To His Mistress Going To Bed

by John Donne

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until in labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight

Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious charm,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.

Off with that wiry Coronet and shew

The hairy diadem which on you grow;

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heav’ns Angels used to be

Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomet’s paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,

By this these Angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below,

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,

My Mine of precious stones, my Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set my seal shall be.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee.

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views

That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them,

Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we

(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal’d. Then since then that I may know;

As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew

Thyself: cast all, yea this white linen hence,

There is no penance due to innocence.

To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering than a man.

Getting to grips with politicians

The weeks continued with the one-day training at Mold and the rest on my own at the Holywell office.

It appeared David Nicholas had become my mentor. On the second Wednesday I shadowed him as he did regular diary jobs and worked on off-diary stories.

The following week he took me to a meeting of the Flintshire County Council; later he came over to Holywell to keep an eye on me when I attended my first meetings of the Holywell Urban and Rural District Councils. One of these was an evening meeting and my first experience of getting expenses for working at night and banking up a half-day off in lieu.

Welsh politics was quite complex at the time and Holywell itself was even more of a mixture.

As a Parliamentary area Holywell was covered by two different constituencies.

The urban district was in the Flintshire East constituency which was held by Labour, the MP was Eirene White who had held the seat since it was created in 1950.

West Flintshire constituency, which included the Holywell Rural District Council, was also created in 1950 and had been held since then by Nigel Birch, a Conservative.

I attended a dinner with Nigel Birch which gave me a story I dined off for many years (more on that in the future).

The Labour MP barely made any impression on me at all. In fact I only got her name right because I Googled it.

I don’t remember the political makeup of the local councils at that time as local politics did not always reflect national politics.

The three main parties, Labour, Conservative and Liberal, were represented on the county, urban and rural councils. It did not mean, however, that one of those parties actually controlled a council.

As well as the Big Three there were always candidates for Plaid Cymru at the national and local levels and the local councils also attracted Independent and Ratepayers Association candidates.

Reporters needed to know all the councillors, their allegiances and where, at times, their priorities lay. Often the Independents were local business people.

It also meant that at times no party would have overall control of the council.

Sometimes Labour might need to persuade the Liberals or Plaid, even both, to work with them. Independents, at that time, had their own reasons for being on the council, often business reasons, and this could well mean them allying themselves with the Conservatives.

As I have said, at the time I was still formulating my own political views but was definitely leaning towards the left.

I knew even then that reporting had to be even-handed. It was my duty to gather the facts and report them. I couldn’t leave something out, or twist a quote to favour one side.

In later years my ability to separate my working life and interests and my personal life and interests was sometimes queried by colleagues or superiors.

All I could say was that I could separate the issues, even when the actions of some politicians made me seethe, I never allowed either life affect the other.

I did get the chance over the years to meet politicians of all persuasions. This began at this time, and certainly when dealing with councillors and MPs in my patch, I did not reveal my own leanings.

My interest in politics had to be dealt with in the way I sought knowledge of any other subject at that time – through books.

Bearing in mind that the government at this time was Labour, Harold Wilson was the Prime Minister, I started to look into the background of that party and how it worked in with my general ideals of socialism.

As it happened the postwar Labour Prime Minister, Clem Attlee, died at about this time, only a couple of years after the man he defeated – Winston Churchill. Soon afterwards I was browsing the shelves of a secondhand bookshop when I found an original copy of The Labour Party in Perspective by Clem Attlee, published in 1937. It remains a part of my political library which I have built up over the decades.

All this work did not play havoc with my social life. An occasional evening job midweek did not matter much as during the week I tended to stay home and saved my weekends for socialising.

It was also at this time I discovered the benefits working life could have on my social life.

Most towns in the area had cinemas, some of which were independents or small local chains.

One of the major cinema chains was, of course, the Odeon Cinema group which included one at Rhyl.

This would often screen major films before their release to smaller chains.

The Odeon Cinema manager in Rhyl (I have a strong feeling his surname was Kelly) used to have midnight press screenings and if an invite landed on Peter’s desk he often asked me if I would like to go as I lived in Rhyl.

There are girls who are quite impressed at an invitation to a screening for a major new release, especially a late night press reception with drinks and nibbles laid on.

Often gave me a good start to the weekend.

Here endeth the first lesson

The first couple of days saw me settling in to my new role, making contacts that I should have been making over the previous six months.

Even on the Monday I managed to gather a reasonable amount of copy – mainly weddings and funeral reports, but also items gleaned from the minutes of the previous week’s council meetings – which I left in an envelope for Graham (misremembered his name at first, it was not Gareth) to collect in the morning.

The following day I introduced myself to the duty police inspector and to the senior officer at the fire station. All useful contacts for a budding reporter.

On the Tuesday evening I took the copy with me as I was driving over to Mold the next day to work from the main office.

When I arrived I was quite surprised at how cramped the offices were. The main reporters’ room was long and narrow with a window at the front. Either side there were old wooden table-type desks with filing cabinets in between.

It was equipped to allow for six people working at any one time.

