All Sorts of Problems

The problems one encounters in life. From telling one's left from their right, to the complexities and faff of chamber pots, to pretty flowers coming into Spring.

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We’re continuing with the That’s Just Life series, that’s Episode 4 now, and the title of this section is called ‘All Sorts of Problems.’

Hello again, as usual, it’s good to be with you all. I have a problem that others may share, and that is I get confused between left and right. This may seem ridiculous to some, but I avoid saying ‘it’s on the left side’ or ‘the right side’ because I’m invariably wrong. This affliction has been with me since I was a child and has been the cause of a few odd glances when I make a mistake. It doesn’t matter how often I’m given ways of remembering, like ‘you write with your right hand’ or ‘your wedding ring is on the left hand’—I’m still inclined to get it wrong.

It is most noticeable when I’m giving directions. Rather than say left or right, I will direct them to the large tree a kilometer along the road, and then follow the sign to the next town, and so on. When my husband asks if I know where his watch is, I will direct him to the bedside drawer by the window and to look on the side nearest to the bed.

The worst experience I’ve had in this affliction came when I was taking my driving test. Yes, you’ve guessed it, when the instructor told me to turn right, I nearly always turned to the left. This dilemma led me to recite this poem. It’s called Left or Right.

I’m going to make a confession, you see,
Try as hard as I might,
I have never, ever been able to,
Distinguish my left from my right.

Oh yes, I’m in a dilemma,
I can’t tell my left from my right.
And all of my life it’s just been so,
And is failing to me as a blight.

You may say it does not matter,
You may think that my problem is trite.
But I’ve gotten into all types of trouble,
‘Cause I don’t know my left from my right.

Just think of the hand people tell me,
The one with which you do write.
But even with this wise suggestion,
I still can’t tell my left from my right.

When I meet a dog for the first time,
‘Put down your left hand, it won’t bite’.
So I gingerly put down my left hand,
But I know now I should have put down my right.

My husband says opening a drawer,
‘Are my vests on the left or the right?’
I stand there thinking a minute,
Then say, ‘They’re the side nearest the light’.

Now reading a map is a challenge,
When asked ‘Do I turn left or right?’
I guess, just not to seem stupid,
So we could end up driving all night.

Oh dear, I get lost quite often,
My destination is soon out of sight.
And all because I never can tell,
The left hand turn from the right.

My son tried so hard to teach me,
How easily I could fly a kite.
He said, ‘Now it’s up, pull the left string’,
But of course, I pulled on the right.

That’s correct, you’ve guessed it,
The kite quickly fell and lost height.
It crashed to the ground, now it’s broken.
Oh I wish I knew my left from my right.

My wedding ring is on my left hand.
To know that, you don’t have to be bright.
But no matter how often I’m told that,
I still don’t know my left from my right.

Whenever I’m showing a photo
And they say, ‘Is that Jim on the right?’
I smile, but I’m none the wiser,
It really is a sad plight.

I tried to do some aerobics.
On the first class I nearly took flight,
For when everyone there turned leftwards,
I was the only one that turned to the right.

So, if you give me directions,
And you see I’m getting up tight,
Remember, I don’t mean to be rude,
But I can’t tell my left from my right.

When I was a child, my family sometimes took us for holidays to the seaside. Holidays on the coast in England were very different to the seaside in Australia. Most of the beaches had pebbles instead of sand, and deck chairs were hired by the hour for adults, and bathers were put on and taken off beneath towels for modesty, as there weren’t any changing rooms.

Hotels and boarding houses lined the promenade and for several streets parallel to the prom. Crowded along side streets, the hotels were cafes, pubs, tiny cinemas showing old black and white movies, and gaming centers with pinball machines. There was often a fairground nearby and lots of shops selling fancy hats, buckets and spades, and postcards to send home telling everyone what a wonderful time you’re all having and you wish they were there.

The entertainment attractions were needed in a British holiday, as the weather was often rainy or it was cold. We usually stayed in a B&B, which stood for boarding house with breakfast. Boarding houses often had a couple of toilets and one bathroom for all the rented rooms to share. There was no ensuite then! A family was allotted one room, and under the beds were potties that were used if needed during the night, and emptied by the staff in the morning when they came to clean the room and make the beds.

The mention of a potty reminded me of the following poem I wrote, and I called it Memories of the Po.

Well, see, Gran called it a po and so did our mother.
Yet it had other names that you might not have heard,
Like pot or guzunda, which sounds quite absurd.
Potty or chamber pot is another word.

