First posted: September 28, 2013.
My daughter Siobhan was born on this date, September 28, in 1970 in St Anne's War Memorial Hospital, Lancashire. This entitles her to claim the title of sand grown'un, meaning being born by the sea in that rather upper class section of the Fylde coast. However, I don't think she uses it very often.
This was in the days when fathers were kicked out of maternity wards and I had been so dismissed the night before, leaving my terrified 22-year-old wife Maria in a spartan side ward in pain and wondering what the hell was going on.
One minute, we had been a hip couple about town. She had been wearing Mary Quant dresses and mini skirts from Biba, and we had been leaving our swish St Annes flat to go the Town and Country Club in Blackpool at 10 at night, two or three times a week, and driving home in our red Spitfire sports car at half past two.
Now she was in pain and frightened and I had been sent home when visiting finished at eight.
Siobhan arrived about midnight but the nurse recorded it as the 28th so she would always be one day younger.
I visited the next evening, resplendent in flared trousers, cuban heels, beads and an afghan fur coat that smelt like it had just been through a sheep dip. The nurse didn't know whether to isolate me or allow me in. She allowed me in, probably out of sympathy, as I was carrying flowers.
“Mackeson would do her more good,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“A couple of bottles of Mackeson. Builds up the strength.”
I didn't known whether she meant for Maria or Siobhan but I nipped to the offie across the road and returned with two bottles of the black stuff.
In actual fact, Siobhan arriving at all can be blamed on decimalisation. Maria was secretary to an accountant and also did the wages at the family restaurant business in Blackpool that had a staff of 30. She was extremely able with PAYE in pounds, shillings and pence and didn't fancy having to start all over and learn a new system.
“Why don't we have a baby?” she said. “I've seen a lovely pram in denim.”
So we did and we got the denim pram and Maria was soon an eye catching sight pushing Siobhan around St Annes in hot pants and suede knee boots.
We had given up our swish apartment when she became pregnant and bought a three storey Victorian house 100 yards from the sea. Well, I use the term sea euphemistically, as anyone who has visited St Annes will know. First there are sand dunes, then there is beach; a lot of beach. And then there is the sea.
The house was in a great position but in need of repair and conversion. The concept was to turn it into three luxury flats. Which was basically a silly idea, considering we didn't have the money. Instead, we sold it when Siobhan was nine months old, bought a campervan, I resigned my job on the Evening Gazette and we headed for Europe.
Love and peace, man.
Maria had relatives near Naples and I fancied living in Italy. Siobhan would grow up speaking Italian. Not bad for a sand grown'un.
But being hippies with a nine month old baby is not a lot of fun. Siobhan became ill after I took her in a lake at a camp site in Belgium. The doctor would have liked to have me committed as an idiot. “You took her where? At her age?”
We came home and the van broke down and I was out of work. We spent the house while I tried to make a living as a fiction writer. I wrote the worst novel in the world but got short stories published at £30 a time (which was a week's wage) with various magazines, including Mayfair and Men's Own, but not enough.
Our break for freedom had been ill-timed. We now needed stability for Siobhan and a proper income and we ended up in Huddersfield, a town built on seven hills, just like Rome. Well, not just like Rome, although we do have the site of a Roman fort and our own coliseum in Leeds Road, where gladiatorial displays are still provided by Huddersfield Town and The Giants rugby league team.
It is, believe it or not, a handsome town that sits astride the Pennines and is surrounded with amazing countryside, great pubs, the grandeur of the moors and some fine people.
Not a bad place to grow up for a sand grown'un.
My daughter Siobhan was born on this date, September 28, in 1970 in St Anne's War Memorial Hospital, Lancashire. This entitles her to claim the title of sand grown'un, meaning being born by the sea in that rather upper class section of the Fylde coast. However, I don't think she uses it very often.
This was in the days when fathers were kicked out of maternity wards and I had been so dismissed the night before, leaving my terrified 22-year-old wife Maria in a spartan side ward in pain and wondering what the hell was going on.
One minute, we had been a hip couple about town. She had been wearing Mary Quant dresses and mini skirts from Biba, and we had been leaving our swish St Annes flat to go the Town and Country Club in Blackpool at 10 at night, two or three times a week, and driving home in our red Spitfire sports car at half past two.
Now she was in pain and frightened and I had been sent home when visiting finished at eight.
Siobhan arrived about midnight but the nurse recorded it as the 28th so she would always be one day younger.
I visited the next evening, resplendent in flared trousers, cuban heels, beads and an afghan fur coat that smelt like it had just been through a sheep dip. The nurse didn't know whether to isolate me or allow me in. She allowed me in, probably out of sympathy, as I was carrying flowers.
“Mackeson would do her more good,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“A couple of bottles of Mackeson. Builds up the strength.”
I didn't known whether she meant for Maria or Siobhan but I nipped to the offie across the road and returned with two bottles of the black stuff.
In actual fact, Siobhan arriving at all can be blamed on decimalisation. Maria was secretary to an accountant and also did the wages at the family restaurant business in Blackpool that had a staff of 30. She was extremely able with PAYE in pounds, shillings and pence and didn't fancy having to start all over and learn a new system.
“Why don't we have a baby?” she said. “I've seen a lovely pram in denim.”
So we did and we got the denim pram and Maria was soon an eye catching sight pushing Siobhan around St Annes in hot pants and suede knee boots.
We had given up our swish apartment when she became pregnant and bought a three storey Victorian house 100 yards from the sea. Well, I use the term sea euphemistically, as anyone who has visited St Annes will know. First there are sand dunes, then there is beach; a lot of beach. And then there is the sea.
The house was in a great position but in need of repair and conversion. The concept was to turn it into three luxury flats. Which was basically a silly idea, considering we didn't have the money. Instead, we sold it when Siobhan was nine months old, bought a campervan, I resigned my job on the Evening Gazette and we headed for Europe.
Love and peace, man.
Maria had relatives near Naples and I fancied living in Italy. Siobhan would grow up speaking Italian. Not bad for a sand grown'un.
But being hippies with a nine month old baby is not a lot of fun. Siobhan became ill after I took her in a lake at a camp site in Belgium. The doctor would have liked to have me committed as an idiot. “You took her where? At her age?”
We came home and the van broke down and I was out of work. We spent the house while I tried to make a living as a fiction writer. I wrote the worst novel in the world but got short stories published at £30 a time (which was a week's wage) with various magazines, including Mayfair and Men's Own, but not enough.
Our break for freedom had been ill-timed. We now needed stability for Siobhan and a proper income and we ended up in Huddersfield, a town built on seven hills, just like Rome. Well, not just like Rome, although we do have the site of a Roman fort and our own coliseum in Leeds Road, where gladiatorial displays are still provided by Huddersfield Town and The Giants rugby league team.
It is, believe it or not, a handsome town that sits astride the Pennines and is surrounded with amazing countryside, great pubs, the grandeur of the moors and some fine people.
Not a bad place to grow up for a sand grown'un.
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