East Barnet Old Grammarians December 2012 Newsletter

ANOTHER EBOG CARRIES THE OLYMPIC TORCH

The front page of the July 2012 Newsletter showed Jean Lance (née Roffe) carrying the Torch through Bishops Stortford on the 7th of July. Now a similar honour has been bestowed also on Steve Harris (1953-1959). Steve sent these photos and comments:

This is me in running mode on the 25th of July after having been kissing lots of different coloured babies whilst waiting to start my leg at the roundabout at the junction of Oakleigh Road South and Waterfall Road.

The second is as I transferred the flame to a young athlete from Thames Valley Harriers at the end of my 300 meter stint.

This is me getting in the bus afterwards. It was a very emotional day; l was overwhelmed by how many people came to see me.

Steve's nominator wrote:

Steve is a dedicated coach who has inspired many athletes of all ages and abilities to achieve their potential in the sport of athletics. He has been a coach for over 20 years, and is a real unsung hero in the sport. He is well known in athletics and sports development circles in North London for the literally hundreds of voluntary hours he puts into coaching and development of athletics. He is a Level 4 Multi events coach, and coaching coordinator for Barnet & District AC. He organises coaching activity for club coaches in club and school settings and delivers many hours of coaching every week. He mentors other athletics coaches and supports their development. He has for many years worked with disabled athletes, regularly organising specific coaching sessions for wheelchair athletes and supporting them in London Marathon and mini marathon events. He has previously been recognised for his tireless work as London Active Partnership Coach of the Year, and as the London Region Unsung Hero at the Sports Personality of the Year awards a few years ago. He has many supporters in the athletics and disability sport fraternities who could vouch for his excellent, inspirational work over many years.

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EBOGS' SON WINS GOLD From Tony Smee, Jeremy Smee and Roy Bertauche

Tony and daughter, Vivien at Greenwich as Carl (riding Uthopia) is presented with his Gold Medal

Carl Hester, son of Tony Smee (1960-67) and Brenda Cocksedge (circa 1960-1967) won a Dressage Team Gold Medal in the Olympics. In the 1970’s Brenda moved from Barnet to the Channel Islands. She settled and married on Sark, the smallest island, where Carl was brought up. Being only about 4 square miles, there are no proper roads and no motor vehicles, so it is perhaps not surprising that he ended up getting on a horse! Tony has had an interesting life himself as an actor for over 40 years, whilst also producing and writing. He is currently playing Somerset Maugham in a one man play touring the U.K. Brothers Tony, Tim and Jeremy Smee were all good footballers and played for many years for EBOG FC. Tony moved to Gloucestershire 12 years ago where he remains involved as a Level 5 referee. Tony wrote: Carl Hester, super star of the dressage world, is currently the toast of a very large, happy extended family. In the beginning there were the Smees, the Cocksedges and the Hesters. Without going into tedious detail, the outcome all demonstrates a pretty good alternative to the ‘conservative, nuclear, married, heterosexual, two parent family’ - so important to some! Carl talks of Mother Number One, Mother Number Two, Mother Number … , and so it goes. We, his entire family, were all together at Greenwich when he won his Olympic Team Gold Medal – and that was one of the happiest days in our lives. My daughter Vivien, one of Carl’s half-

siblings, has a partner who was generous enough and fortunate enough to have the means to drown the entire tribe in champagne. It was a great and joyous day. Brenda’s mother, Nan, an extraordinarily sprightly and strong lady from Sark was there. So was Brenda’s daughter Polly. Carl lives near me in the West Country and earlier this year I spent a month with Brenda in Mauritius - where she now lives with her other son, Jess. It was the first decent chance we have really had to spend time catching up. Old friends from East Barnet School were discussed at enormous length, of course. Brenda was an outstanding hockey player. I drove team mates mad with my inability to pass a football. But neither of us were horse riders. Carl was born, definitely without a spoon in his mouth, at the Victoria Maternity Hospital in High Barnet. Brenda’s pregnancy revealed the different views toward pastoral care that existed within the staff room of the day. Mostly we both remember touchingly kind and supportive teachers. But attitudes in 1967 were very different from today and it wasn’t easy. However, life went on and the world didn’t grind to a halt. Forty five years later and that baby boy is a mature man at the height of his career. He is charming, generous, dedicated and brilliant. Not only as, perhaps, the greatest horseman in the world, but also as a teacher and a terrific example to all interested in sport. What’s not to love! Take a bow, Team GB and Barnet! (Ed note: like all the other British gold medal winners, Carl has been honoured with his picture on a 1st class stamp)