There is a guzunda, when that word I first heard,
I asked many people, ‘Don’t know what it means’ they said.
I looked it up in a book and then I did know.
Of course, a guzunda goes under the bed.

Another name I’ve not mentioned thus far,
Is that a po could be called a royal throne.
If father sat there with his paper and pipe,
You were always told, ‘Just leave him alone’.

Everyone had a potty, even the king,
In his bedchamber, he kept a big pot.
His servants all vied until one of them won,
The privilege of wiping his majesty’s bot.

With the broken handle I saw an old po
In a second-hand shop window one day.
The tag read, ‘Just two dollars to pay, as it is’.
I took it from the shelf and I bought their display.

‘Cos standing in the queue, a woman she said,
‘What will you cook in that, there’s no lid to see?’
You could serve soup, I know I don’t think I would.
It’s not for soup or stew, I said, ‘It’s made for wee’.

The woman looked at me and took two steps back.
She gave me an odd and strange type of smile.
‘Oh sorry, I was so rude’ after a while she said.
I nodded, took the po, and I left there in style.

My po is white china with flowers painted on.
So I’ll clean it, fix the handle till it’s fine.
Some were made of enamel, others of tin,
Yet my antique pot, I’m pleased to call mine.

Elaborate decoration was found on pots.
There was even eyes painted on the base.
So anyone sitting on it, just for a while,
Felt the eye below, not looking at their face.

Air raid shelters in the garden, built during the war,
Were used by families for their safety. So,
Mum would say at bedtime, ‘Now have you all been?
‘Cos we don’t want the po to overflow.’

Was often in the evening, bombs began to fall,
So off to the shelter the children were sent.
And with them they took games, clock and radio.
And mum came in with the food and the po, of course, went.

Mum she would never sleep with bombs all around,
And all the creepy crawlies on the ground she found.
I’ll stay in my bed and take a chance she says,
Then get earwigs in my ears, that in this place abound.

‘Who’s going to empty the chamber pot next morning?’
We heard mother’s strident cry.
Everyone just scattered with a raised eyes and a frown,
Well nearly everyone, for that just left I.

I dawdled over to the air raid shelter,
And picked up the heavy, half-filled po.
Thought to mum I would be very helpful,
Taking more gear to the house. But oh no.

‘Cos no way could I be collecting everything,
But then I got a really good idea.
I could carry all the bits and pieces,
If into the pot I put all the gear.

So at five years old I did feel so clever,
As I carried the po to the kitchen door.
Mum took the chamber pot, then she looked inside.
Well, then I guess there’s no need to say more.

So the years fly by now and everyone is spoilt,
Because most places have a flushing loo.
Some events are busy, so if there is a wait,
The kids they use the potty, what else would they do?

The moral of this tale I’ve been telling you,
Is when you’re driving and feel the need to go,
Always underneath the passenger seat,
See that you’re carrying the trusty po.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that and didn’t think it was rude or anything, but it was just a fact of life then, when I was young.

Following a long cold winter, many are looking forward to spring. I’ve written a couple of short poems about spring flowers, and the first spring flower that really is very beautiful are the bluebells.

Bluebells bloom in the meadow,
Heralding the start of spring.
This mass of blue and beauty,
Does cause every heart to sing.

They nod their pretty heads,
An’ oh so gentle on the breeze,
Protected in the woodland,
By the overhanging trees.

Take time to stop and wonder
While you may,
For in just a little while,
This vista will fade away.

Until the next year’s season,
When spring comes around once again,
To awake from winter’s rest,
And bloom in our Lord’s domain.

Another favorite flower that blooms at springtime, of course, is the daffodil.

A bright green stem emerges,
From the cold and wet bare earth.
Grows confidently stronger,
As it heralds a new birth.

Soon a tiny bud is seen,
That does swell before too long,
Into a yellow flower, like a bell,
Bursts into song.

A glorious ray of sunshine,
The flower opens on cue,
Lifting its proud head skyward,
Towards the bright sky of blue.

When the daffodil is seen,
Springtime is not far away,
For winter chill is fading,
To rejoice in a new day.

If you’re enjoying some of the poems and the things that we’ve talked about, you might like to go and visit the website. It’s called pamcarter.net. Now there’s thousands of Pam Carters in this world, but if you go on and use Google, I find it’s easiest (although you can get through on many other sites), but using Google, if you go on and it says ‘Pam Carter’ and it’s got ‘Maitland’ there, well then you’ll know that that’s me.

So until next time, I’ll say goodbye, and we’ll meet again soon. Goodbye for now.