The Plumber Poet...

I mentioned in yesterday's blip that during my clear out of my family photos I got a little engrossed reading some of the correspondence my mum received after this incident.  

Well as I read, the penny dropped that it would be the 56th anniversary of the incident today, and it struck me that it would be lovely to include some of the correspondence she received after the event in my blip journal. 

Trying to decide which to include proved tricky.  There are letters from all over the world, from school children, from retired policemen and women, from housewives, from the Home Secretary, even a letter from a soldier in the Gurkhas!  All walks of life.

Some people felt compelled to share part of their life story with her, some included pairs of tights (after she commented in a press interview that she'd laddered her tights on the roof) letters asking her out to dinner (I checked the address of one hopeful suitor and the house is now worth almost £3 million.  If only she'd said yes! lol) marriage proposals, and my absolute favourite letter from an anonymous pensioner that I have put in extras :))

There are poems too, and I have chosen my three favourites to have immortalised in my journal.

The first, from a gentleman from South Carolina; Zeb H Wolfe, who called himself The Plumber Poet.  The wonder that is google tells me he was born in 1893 and died in 1971so he would be have been 71 when he penned this.  

The second poem was written by a gentlemen from Cheadle Hulme in Cheshire and addresses the issue of her laddered tights.  It makes me laugh.

The third poem comes from a Mr B O'Rourke from Liverpool and brought a wee tear to my eye.  

All of these letters, cards and telegrams are so precious.  That people took time to sit and write and go to the effort of posting them is so lovely.  To be able to hold them in my hand, read them, share them, means so much.  I am sad that the art of letter writing is dying.  No amount of emails, texts or tweets could ever replace these letters with their beautiful handwriting and deliciously formal approach (one letter starts with "Dear Miss Cleland, please forgive my intrusion into your privacy, but one was so inspired by your heroic exhibition one simply had to offer one's sincerest congratulations..."


They are also a little bit of social history and allow a little window to that era, especially regarding the views on women's place in society.

I gasped a little when I saw one invitation she received (again in extras) from the Chairman and Directors of Radio Industry Exhibitions where it appears that only men tended to be invited to such events (see the score out at the end of the invitees name line :-)  

Her invitation to the Woman of the Year Luncheon is a little friendlier and includes a written note from the Marchioness of Lothian.  I also have the programme from that lunch the includes the place settings so I know she sat beside an actress called Man Ling (I also have a press photo of them chatting together.  The actress looking very glamorous and my mum in her uniform.  She was always a bit miffed that she had to wear her uniform and didn't get the chance to dress up for that lunch :-))  Spookily we ended up watching the Bond film Goldfinger last night, which is a film Mai Ling appeared in.

She also had to wear her uniform when being awarded the George Medal so didn't' even get the change to be all glam when she went to the Palace to meet the Queen :- )  

My mum was so dismissive of her role in proceedings that fateful day and was embarrassed by the fuss resulting from it, all her life.  It wasn't something she liked to dwell on.  Her view, like most heroes, was that she was only doing her job.  Although we did discuss it at times, and even went on a long weekend to London together in 2003 so she could show me around her police old haunts, knowing her feelings about it, I didn't press her or ask her nearly enough questions about it all and her life before and and immediately after it. 

I suspect that her suggestion of our weekend away was her way of saying she was happy to talk in greater detail, and she did tell me lots of hilarious stories as we visited the places that were once so familiar to her, but oh how I would love to have known more about how she felt when she left her tiny Scottish village and landed in London, her training, her first station as a qualified Policewoman.  Everything about her life at that time.  

But I didn't and it's a regret I have to live with.  

In another strange coincidence today (given that my mind has been full of mum and her medal yesterday and today) I was sad to read in today's press an article about the man who rescued Princess Anne at the time of her attempted kidnap.  He was also awarded the George Medal by the Queen and it appears he is going to sell it to raise funds to cover his funeral costs, as he doesn't want the financial burden of burying him to fall to his family.  I find that so sad.  I would have sold the clothes off my back before letting my mum sell her medal.  I hope he can find the funds by other means.


PS I've included the letter from the then Home Secretary in extras as that's one I also want to immortalise in my journal :-))