Carl and his grandmother, Nan Cocksedge

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IN MEMORIAM PAT BRAZIER

Sadly on 13th October 2012 Pat passed peacefully away after suffering from Alzheimers for several years. Pat and Mike had been married for almost 60 years during which time she devoted her life to their family and gave constant support to Mike in his business, his major pastime E.B.O.G. and his obsession with Al Jolson! Because of Mike’s commitment to the Old Students, Pat hosted many football committee meetings and Ludgrove Lodge meetings. Most weekends she was at Alan Drive with their young sons watching Mike in goal and generally helping where she could. When it came to helping the Association generally Pat was always there – even driving the dumper truck when the new Clubhouse was being built. She organised and cooked for the numerous social events. The May Dinner for Ludgrove Lodge at Alan Drive became almost legendary for Pat’s marvellous salmon meals. Pat will always be remembered as a kind lovely lady who we were all delighted to have as a friend. She was dedicated to her large family and we hope that they and particularly Mike can draw strength from the wonderful and happy life that they shared with her. We are sure that the support from friends, demonstrated by a packed crematorium and over 120 cards and messages of condolence received, will be a tremendous support for them all.

John and Carol Argent

DR. MICHAEL LESLIE BURR

20th October 1937 - 24th June 2012 From Professor Richard Hayward

Michael (Mike) Burr, who passed away this year, was one of the 1948 intake to EBGS. That was an intake that included Sheila Warren, Brian Addinall, John Harrington, Ian Macdonald and many others whose names and faces I could no longer pair up with any

certainty. Although I myself joined the School that year I didn’t really get to know Mike until the Sixth Form, when we studied Zoology and Botany together, and Chemistry with the inspirational Dr. Legge. By no means one destined to excel on the playing field, Mike nevertheless had cerebral interests that made a decided contribution to the life of a Grammar School. There can be very few schools able to boast of a pupil who had invented an entire language of his own, the system being meticulously recorded in notebooks detailing regular and irregular noun

declensions, verb paradigms, and a lexicon. For most of us French was bad enough! Likewise in debate, his precise and logical mind was a force to be reckoned with. Owen Jones said to me just recently that Mike would have been absolutely formidable as Counsel for the Prosecution had he chosen Law as a career. As it was, Mike went into medicine; first as a GP, though eventually moving into Public Health. It was here he found his true niche, in epidemiological research. Over the 41 years he lived and worked in Cardiff this research ranged over the possible effects of traffic pollution on asthma, factors affecting our cholesterol and Vitamin C levels, and many other recondite fields – albeit always with potentially beneficial applications. His wife, Sheila, told me that Mike’s researches into fish-oil were so intensive and widely acclaimed (among the fish-oil cognoscenti that is) that he was obliged to exchange the small Christian fish badge he wore on his lapel for a cross – so many people had thought it was to indicate his association with the fish-oil project! He so obviously loved his work and

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continued medical research and teaching at the University Medical School well after retirement. Indeed, in a phone conversation only days before his death he told me he’d just managed to complete his part of a research paper now ‘in press’ entitled The Natural History of Wheeze from Birth to Adult Life: a 23-year Follow-up Cohort Study. Wow! His contributions to medicine were clearly recognised and in 2001 he was awarded the degree of Doctor of Science. But such was the genuine humility of the man that very few of his friends knew of it, and I only learned about it just the other day at his funeral! During his medical training, which was at University College Hospital London, Mike met Sheila and there began a life-long love affair. In 2002 several of his erstwhile school-mates had the pleasure of being guests at Mike and Sheila’s Ruby Wedding celebrations – together with their four daughters and fourteen grandchildren. I know from personal acquaintance with them that Mike himself had grown up in a close-knit and deeply affectionate family and it was plain for all to see that he and Sheila had successfully continued that tradition for a further generation. There were other interests; long walks, travel by train, music, wide reading and doubtless more as well. But there was another dimension to Mike’s life that some of us came to know about. This was his Christian faith. It would not be going too far to say that for him this was the most important thing of all,