Peter’s office was at the front, entered from the reporters’ room, there must have been another room as it was only half the size of the big office.

When I went in to see him Peter asked how I was faring and I told him what I had been doing.

He then told me that for a while Wednesdays would be training days and I would work alongside a senior reporter.

On that Wednesday I would be partnered with (if I remember accurately) a reporter called David Nicholas. He was probably in his mid to late 20s.

That morning he took me to the local magistrates’ court and I learned my first lesson: get to know the clerk of the court.

By getting there in good time before the session starts a chat with the clerk of the court, normally a very experienced solicitor, would let you know the best cases coming up; provide the names of the magistrates; also the names of prosecuting and defence solicitors (sometimes the prosecution was handled by a senior police officer); and main details of the defendants, including name, age, address and charge.

Although these details would be given in court it helped to have the correct spellings to hand and also allowed you to concentrate on the case rather than trying to catch everything else that was being said.

I noticed David did not use Pitman’s shorthand but appeared to use abbreviations and some of his own marks.

When the court finished he took me to a pub near the office and we met up with two other reporters and a photographer, Mike Roberts, who I did get to know quite well over the next year or so.

Over a pint (with the company I was in I didn’t get asked my age) and a cheese roll I got to know my new colleagues and I also got a couple of lessons you won’t be taught by the National Council for the Training of Journalists.

The first thing David told me was that I should join the National Union of Journalists. As a budding socialist I saw no reason not to.

He said he would give me the forms back at the office.

The second lesson was on how to fill in an expenses sheet.

He explained that as my base was the Holywell office I could charge for mileage on any journey to and from there. That included the trip to and from Mold. Also if I was away from the office while working I could claim a lunch allowance. Once again my presence at the Mold office counted.

There were other things which could be claimed but he pointed out that there were certain items which should always be claimed, for example at least two meal claims (lunch or evening meal, the latter claimed for jobs which went on beyond a certain time in the evening).

“You see if someone claims less expenses than others it might be judged some are overclaiming.”

With these lessons in mind we returned to the office and I was pointed to one of the empty chairs and told to type up my reports from the court case.

I had already been instructed on copy layout, with folio names and numbers, the paper identification initials and reporter initials.

I checked my notes and then started typing up my copy.

After a coffee break, during which I noted David had left the office, I returned to the stories and by 3.30 I had typed up three main court cases and a couple of filler pieces on minor cases.

Peter stuck his head round the office door and told me to bring my copy through and we would check it over.

He leafed through it and I noticed he had a pencil to hand which he used to make notations on my copy.

“Not bad for your first shot,” he said. “Have a look at David’s copy for the same stories and compare it to yours. You will not have written it up in exactly the same way but it will give you an idea of points you may have missed and what David might have decided was unimportant.”

When I left the Herald I had left behind the McNae’s Essential law for Journalists but Peter provided me with a new copy and suggested I also buy a small Oxford Dictionary and a thesaurus, preferably Roget’s, which could be put on expenses if a receipt was provided.

He then told me the office would have local newspapers delivered as well as the Liverpool Daily Post, N. Wales edition, the Western Mail and two national newspapers. The Daily Telegraph and the Guardian. I could add one other national newspaper to this, I just had to let the receptionist know.

He also gave me a big desk diary, A4 size, and told me to put down all regular jobs in it, council meetings, court, any events around town etc. This was to be done on Fridays ready for the week ahead.

After all this he told me I had coped well in my first days at my new job. He also said I should spend the rest of the week (two days) checking on regular contacts and looking for any off-diary stories.

“I’ll see you next week.”

With that he got back to whatever he had been doing before calling me in and I returned to the outer office.

David had returned and he tossed his carbons over to me to have a read. I noticed that in the main we had got the same stories based on the court hearings but here and there he had put more import on one angle than I had and his storyline flowed more smoothly.

He looked at my copy, noting Peter’s changes, and told me it was good work.

Then he gave me an application form for the NUJ and said Mike would pop in and take a picture of me and have the passport size shots ready to go on my press card the following week.

By the time all this was done it was almost the end of the day. David had given me a bundle of expense forms and then wished me well and said he would see me next week.

That was it. Half-way through my first week and I felt more like a real journalist than I had throughout the six months prior to this.

The trip to Mold had been very satisfying.

Where Once The Waters Of Your Face

by Dylan Thomas

Where once the waters of your face

Sound to my screws, your dry ghost blows,

The dead turns up its eye;

Where once the mermen through your ice

Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers

Through salt and root and roe.

Where once your green knots sank their splice

Into the tided cord, there goes

The green unraveller,

His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose

To cut the channels at their source

And lay the wet fruits low.

Invisible your clocking tides

Break on the lovebeds of the weeds;

The weeds of love’s left dry;

There round about your stones the shades

Of children go who, from their voids,

Cry to the dolphined sea.

Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids

Shall not be latched while magic glides

Sage on the earth and sky,

There shall be corals in your beds

There shall be serpents in your tides,

Till all our sea-faiths die.

