Isolated Blurt Thread

Status
Not open for further replies.
I've just been sorting out some family papers and have found my original birth certificate. I have been using a modern copy for years.

My father lied on it. When I was born he gave his occupation as something he hadn't been for some years.

Perhaps he thought his actual occupation was covered by the Official Secrets Act?

It also confirms a family story. My parents had argued about what I would be called. They had agreed on potential girls' names but they couldn't agree on boys' names. I was born close to midnight. Once I had arrived, my father finally got my mother to accept compromise names that neither of them objected to.

He registered my birth the next morning, within minutes of the Registry Office opening, to prevent my mother having second thoughts.

But, except for official documents, I haven't used my birth name since 1957...

Og, that is not a story. That's not even half a story! We need more, we need the Registry Office's backstory.

Would you like to be the Silver Surfer?

:rose:
 
Have you been to the official Six-Word Story site?

Fabulous! At last a home for us to play on. We can get official T-shirts there saying The Black Widow says: "Assemble Avengers!"

On a completely different matter, I think drinking a woman's whisky and then leaving the glass for her to wash up next morning is an offence worthy of torture outwith the provisions of the Geneva Convention. (I promise to write the whole scene up, to be published in Loving Wives, where it will get adulatory anonymous comments, 467 votes and score a perfect 5.)

:nana:
(I don't know why this banana is dancing, he hasn't had any whisky! Probably he thinks he's going to escape da[in]quiri.)
 
Language benefits and problems

Og, that is not a story. That's not even half a story! We need more, we need the Registry Office's backstory.

Would you like to be the Silver Surfer?

:rose:

My hair is silver. I used to be a surfer, in Australia, but more often a surf boatman.

Back to registering my birth:

My father used to be a telegraphist for the General Post Office in Central London, working at the Central Telegraph Office.

[Two asides. 1. He met my mother there. She was also a telegraphist. 2. The Central Telegraph Office was bombed in 1940 and its site is now the Headquarters of British Telecom. Back to story.]

As a telegraphist he could earn extra money by becoming proficient in languages other than English, because the Central Telegraph Office dealt with all telegrams to and from Europe. For each extra language a telegraphist would be paid 6d (six pence in pre-1971 currency, 2.5 pence now) each week up to a maximum of 5 x 6d = 2 shillings and sixpence or 12.5 new pence. In the early 1930s that was a considerable amount.

The local adult education institute ran evening classes specifically for telegraphists wanting to pass the Post Office examinations for languages. My father qualified in five - French, German, Italian, Dutch and Norwegian, and earned his extra 2 shillings and six pence a week.

When he was promoted to a higher grade, the 2/6 a week meant that he started, not at the bottom of the pay scale for the higher grade, but about half way up that scale. Later, when he was promoted again and again, each time he was a long way up the pay scale of his previous grade so started half way up the higher pay scale. When he finally retired in 1981 he calculated that the 2/6 a week meant that his pension was £2,500 more a year than it would have been. In 1981 that was a significant amount of money.

But - there was a sting in the tail.

In the later 1930s refugees began to arrive in the UK from Nazi Germany. The powers that were decided to trawl through the whole UK Civil Service for people with language skills to deal with all these foreigners arriving at our ports. My father had five languages - perfect!

He was loaned to the Immigration Service and sent to Newcastle-on-Tyne. That was the ends of the earth to my father, born and bred in the City of London, son, grandson etc. of people who had lived in the City of London for 600 years. Newcastle-on-Tyne was uncivilised. It didn't have the British Museum, the Symphony Orchestras, the Promenade Concerts, the West End theatres. It was exile, just as if a New Yorker had been sent to a small Mid-West town.

And his language skills weren't much help in his task of sorting out potential Nazi spies from genuine refugees. Yes, he had passed the Post Office examinations, but his real knowledge of the five languages was minimal. He could send messages such as: "Did you receive that clearly?" "Please repeat, that message was garbled" and "Please hold for an urgent telegram", but he couldn't conduct a meaningful conversation in any of the five languages.

His colleagues weren't much better. They too had passed the Post Office telegraphist language examinations. Between them they managed a cobble together some crib sheets:

"Which country have you come from?"

