Regular Bygones contributor Gwen Cooper, of Walton on Trent, recalls some amusing anecdotes about incidents and accidents in her first marital home.
IT'S always exciting looking for your first home. My husband Tony and I started looking in 1971.
In those days, only the man's wage was taken into account when taking out a mortgage, so the dream we had of owning a new-build was refused.
It was through a colleague that I got to hear about an end-terrace house in Shobnall Road, Burton, which was up for sale for £2,500.
We decided this definitely would fit the bill, being near enough for us to walk into town and to our work (what's a mile or two when you are young?) but, at the same time, being on the rather good No 10 Corporation bus route.
It would mean a two-bus journey to see my family every Saturday but I could live with that. There was a local shop and a post office and, on a weekend, Plesteds greengrocers opened up its doors.
It was almost like a village with its own village hall and church just over the road from us.
On first viewing the house, it was rather daunting. You had to be able to look through the orange and brown paint to get a vision of what it could look like.
We purchased the house without further ado, the mortgage being just affordable at £20 a month (no I haven't missed off any noughts!) and we booked our wedding for three months later.
This was barely enough time, as it happened, to get rid of the orange and brown and replace it with dark purple, turquoise and lime green – yes I know it sounds hideous but my colour palette was still in the psychedelic 60s.
My favourite colour was purple and, as I had got married in lilac, we painted the house in a rather nice shade of lilac, too.
The bathroom suite was already turquoise anyway, so that blended in nicely. However, the bathroom had once been the coal house. This was evident from the black patches which would come through the wallpaper in nasty black mouldy patches.
This room was just off the kitchen and the sliding-door access seemed to attract my small nephews and nieces, of which I had many. They would delight in sliding the door backwards and forwards, annoying all us grown-ups until one of them would trap their fingers and a hullabaloo would ensue. That would be the end of that particular game until their next visit.
In both reception rooms were tiled fireplaces. The living/dining room one was of particular importance during the three-day week (commencing in January 1974) when we would use it to boil a kettle or even do a fry-up, by candlelight.
Our kitchen was a tiny galley affair where there was only room for one person at a time. Someone had stuck on heavy plastic wall covering in mock-tile effect. We discovered this was a great source of damp so tried to get it off, resulting in half the plaster coming away with it.
Some years later, when funds allowed, we had it re-plastered and we had to have the floor replaced, too, as it was riddled with damp. It was, therefore, very inconvenient getting to the "convenience" at the other side of the kitchen, so we had to walk on a plank suspended on bricks for several days.
We somehow dragged the cooker just inside the door leading to the living room as far as the lead would allow, so we had about six inches to squeeze through – luckily we were both slim, but cooking on it in this position was definitely against all health and safety rules.
My memories of that house revolve quite a bit around the kitchen. There was the Christmas Eve when I was washing my hair in the bathroom.
I heard carol singers round the back door, which had frosted glass. I kept calling to Tony to go to the door as I wasn't suitably dressed but either he couldn't hear me above While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks or, more likely, didn't want to part with his money.
So, sporting my underwear and towel round my wet head, I went to tell him. It was then that I realised the blind hadn't been closed in the kitchen and the vicar, plus most of the congregation of St Aidan's, were able to see me.
I thought it a bit late then for false modesty so opened the door and gave them my offering. Suddenly the singing stopped. I am sure I heard shocked gasps, so I said a brief Merry Christmas and retreated quickly. As it happened, the carol had been rather appropriate.
Another time I had just had an automatic washing machine installed. My friend and colleague, Paul Ross, had given me instructions on how to work it when he plumbed it in, so I was horrified when I walked into the kitchen to be met by white soap suds up to my ankles.
As the machine got more agitated, the bubbles got higher and threatened to engulf the whole house. I flew to the phone to speak to Paul and he asked one simple question: "You did use the automatic powder, didn't you?"
Oh dear, I didn't know there was any difference so, of course, I hadn't. He found it all very amusing and said I would just have to let it take its course. Several hours later, I was still shovelling foam through the door on to the yard. My kitchen was sparkling afterwards but it's not a mistake you want to repeat.
