The Sunday Reflection #26 - A grey mood for a grey day

 What has changed in 57 years? I went to an early mass today and spent most of it contemplating the blog I was going to write. Then on the way home I bumped into a neighbour, Willy who lives down the road. We stood chatting in the rain for ten minutes putting the world to right, by the end I'd binned completely what I planned to write. He made the statement "You know, I moved into this road fifty seven years ago and it was lovely. Look at it now". He then listed all of the things that we've lost since then. The greengrocers, the butchers, the small family run shops. He said "Every time something shuts, we get a new tat shop selling rubbish". 

I got thinking. 57 years ago. That was 1969. What would my Sunday have been like then? My Sunday would have been roughly like this. I'd have been seven. I'd have got up relatively early and had breakfast. This was always

a bowl of cornflakes, a piece of toast and a nice cup of sugary tea. My sister and I would run up and jump on Dad, who'd be lying in bed saying the Rosary. He'd always be in good humour and we'd lie down with him and just chat. Mum would be downstairs doing the chores. Dad would then announce he was getting up. We'd go down stairs and my sister would do her homework and I wouldn't. Then Dad would get up, round us all up and we'd jump in his Ford Zodiac and drive up to the cottage homes and pick up a bevvy of old Ladies to take to Church. There were three. Miss Monaghan, Miss Faller and another who's name I can't recall. We'd got to the 11am mass. It would be in Latin. The priest would come out with a procession of Alter Servers. The one at the front would carry a cross, then there would be four with candles, then one carrying a thorabal, which gave out scented smoke and finally one carrying the water that the priest dipped a splosher in, to splosh people with Holy water. Mass was sung and I never had a clue what was going on. I always assumed that God spoke Latin, and us thickies were too dumb to talk to him. The Parish Priest was Fr Miles Dowley, a kindly old Irishman, who my Dad thought was the bees knees. 

After Mass, Dad would drop the old ladies back. We'd then go to "The Little Shop", a convenience store in Shakespeare Road, run by a mate of his, Bill Cardon. He'd get ham, biscuits, mango chutney, cheese etc. He'd have a chat with Bill, who was a Watford FC season ticket holder and had an olive green mini van, which I thought was the bees knees. Dad would drop us off and then "go to the club for a quick pint". Mum would make dinner. Dad would return at 2pm, when the club shut. We'd have dinner and Mum and Dad would retire to bed for a nap. I'd watch The Big Match, with Brian Moore. If my luck was in, Man City would be the main match, which happened two or three times a season. 

At 5pm, Dad would emerge, followed by Mum. He’d make a big plate of sarnies, followed by tea and biscuits. We’d watch the news, then they’d share a few bottles of Guinness and a few ciggies. I’d get sent off to bed at 9pm. 

That was Sunday. I miss it. Maybe one day my kids will have similar reflections of their youth. We always think the past was better. I can’t complain about my life.

Here’s a song I wrote to celebrate those lost days