and I would be failing in this little obituary if I omitted to give it some prominence. He never made a secret of what Christ meant to him, in spite of the fact that initially most of us didn’t want to know. But our sixth-form years were also the years of the Billy Graham Crusades in London, and a not-entirely-negligible group of us at the School were affected by them, and so came to share that other dimension of Mike’s life. Being the only one with some years of experience and an understanding of the Bible – and it was a very profound one – he was equipped to exercise a genuine pastoral influence on some of us. His loyal friendship and spiritual concern for each one (and doubtless for many others whom we shall never know) continued literally till the end of his life, even during times when our own lives of faith might have appeared rather tattered. Mike’s faith in Christ was no mere religion; it was a life-long relationship with a Person, a relationship that never failed to cheer and lift him up throughout those last months when he was experiencing the ravages of a particularly aggressive cancer. Mike passed away on the 24th June this year, and I feel sure I shall not be the only old school-mate who will miss him. Sheila Warren adds: "Much of Michael's research, especially in later years, was unpaid voluntary work, as he wished to use his skills and knowledge to the benefit of others as long as he could."

TERRY EASTWELL (1942-48) from Harry Wilkerson

Terry sadly passed away on 15th February, aged 81. He had an insatiable desire to travel the world and this he did in the company of members of his family, all of whom he loved dearly. On his return from each venture, he would

record in meticulous detail his experience. With the assistance of his daughter, Ruth, these were printed and bound into books. In total there are eight volumes, each containing many thousand words. Terry sent these to various school pals whom I am certain enjoy them as much as I do. In May 2011 Terry and family visited Eire which coincided with the Queen’s visit. He was so impressed by the sincerity with which the Irish

people regarded the Royal family that he wrote a letter to Buckingham Palace and, in due course, received a most appreciative reply. Terry loved driving his black Rolls Bentley “Flying Shadow” reg. no. CLT 333. He was always very generous in handing out Balkan Sobranie or Abdullah cigarettes which were considered a luxury compared to our miserable packets of five Wills Woodbines or Passing Cloud. His favourite artists were Frank Sinatra and George Melly. He had a motor cabin cruiser “The Bounty” which was moored at Oulton Broads and this he hired out to anyone wishing to spend a few days cruising the Broads. “The Bounty“ was also a suitable vehicle for attracting pretty girls cycling along the towpath. To the strains of “Getting to know you” our hero would no doubt be resplendent in a white outfit and a rather dishy peak cap. He was

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not alone in enjoying the fun and games and was often accompanied by school pals Henry “Muscles” Colbert, Jack “The Lad” Rawlings and Brian “Mad Professor” Miller. Terry’s greatest Britons of all time: Sir Winston S. Churchill and Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Motto: “The quality remains long after the

price has been forgotten”. Terry was cremated on Monday 5th March 2012 at St Faith's Crematorium, Norwich. Mike Brazier reports that Peter Walsh (1940-1945) passed away. No further details are available.

75TH REUNION ATTENDANCE ANALYSIS

from Roy Bertauche

Although most of the people at the 75th Reunion were fairly local, congratulations and thanks go to the great many who made an enormous effort to get there, including at least 16 from abroad. This analysis was taken just from the online bookings and bearing in mind that they represented groups of up to 6 each, the list below is only a modest sample: Those who travelled over 100 miles: Jocelyn Allen (Kimber) – Nottingham Barbara Atkins – Christchurch Geoff Atkins – Glasgow Terence Attwood – Blackpool Andrew Ball – Southsea, Hants David Bacon, Ringwood Elizabeth Bagworth (Perry) - Nottingham Sue Barry (Bell) – Swanage Janet Benfield (Grice) – Kingsdown, Kent Michael Bennett – Fakenham Brian Bidwell - Sheringham Rosalind Bills (King) - Somerset Kevin Bown - Burleigh, Glos David Bray - Norfolk Nick Bullock – N Yorks Sathya Caddick - Dorset Roger Carnt – Stroud, Glos Hilda Clarke (Rushman) - Nottingham John Clarke – Cheltenham Brian Cross - Cornwall Alan Cunnington - Devon Sandra Davey – Worcestershire Janet Dick (Lyons) – Chester Penelope Dinwoodie (Hurd) – Preston Lenina Dowson (Banerji) – Powys, Wales David Drinkwater - Norfolk Nigel Eagling - Truro Len Fawke – Leeds Brenda Flowerdew (Collins) - Alresford Hants John Gamsler – Isle of Wight