"Did you live there?"

"Why did you leave?"


and some instructions:

"You have been given temporary permission to stay in the UK. Please take this form and report to a Police Station within 24 hours for further instructions."

I still have a copy of his crib sheet.

But when Germany overran most of Western Europe in 1940, the flood of refugees became a trickle and he wasn't needed in Newcastle-on-Tyne. He hoped that he would go back to his beloved City of London, but no. Refugees were still arriving on the Irish Mail steamers - in Holyhead, Anglesey, North Wales.

So he was sent to Holyhead and moved with his family, renting a house close to the Ferry Terminal. His sister-in-law and family were bombed out in London. They moved into another house in the same street, far away from the bombing. More members of the extended family came to Holyhead as their houses were damaged. The road we lived in had (and has) nine houses. By 1942 seven of the nine houses had some of my extended family either as tenants or lodgers.

But in 1942 my father wasn't in Holyhead. He was loaned from the Immigration Service, to whom he was on loan from the Post Office, to the Admiralty - in Plymouth, Devon. That is where he was posted while on duty when I was born, and that is what he should have put as his occupation on my birth certificate and didn't. He put his pre-war occupation instead. Why did he register me so quickly? He was on a short-term pass and had to be back in Plymouth tomorrow.

His languages? He ended up dealing with preparations for D-Day and he was a liaison officer for the Admiralty in Plymouth with the Free French, the Free Dutch, the Norwegians, and of course Americans.

His language skills improved significantly. By the end of the war he could swear in almost all the languages of the Allies.
 
Last edited:
Fabulous! At last a home for us to play on. We can get official T-shirts there saying The Black Widow says: "Assemble Avengers!"

On a completely different matter, I think drinking a woman's whisky and then leaving the glass for her to wash up next morning is an offence worthy of torture outwith the provisions of the Geneva Convention. (I promise to write the whole scene up, to be published in Loving Wives, where it will get adulatory anonymous comments, 467 votes and score a perfect 5.)

:nana:
(I don't know why this banana is dancing, he hasn't had any whisky! Probably he thinks he's going to escape da[in]quiri.)
Okay, I'm pretty sure that little quote is supposed to mean "gather", but I keep getting a picture in my head about a quirky factory.
 
Absolutely. I'm hoping to take a seminar in the business of art, given by a local arts council. One of these days I'm going to find a way to make a living from my writing.

I've been lucky enough to have already made a start. I'm not quite making what i would from my day job but it is getting closer every year.

Keep plugging slugger, you'll get there. :rose::kiss:
 
I've been lucky enough to have already made a start. I'm not quite making what i would from my day job but it is getting closer every year.

Keep plugging slugger, you'll get there. :rose::kiss:

Good for you, that's inspiration for me. I won't give up, trust me. If there's one thing I've learned, it's to keep going until I get what I want out of life. The only way I can fail is if I stop trying. :kiss::rose:
 
Okay, I'm pretty sure that little quote is supposed to mean "gather", but I keep getting a picture in my head about a quirky factory.

We are a Warholian story factory in the Six Words Story thread and you too are welcome to join! I'm sure there must be a good fairy around in the comic books somewhere, although possibly rather young for our kind of story. Since Trysail has disappointingly refused, you could be Catwoman instead ... :cattail:

:rose:

220px-Velvet_Underground_and_Nico.jpg
 
Thank you for that story Og! Curiously, there are no staricons here so I give it 5 hearts.

:heart::heart::heart::heart::heart:

And I'm very impressed that your father could speak American.

:nana:
 
I'm going to have my first ever shave with a cut-throat razor at the barber's, and am ridiculously excited about it...

(I don't know why this banana is dancing, he hasn't had any whisky! Probably he thinks he's going to escape da[in]quiri.)

Really, Naoko? Really?? :rolleyes:
 
Officially fucking gutted. The guy who does the shave is off sick. I have been looking forward to this SO much... :(

To cheer myself up, I've just ordered The Crimson Pirate on DVD. It actually cost less than half what the shave would have and, although I love the film and have been promising it to myself for a while now, it will probably bring me a proportionate amount of pleasure.

Sometimes I really don't understand me...
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top