Breasts and Secret loves
I have them and Yvette wants them, just so she is normal, rather than "boyish", which is is hard not to look when you have nothing. Maybe a tiny bit, but the woman has breast fed 7 kids not much breast tissue left. Yvette is lucky to reach 6 and a half stone and struggles with the opposite to most other women, she finds it hard to put on weight, Bless. Wish I had that problem, but not on my side of the family. My Granny Wilsher had what I thought at the time, massive bosoms, she kept her hearing aid battery pack down her bosom and it was an impressive cleavage, Like two melons in a gunny sack. She was as tall as she was wide, a tiny woman who I was lucky enough to be named after, my Lucille second name coming from Lucy Wilsher.
She was gorgeous Grandma, liked a good suit from The Club (Catalogue), always wore a massive girdle with good stretch, enjoyed going to the Pub The Rising Sun in Bottomboat on a Sunday afternoon to drink with Grandad and she must have been 70, she was like the Queen Mother, Grandma, enjoyed a little nip of whisky or brandy and lemon, then she would do Knees Up Mother Brown in the lounge room showing off her lace edged bloomers and I think if Grandad had been able to get up he would have raced her off to the bedroom, then. They were so Darby and Joan.
She had Yorkshire Puddings down to a fine art, ( my granny's secrete recipe ) and when her son and daughters bought her washing machine, she still washed the clothes before hand by hand in the Scullery sink before she washed them in the offending washing machine, she was sure they could not come out of a machine as clean as she could do them. She was black eyed, some said she had the gypsy in her and so did Auntie Pat, the black twinkling eyes of the gypsies and blue back hair. You could tell they had been happy girls when young, getting paid plenty of attention. When I was over there in 1982, Auntie Pat had an invalid husband, who was cranky and miserable and so so jealous of his beautiful Pat.
And when I had been there a few days she introduced me to her lover, Bill! A man who wore the flat cap and coat uniform of so many Yorkshiremen, an older man, but his face when he looked at Aunty Pat was ablaze with love. She just took me to a Pub and introduced me to her lover of 30 years, I was stunned. My aunt, I kept thinking. my aunt, my giddy aunt is what I thought to be truthful. Uncle Joe was at home in the armchair, slumped, smoking one of his 40 fags a day, wheezing with emphysema and thinking dark brooding thoughts about where his WIFE was. he was an outstandingly jealous man. He must have turned her off over years of his dark savage jealousy. I knew she stopped sleeping with him years ago, he was always "dying" Uncle Joe, amd I loved him with a passion.
Me, who would sit with him for hours holding his hand as he sobbed out his jealousy and pain, must be awful to be like that. No one person holds you to life and shouldn't. People have a right to be themselves, when alive, and years ago Aunty Pat had made her choice. Die slowly like Joe or live and after one suicide attempt, almost too many, she decided to live. She could not stay at home with an invalid husband that questioned her every move, every single one, it was always a battle for her and him. Jealousy dark and brooding like some legendary Heathcliffe Joe, who she decided she didn't want, hopeless, unable lover because of his leg ulcers that smelt and were dressed daily. She didn't want him in that way at all, and found out other outlets. Girlfriends who were " ladies of ill repute, not hookers, but unhappy women, who went out to drink", nurses, a lot of psychaitric nurses in Wakefield in those days, working strange shifts, often single. Women that liked to go to a Pub and dream that they were once young and without Patriarchal husbands.
I found them refreshing, they were all openly, the married ones, having secret affairs, kissing or snogging some Man in the Pub with one eye on the door in case hubby came in.
To be continued
She was gorgeous Grandma, liked a good suit from The Club (Catalogue), always wore a massive girdle with good stretch, enjoyed going to the Pub The Rising Sun in Bottomboat on a Sunday afternoon to drink with Grandad and she must have been 70, she was like the Queen Mother, Grandma, enjoyed a little nip of whisky or brandy and lemon, then she would do Knees Up Mother Brown in the lounge room showing off her lace edged bloomers and I think if Grandad had been able to get up he would have raced her off to the bedroom, then. They were so Darby and Joan.
She had Yorkshire Puddings down to a fine art, ( my granny's secrete recipe ) and when her son and daughters bought her washing machine, she still washed the clothes before hand by hand in the Scullery sink before she washed them in the offending washing machine, she was sure they could not come out of a machine as clean as she could do them. She was black eyed, some said she had the gypsy in her and so did Auntie Pat, the black twinkling eyes of the gypsies and blue back hair. You could tell they had been happy girls when young, getting paid plenty of attention. When I was over there in 1982, Auntie Pat had an invalid husband, who was cranky and miserable and so so jealous of his beautiful Pat.
And when I had been there a few days she introduced me to her lover, Bill! A man who wore the flat cap and coat uniform of so many Yorkshiremen, an older man, but his face when he looked at Aunty Pat was ablaze with love. She just took me to a Pub and introduced me to her lover of 30 years, I was stunned. My aunt, I kept thinking. my aunt, my giddy aunt is what I thought to be truthful. Uncle Joe was at home in the armchair, slumped, smoking one of his 40 fags a day, wheezing with emphysema and thinking dark brooding thoughts about where his WIFE was. he was an outstandingly jealous man. He must have turned her off over years of his dark savage jealousy. I knew she stopped sleeping with him years ago, he was always "dying" Uncle Joe, amd I loved him with a passion.
Me, who would sit with him for hours holding his hand as he sobbed out his jealousy and pain, must be awful to be like that. No one person holds you to life and shouldn't. People have a right to be themselves, when alive, and years ago Aunty Pat had made her choice. Die slowly like Joe or live and after one suicide attempt, almost too many, she decided to live. She could not stay at home with an invalid husband that questioned her every move, every single one, it was always a battle for her and him. Jealousy dark and brooding like some legendary Heathcliffe Joe, who she decided she didn't want, hopeless, unable lover because of his leg ulcers that smelt and were dressed daily. She didn't want him in that way at all, and found out other outlets. Girlfriends who were " ladies of ill repute, not hookers, but unhappy women, who went out to drink", nurses, a lot of psychaitric nurses in Wakefield in those days, working strange shifts, often single. Women that liked to go to a Pub and dream that they were once young and without Patriarchal husbands.
I found them refreshing, they were all openly, the married ones, having secret affairs, kissing or snogging some Man in the Pub with one eye on the door in case hubby came in.
To be continued