We were given most of our furniture, the Hoover washing machine (pre-twin tub and later the Zanussi automatic) by Tony's mum who re-married a few days before us and moved in with her new husband. She also gave me her Flatley. This was a heated cabinet where you could dry your washing before the days of the tumble drier. It was a great boon to mothers of and working women who only had the weekend to wash.
In my case, washing on a Saturday became fraught with problems as there was a road which ran alongside our house belonging to Thomas Lowe builders, and they worked every day but Sunday.
At the back of us was a brickyard where they would take lorry-loads of unwanted hard-core. In the summer, the dust the lorries created would cover the washing and, in winter, the mud would splash it, so I had to break a golden rule of not washing on a Sunday.
It was something inbred in me from my mother and other older people that it was sort of irreverent.
One day, while typing away merrily at work, it struck me I had put the Flatley on to dry some towels and I couldn't remember turning it off. It would be another five hours before I left work, so I threw myself on the mercy of our maintenance manager, John Smith, and he ran me home just in time – the smell of scorching met me at the door.
Thank goodness I had remembered it in time to prevent a fire breaking out. I got rid of the Flatley after that to be on the safe side.
However, we did get a visit from the fire brigade some time later. It was well after midnight when we heard the distinctive drone of a fire engine coming up Shobnall Road.
It stopped outside our house, lights flashing wildly through the window into our bedroom. We flew downstairs thinking our house must be on fire just as they were about to break the glass on the kitchen door.
We quickly opened it and they shouted: "Where's the chip pan fire?"
We told them it wasn't ours and, of course, it turned out to be at Ivy's next door. It could well have been our house up in smoke when we saw what it had done to her kitchen.
The dramas didn't end there. One night, I looked through the bedroom window to see a body being carried out of the house opposite. We didn't know they had got an elderly relative staying with them, so it was even more of a shock wondering what had gone on there.
We did our share of entertaining in the "Purple House", as we called it, though it did become quite crowded at times for family gatherings at Christmas. In the 70s, everyone seemed to have Pippa Dee, make-up, jewellery or Tupperware parties and I was no exception. You could always muster up a good crowd from family and colleagues.
I was getting myself ready for a make-up party on one occasion and, thinking I must make the best of myself, decided to take a day's holiday to get the house and myself prepared. When the house was presentable, I decided to put on a face mask "to bring out the beauty in your skin" – well that's what it said on the sachet. It was the sort which turned clear into a plastic film, then you ripped it off, taking half your skin with it. At that moment, I heard a knock at the door. It was my brother-in-law Mick with a Christmas card.
I asked if he wanted to come in for coffee but he bid a hasty retreat. I wondered what I had done to offend him. It was many years later when my sister, Margaret, told me Mick had fled my house because he thought I was off work sick as I had looked so ill. We had a good laugh about my plastic face.
One of our neighbours was always interested in what plants you were putting in the garden and later I realised why. I came home from work one day and found a few large holes in the garden. On looking over to her garden, I found my lupins had miraculously jumped over the fence and replanted themselves in her garden. We never said anything.
One night, well after midnight, we heard an awful squeaking sound getting louder and louder. We looked through the window to find our neighbour pushing a wheelbarrow full of plants – I am not sure where they came from!
After 11 happy years at Shobnall, we decided to move on. A cottage came up for sale in Walton on Trent, a village very familiar to me from my school days. Selling our house, though, was not without moments of difficulty. One bitterly cold January evening, a couple came to look round and insisted on seeing the garden – normally it would have been pitch dark but it had snowed, so down the garden we all went.
I heard the distinctive snuffling of our neighbour's dog. I had encountered it in our garden before and had been bitten so I wasn't taking any chances. I ushered them into the safety of the house in time and had to explain. I thought we had said goodbye to them but an hour later they rang and offered to buy the house.
Our little purple house was changed dramatically over those 11 years yet, somehow, our possessions were few compared to how we live today. This was evident when we moved to Walton in 1982 with just one medium van load of goods. I dread the thought of moving house now – my books and DVD collection alone would need a small van.
The day after we moved, Tony went back to Shobnall to finish off a few things and found most of the plants had gone from the garden – I wonder where they went!
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![Near-naked Gwen Cooper shocked vicar and his carol singers Near-naked Gwen Cooper shocked vicar and his carol singers]()