Bullrushes

When I was a girl my parents took me on a trip over Dartmoor looking for bullrushes - for some reason they were treasured at that time (mid 70s).

The precious rushes sat in a vase by the fire for years. The hearth was that crazy paving slate that was so fashionable, and on the other side of the fire was an ornamental brandy glass with a china cat climbing up the side.

Next to the fire was the tv set, which was deeper than it was wide, with a dial to locate the three channels. Above it was one of those pictures made by winding coloured thread around geometrically arranged tacks - like spirograph.

There was no phone, because we had a pay-phone across the road, from which you could dial-a-disc for 2p, unless there was a test match on, when you irritatingly got cricket commentary.

In the kitchen a bunch of plastic onions hung on the wall, above a Pilsbury doughboy, next to the Bush radio. Jimmy Savile (shudder) always seemed to be on playing old charts - whatever the year was, this song was in it!

Upstairs in my bedroom, on the shelf next to my Enid Blyton books and Diana annuals was my beloved cassette recorder, complete with microphone to prop up against the radio and sit with finger poised above "pause" to try and record the charts without Tony Blackburn talking over the intros.

All that from a bullrush!

(It seems a year ago today I was in Monte Carlo. Monaco - Huddersfield Narrow Canal - not much difference. I wouldn't have believed that was a year ago without the evidence of my journal).