Sarah Gibbons – Norfolk James Gilman – Durham John Gowar – Bristol Anna Griffiths (Young) – Llangadog, Wales Romola Guiton (Banerji) – Sheffield Roy Harding – Cumbria John & Kath Harris (Shere) - Devon Philip Harris - Yeovil Richard Hayward - N Wales Patricia Hole (Long) - Torquay William House - Bristol Margaret Humphrey (Russell) – Exeter Roger Hunt – Devon Iain Hutchinson – Framlingham Woodbridge Lucy Kaupe - Ilkley Ann Kendall – Wakefield John Lambert – Wells Anna Ladbury (Kaupe) - Skipton Judith Langfield – Bristol Valerie Langfield – Cheshire David Larcombe – St Helens John Mackie – Powys, Wales Jean Mansell – Leicester Yvonne Mathieson (Hurd) – Horncastle, Lincs Robin Matthews - Cumbria Peter & Jean Mills (Sandys) – Stourbridge Jill Molineaux (Marriot) – Wiltshire Mick North – Aberfeldy, Scotland Marjorie Peck – Wirral Geoff Phillips, Wantage Paul Phillips – Leicester Dawn Pomeroy (Wilson) - Dorset Ann Richards (Hilton) – Newton Abbot, Devon David Rumbold – Warminster John Scott – N Yorks Brenda Seed – Dorset Margaret Soughan (Walker) – Barton-on Sea John & Jill Stapley (Adams) – Beaminster Norman Stidolph – Bognor Regis Robert Stubbings - Herefordshire Ian Tapster - Morpeth

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Bill Taverner - Newcastle Eileen Taylor (Gerrard) – Melton Mowbray David Vickers – Worcs Joan Viney (Telling) - Dorset Teresa Walch (Hoffman) – Lancs Christopher Walker - Cheshire Christopher Wheeler – Weymouth David Wilkins - Solihull David Wingrove – Swindon Peter Witt - Devon Christine Wright - Birmingham John Wrighton - Truro Overseas: Roger Abraham - Portugal

Susan Arthur (Yaxley) – Wexford, Ireland Janice Baldwin (Trowbridge) - Luxembourg Clare Carlson (Franklin) – Victoria, Australia David Collingwood – Quebec, Canada Simon Gordon – Colorado, USA Deek Finch – Adelaide, Australia Ronald Jarvis – Turnhout, Belgium Sue Kingston (Bell) – South Australia Vern Leonard – Sydney, Australia Geoffrey Morris – New Jersey, USA Brian Pritchard – California, USA Fred Ruddle – Florida, USA Nick Rust – Amsterdam, Holland Janice Stern (Priem)– California, USA Brenda Tipps (Keates) – Florida, USA

PAM COXEN'S SPANISH DIARY

Coming to 'live the dream' in Spain is something of the past, but the climate is still one of the better. Food is superb and for the moment the cost of living is still lower. We have all been gently eased into austerity, and in the footsteps of Greece are now the 'Black

Sheep of Europe'. Who could have foreseen this 5 years ago? Never a dull moment though! A few weeks ago we suffered the worst floods since 1974. I was awakened at 2 am by the sound of rain and huge hail stones pounding any likely surface, I am told that 12 inches of rain fell in just 2 hours and by 8.30 am the rain had completely ceased. Mojacar was lucky by comparison as just 5 miles away 300 became homeless, one lady amongst the numbers who lost their lives, walked out of a bar, was swept out to sea, only to be washed ashore many days later a long way down the coast. Bridges and roads were just demolished, some not until several hours later as the swell grew. One bridge collapsed just half an hour after my granddaughter had driven over it, returning home from shopping. Neil and I were quite unaware of the extent of the damage when we decided to visit the local garden centre that morning. To our amazement the sea was dark brown as far as the horizon, such was the amount of earth that had washed down from the

