Readers’ Letters

Hot bath after bike ride was sheer bliss

We enjoyed a break in the New Forest last year.

It was the first time we’d holidayed in the area and were impressed by its natural beauty.

Cycling is a popular pastime in these parts and, although it’s a long time since we took to the saddle, we decided to give it a go.

My husband Peter, son David, and I hired bikes from a business in a village and enthusiastically set off down the road towards a recommended off-road route.

Before we got there, though, the chain came off Pete’s bike and he’d an awful job getting it back on. Ten minutes later it was off again, but this time a local cycling enthusiast stopped to help and back on it went — properly this time!

Suffering

An hour or so into our ride Pete and I were suffering aches and pains in muscles we obviously hadn’t used much for years. Then when Pete looked over his shoulder to suggest we take a break, his wheel hit a tree root, he stopped abruptly and I careered into the back of him.

We landed like a ton of bricks, writhing in agony leaving our son to play nursemaid.

After our picnic lunch we went on a bit longer, but no way would we complete the route. On the way back we were so sore we pushed our cycles more than we rode them and when it started raining heaven’s hard I was sorry I’d even mentioned cycling.

With less than a mile back to the cycle shop, a large furniture van came trundling up behind up, straight through a muddy puddle, soaking me from head to toe.

Thoroughly miserable, I couldn’t wait to ditch my bike at the hire shop and I’ve never enjoyed a bath as much as the one I took back at our B&B that day!

Lynn Stewart, Edinburgh.

I was delighted to spot this woodpecker in my garden as I don’t live in the countryside. It spent about half an hour prodding around my lawn, giving me time to get my camera ready. 

Donald Lachlan Talbott, Thurmaston, Leics.

Proud

Alison, One of our members at Greyfriars, a club for people with learning difficulties, composed this wee verse — I have feelings, you do too, I’d like to share a few with you. Sometimes I’m happy, Sometimes I’m sad. Sometimes I’m scared, and that feels so bad. But the most important thing you see, Is I’m so proud because I’m me.

Eileen Mitchell, Elgin.

Big day

I WAS interested in your article on the Women’s Land Army as I was a Land Girl in Northumberland in the 1940s. In August I received a phone call inviting me to a meeting in London. It included lunch at the Royal Opera House, then a coach trip to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, Prince Philip and other members of the Royal Family. There were around 90 of my fellow Land Girls in attendance and a wonderful day was had by all.

Joan Coulson, Ashington, Northumberland.

Not all Land Girls were volunteers. I was called up in 1944 and offered service in munitions, as a ward maid in a hospital or the Land Army. I chose the Land Army because I’d lived on a farm for a number of years and had helped out at times. It was hard work getting up at an unearthly hour and working until it was dark, but I did enjoy it and I felt I was helping the war effort.

Maisie Johnston, by email.

Smelly

I OVERHEARD a young mum talking to her pre-school daughter on the bus. As the mother closed a window, she remarked, “Goodness me, that smell’s overpowering.” “What is it, mum?” asked her daughter. “I think the farmer is spreading muck on his fields today,” answered Mum. “What’s muck?” asked the wee lass. “Muck is manure,” her mother replied — “it’s always quite smelly.” “Well, I think it smells like poo,” her little girl advised her.

Sandy Wardrope, Ardrossan.

Superstitions

I caught a fingernail last Sunday leaving it with a jagged edge. Any other day I’d have snipped it off, but as a youngster it was a case of “cutting neither hair nor horn (nails) on the Sabbath” — a hard and fast rule my Scots father swore by. My mum, from south of the Border, had never heard of this. But she cut my nails one Sunday — and I fell down concrete steps shortly after, splitting my chin. Another Sunday she cut my hair and I fell badly gashing my jaw. I also recall “the flower of the broom” being hastily ejected from the house when dad came home. I still won’t cut hair or nails on a Sunday. It would be interesting to hear other readers’ old Scots superstitions.

Alex Hendry, Perth.

A Piece of My Mind

THE UK economy is grossly unfair towards low earners, with taxation levied on anyone who earns more than £6035 a year.
In his excellent book, The Alternative Manifesto, Eamonn Butler points out that one of the effects of low pay is the continual gap between rich and poor.
Paying decent wages makes real sense, for if people were better off the welfare cost of some £57 billion per year in “subsidy benefits” (Housing Benefit, Council Tax Benefit, Tax Credits, etc) would be greatly reduced.
It makes poor economic sense to tell people to work then penalise them for so doing. Against a backdrop of millions of unemployed people and still more millions of low paid, there’s the ugly spectacle of MPs abusing their expenses and greedy bankers clamouring for bonuses.
The whole bonus culture is nonsense when the so-called “best people” are rewarded over and above their salaries when their poor decisions helped take Britain into a recession. The bottom line is they failed and still want rewarded for that failure.
The electorate deserve and should demand that well paid politicians do their jobs of working for the people, not simply assuming well-paid jobs and taking everything they can.
The greed culture must end now — or millions of the world’s working class people will continue to suffer.

Trevor Swistchew, Edinburgh.

© All copyright D.C. Thomson & Co. Ltd., 2010