Yesterday, after school, I took my daughter's 9 year-old to the library. Amongst other books, he chose three Horrible History books, the ones about The Vikings, The Romans and World War Two, which he is learning about at school.
Actually, I read a bit of the Horrible History The Romans. It's really interesting and a good starting point for a historical author who wants to write about a period he/she is unfamiliar with.
My grandson came to my house delighted because he has graduated from writing with a pencil to writing with a pen. "It's taken me four years, since I first started school, to be given a pen by my teacher," he explained. "And," he added, "one of my friends is very upset because he didn't get a pen, and he writes better than me but I think it's because his w's aren't formed properly. And now, grandma, I am going to copy you and write historical fiction. Can children be published?"
"Maybe," I replied, "but I think they can enter competitions." Phew, he shares my lifelong interest in history.
He is the third want-to-write-books child in my family. One of them has written two excellent stories about a dragon quest.
Showing posts with label World War II. Show all posts
Showing posts with label World War II. Show all posts
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Example of the Cockney Spirit in World War II
Today is Remembrance Sunday. As usual, I am thinking of my father. When young he suffered from tuberculosis and, therefore, his applications to join the armed forces in the Second World War were rejected. Determined to ‘do his bit’ for king and country he joined the fire service.
One morning on his way back to the fire station after the East End was cruelly bombed, a little old lady flagged down the fire engine he drove.
“Get yer ladders out,” she said pointing to the upper storey of her house, the front of which had been blown away. “Look lively. Me best ’at’s up there on top of me wardrobe, an’ Mister ‘itler ain’t going to ‘ave it.”
Father retrieved the hat. “No one,” Father said, after he told me the story, “thought we would lose the war, and that little old lady, who had lost nearly everything, represents the spirit of the times.”
One morning on his way back to the fire station after the East End was cruelly bombed, a little old lady flagged down the fire engine he drove.
“Get yer ladders out,” she said pointing to the upper storey of her house, the front of which had been blown away. “Look lively. Me best ’at’s up there on top of me wardrobe, an’ Mister ‘itler ain’t going to ‘ave it.”
Father retrieved the hat. “No one,” Father said, after he told me the story, “thought we would lose the war, and that little old lady, who had lost nearly everything, represents the spirit of the times.”
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