riverbeds. 'On arriving at 'Hortiflor' we could not park for water. We turned down a road on the beach side, only to be met by waves rushing towards us, the houses on one side of the street were already waist-high. We drove the mile back home past unrecognizable beaches, trees, dead animals, debris and broken cars of all shapes and sizes, complete destruction along the eastern Mediterranean. The Red Cross started collections of tinned food stuff, clothing and furniture to help the homeless. They have enough now for 1000 people, but sadly this is such a proud nation and only 17 families have come forward so far, to be helped. Naturally drains and water were affected by the storm and our water supply was taken away for 3 days, something we so take for granted. Buckets of water were drawn from the pool and sufficed for loo flushing. At the village fountain, the police controlled parking. It was the most popular place in town. Usually these days the fountain is just a tourist spot where folks learn how as recently as the 70's this was the local laundry where we went to scrub out the smalls, also a drinking water source for the entire village. Simple things like just washing up meant boiling pans of fountain water, for 3 whole days! The Town Halls quickly got down to work with tractors, diggers and lorries to clear the beaches. Here alone 2 miles of kerbside were piled 15 feet high with storm rubbish waiting to be taken away. Almeria City's small coastline produced 150 tons alone. The following week the skies turned a strange orangey brown colour. We wondered what

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next. The following morning it was clear; everywhere, including parked cars, had changed to the same strange colour, covered in 2mm of sand. Not a rain storm but an overnight sand storm had taken place, and the sky then a perfect blue again after discharging its load. The couple whose house was demolished near here, and hit the UK headlines a couple of years

ago have now been awarded 700,000 euros, a compensation, we are all so pleased to hear about. I am packing umbrellas now for a few November days in the UK. Happy Christmas All xx Pam Roxana.1@live.co.uk

An open letter to Boris Johnson from a concerned EBOG

Dear Mr Mayor, A recent visit to London prompts me to offer a couple of suggestions to make your city more tourist-friendly: 1. I attempted to travel on the Tube when, to my dismay, at the top of the escalator I encountered this sign.

Since I didn't have a dog with me, I was unable to proceed any further. You should follow up on the success of your "Boris Bikes" programme with one called "Boris Dogs". At the top of each escalator you could install a rack with miniature dogs chained to it who could be released by inserting a credit card which would be debited £5. Passengers would then carry them down the escalator, take them on the train and then re-chain them to the rack at their destination station whereupon £2 would be credited back to them. This would enable more people to use the Underground and, at the same time, raise a considerable amount of revenue for your city. (Incidentally, how do they manage to get the tube trains down the escalators?) 2. Maintain public conveniences in working order. I spent much of my time in considerable discomfort as every one of them had a sign outside that said DISABLED TOILET. Yours faithfully, Name withheld at writer's request.

Roni Hermony's Israel Diaries Part 5

Thinking about the past led my thoughts in several directions one of which was the end of year parties of our earlier years in EBG. I have received in the last few months a small amount of feedback about

my articles and some has been from classmates with particular memories relating to or involving myself.

A question: I cut myself in art class with a lino-cutting tool. Who picked me up after I fainted? Love to get a response to that… Back to parties – who remembers the party where we all had a talent show? If I remember correctly Deryk Walker (that's how he writes Deryk now), or maybe John got some boys together for a skiffle group. I did a ballet dance en pointe. Who else remembers what they did? I can remember another time we played a funny version of musical chairs. First the girls sat and the boys were to sit on them, them the other way round. The girls were embarrassed to sit on the boys so I won…just a game! Since I wrote the above over two months

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have passed and I have been blessed with a new addition to my family, a beautiful grand-daughter who is at present asleep on my bed. That makes lucky thirteen. Continuing thinking back I remember the first years on kibbutz. My husband had already (before I met him) been accepted to do an intensive course (two and a half years – no semesters) studying Agriculture at the Weitzman Institute in Rehovot, a city in the south. My life had changed completely. From the modern young lady that wouldn't dream of leaving home without makeup, perfect tights and very high heels, I had become a "kibbutznik" in dress. My regular dress was T shirt, with a warm jacket or shirt over that (or not – depending on the season), jeans (or shorts) and lace-up boots, purchased for me by the Jewish Agency representative from Usha, my intended destination, (who is today one of my best friends) in a children's' shoe store in London. This man, Josef Sand, interviewed me and said I was too small for kibbutz and he did not want to let me go! From my group I was the only one who stayed and never left. To this day we joke about it. The Jewish agency gave us instructions on what we had to bring with us but supplied us with working boots. I wore (wear still – size two and a half to three – depending on sock thickness) so my boots were children's boots. They served me well. Our first days on the kibbutz were arranged for us. We arrived in December so it was the winter season and although for us the weather was warm, the pool was empty and the sunning we did (the sun comes out and off come the clothes) was on the lawn in front of our dormitory building. The Hebrew lessons were morning and afternoon. The group was divided into two and the Hebrew lesson alternated – one week mornings and one week afternoons. So accordingly, did the work. The children's houses were open till 4 p.m. but the dining room only till 2 p.m. Agricultural work: egg collecting in the chicken runs, trimming banana plants, picking citrus fruit and so on was a set time table – according to the regular workers so most people had an irregular schedule. I worked outside for a while – bananas, grapefruit until it reached the ears of the work organizers that I was house mother in the months training for kibbutz so I found myself in the dining room on a fairly regular basis and thence to the kitchen where I stayed for quite some time. Yigal and I were together, as I said, more or less from my first days on Usha and this relationship shaped to large degree the ease or lack of same, the

