered?) a lifetime squirrelling my way through books and will reveal more in my next blog. Happy reading!
]]> Tue, 15 Dec 2015 20:13:10 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3282/marshmallow-thoughts http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3282 Wed, 13 Mar 2013 14:26:49 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3278/lemon-adrenalin http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3278 Tue, 12 Mar 2013 19:26:58 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3274/struggling-not-juggling http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3274 Mon, 11 Mar 2013 18:54:18 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3273/mothers-or-mothers-day-im-not-sure http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3273 Mon, 11 Mar 2013 15:03:05 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3211/council-carbuncles http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3211 Fri, 22 Feb 2013 18:17:20 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3205/let-it-be-let-it-be http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3205 Wed, 20 Feb 2013 17:44:19 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3203/on-the-money http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3203 Tue, 19 Feb 2013 19:50:16 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3196/in-a-word http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3196 Mon, 18 Feb 2013 19:01:14 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3195/a-binding-disagreement http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3195 Sun, 17 Feb 2013 21:19:53 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3192/experts http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3192 Sat, 16 Feb 2013 22:27:42 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3187/ill-be-a-hot-shot-baby-tonight http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3187 Fri, 15 Feb 2013 20:31:36 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3186/its-not-about-da-money http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3186 Fri, 15 Feb 2013 19:22:20 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3163/walk-on-by-love http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3163 Thu, 07 Feb 2013 15:35:53 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3160/tangled-thoughts http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3160 Wed, 06 Feb 2013 11:37:07 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3156/complicated-but-simple http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3156 Tue, 05 Feb 2013 19:43:25 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3153/pwdin-bara http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/gillian-morgan/blog/3153 Mon, 04 Feb 2013 19:45:07 +0000