My own domain

Once Peter and Gareth had left the office I sat at my new desk and looked around my new domain.

The stairs came up on the back wall and opposite was a wide set of windows looking down into the bustling little road off the High Street.

My desk was set up with my back to the side wall. There were shelves under the windows and at the far end was a metal cupboard on the top of which was a newspaper file.

I went down to introduce myself properly to the receptionist. To my shame I cannot remember her name.

I soon found out the office had only been opened that morning and the company had had it cleaned, decorated and furnished the previous week.

The receptionist was also responsible for taking in adverts.

She told me there was a kitchen and toilet at the back of the reception area.

With all of this new knowledge I went and made myself a coffee using one of the set of cups and saucers in the kitchen, and went back upstairs to phone my parents and break the news.

I was back in business as a reporter; I would have a signed contract/indenture for three years; I would get proper training; and for most of the week I would be my own boss.

My next move was to take s walk in the town centre; check any public notice boards for upcoming events; make myself known at the local council so that I would receive council minutes and agendas; call at the police station to introduce myself; and, first and foremost, go and see Bill at my old office because I was sure he had been responsible for Peter Leaney taking me on.

The last item on my list was the first one I actually undertook, and at the end of the Gardens I turned right to walk up to my old office. It was only just after 10am so Bill should have still been in the office.

Except he wasn’t.

There was nobody there. The offices were locked and there was a notice on the door saying the office was permanently closed and giving a phone number for any enquiries.

That was when I realised that Bill must have known about the closure for some time, as must my new employers have done in order to arrange the lease on a new office including getting power, water and telephone laid on.

I never did see Bill again but I did meet many people who had known him well over the years.

It turned out that at 11am each weekday he used to settle down at the bar of the High Street pub and remain there until afternoon closing time (except for the days when the court operated).

People would be in and out and he would get information about most of what was happening in the area.

He was apparently known for having pints of beer with whisky chasers. Not long before Delwyn and I went to work there he had apparently been advised by his doctor to cut down on his drinking.

The story was that he cut his pints of beer down to halves but still had a whisky chaser with every half.

Whether or not this was true doesn’t matter any more. It became part of Bill’s backstory and it only enhanced his reputation as a hard-drinking, hardbitten reporter.

He did attend the weekly court sessions and in the evenings attended council meetings.

He probably worked harder at the office bringing all the stories together than most modern journalists.

It was quite some years later, after Bill died, that Peter Leaney told me that, knowing the office was closing and that I would lose my job, my chief reporter had got in touch with him and recommended me.

There had been no mention of Delwyn and, again years later, I discovered he had gone to work for the water board and done quite well for himself.

If it hadn’t been for Bill who knows where I would have ended up.

A Man’s A Man for A’that

by Robert Burns

Is there for honest poverty

That hings his head and a’that;

The coward slave – we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a’that!

For a’that, an a’that.

Our toils obscure an a’that,

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the gowd for a’that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, an a’that;

Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine;

A Man’s a Man for a’that:

For a’that, an a’that,

Their tinsel show, an a’that;

The honest man, tho e’er sae poor,

Is king of men for a’that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, an a’that;

Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,

He’s but a coof, for a’that:

For a’that, an a’that,

His ribband, star, an a’that;

The man o’independent mind

He looks an’ laughs at a’that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an a’that,

But an honest man’s abon his might,

Gude faith, he mauna fa’that!

For a’that, an a’that,

Their dignities an a’that;

The pith o’sense, an pride ‘worth,

Are higher rank than a’that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

(As come it will for a’that,)

That Sense and Worth, o’er a’the earth,

Shall bear the gree, an a’that,

For a’that, and a’that,

It’s coming yet for a’that,

That Man to Man, the world o’er,

Shall brothers be for a’that.

The Kangaroo and the Duck

by Edward Lear

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo,

‘Good gracious! how you hop!

Over the fields and the water too,

As if you would never stop!

My life is a bore in this nasty pond,

And I long to go out in the world beyond!

I wish I could go out like you,’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

‘Please give me a ride on your back,’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

‘I would sit quite still and say nothing but ‘Quack’

The whole of the long day through!

And we’ll go to the Dee and the Jelly Bo Lee,

Over the land and over the sea;

Please take me a ride! O do!’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

Said the Kangaroo to the Duck,

‘This requires some little reflection;

Perhaps on the whole it might bring me some luck,

And there seems but one objection,

Which is, if you’d let me speak so bold,

Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold,

And would probably give me the roo-

Matiz!’ Said the Kangaroo.

Said the Duck, ‘As I sat on the rocks,

I have thought over that completely,

And I bought four pairs of worsted socks

Which fit my web-feet neatly.

And to keep out the cold I’ve bought a cloak,

And every day a cigar I’ll smoke,

All to follow my own dear true

Love of a Kangaroo!’

Said the Kangaroo, ‘I’m ready,

All in the moonlight pale;

‘But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady!

‘And quite at the end of my tail!’

So away they went, with a hop and a bound,

And they hopped the whole world three times round;

And who so happy – O who,

As the Duck and the Kangaroo.