Pat-a- Cake Pat-a-cake

Pat-a- Cake Pat-a-cake

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Dancing down the street oblivious to the flak

Scorning gas mask and tin hat

High on life

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Reading for hours with me on her lap

Nursery rhymes on tap

Mother and wife

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Cycling to market with me on the back

Ice-cream and sweets never any lack

Giver of life

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Rummaging round all the jumble sales

Finding bargains never fails

Planning the afterlife

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake

Opher 7.10.23

Thinking back to my mum a series of memories came flooding through. I can remember sitting on her lap as a little toddler and her playing Pat-a-cake  Pat-a-cake baker’s man.

Fond fond memories

As a teenager in the war she danced back down the street, going home from the dances, no tin hat, as the bombers flew overhead and Big Bertha, the antiaircraft gun on the railway fired up at them. In the morning the road she’s danced along was covered in shards of metal from the exploding shells.

She’d play with me all day with nursery rhymes and actions. She’d take me to the market six miles away, in the seat on the back of her bike, so I could see the sheep, pigs and cattle. She’d buy me an ice-cream and a bag of sweets.

Her hobby was jumble sales. She collected clothes and useful things to give to poverty-stricken families.

Her other interest was the spiritualist church.

She was my mother.

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