reception or maybe absorption into kibbutz society. Kibbutz is a closed society. A person has to earn their place. The kibbutz – that I joined – was of the Meyer Levine style, traditional, old-fashioned and very, very closed. I have a neighbour (a friend) who said to me when Yigal went to study, we will take care of you, you will want for nothing. Not once in the two and a half years did she knock on my door but here I am to tell the tale…water under the bridge. My in-laws and my kibbutz parents were wonderful and helpful during that period, we had a war, and I gave birth to my two eldest children and I was still enlarging my knowledge of the language and customs. The kibbutz has a clinic with two nurses and regular doctor visits. I was well taken care of. The children – each in their own group lived in the children's houses. When I had four I had four to put to bed each in a separate building. Actually that is incorrect – I got to three – then Rotem who is our middle daughter (and number 4) was in the position of being the only night sleeper in the children's (infants) house. The parents of the other children had de facto taken their children home at night. I wouldn't leave her alone so I also took her home at night – till she went into the kindergarten. She didn't want to sleep with the rest of the children so we agreed that she would make a six week trial. This three year old announced on the evening of the sixth week that she had finished with group sleeping and tomorrow she sleeps at home! Shortly after this we also declared home life at night and gave our bedroom to the children who slept on a confection of fold up and old beds till their bedroom was built on to the house and then we had the house turned from a bedsitter to a two bedroom. 64 square meters, not very big but enough for us. While the children were in our bedroom we slept in the lounge. At a much later date in an unexpected period of prosperity on the kibbutz we had an additional 3 square meters built onto our lounge so now we have a luxurious 67 just for us! Reverting to the previous subject after several busy years going where I was sent and also running the dining room and bringing in a self service system, I then took a job in the kibbutz factory (1978) which is actually an optical laboratory and there I stayed for 13 years as an optical technician. I even made glasses for King Hussein of Jordan. Towards the end of 1991 I took a new job in the Technology R&D department of the factory on

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Kibbutz Ramat Yochanan (our neighbours), ten minutes walk away, as department secretary. This was when every thing changed. Makeup on every morning and nice clothes and shoes were the order of the day. After an interesting interview in which I confessed all my limitations, which included, as yet, total ignorance of computers, the fact that I was learning to drive a car and that I occasionally had to take my now almost totally senile mother-in-law to various clinics my new boss (for seven years) told me that he wanted me for the job. I spent the first month organizing a filing system for 29 years of non-filing system, teaching myself DOS – we got Windows later - and developing my organizational skills. Bosses change and with the new boss, new instructions: "Computerize all the filing system

including the Archives." So I did, knowing all the while that I was computerizing myself out of a job. I wandered for a few months, 4 months here, 2 months there and then a position became vacant in Optiplas – my "Alma Mater". Superficially it was described as Company secretary; actually it turned into a really interesting job of Purchasing – home and abroad that I loved. I liked the contacts and the challenge of getting something desperately needed delivered for one of the departments in the shortest time possible. When I left to start my pension I took with me a fat file of goodbye letters from all over the world. It has been fun sharing my life with you all. Roni Hermony - Israel ryhermony@gmail.com

Valerie (Dodd) Kent's Connecticut Diary

Julie Whillock Parry and I have known each other for 62 years. We first met in the beginning of our second year at East Barnet Grammar School, in Form IIA, when I was demoted from Form I, and she

was promoted from Form I Alpha. Since I emigrated to the U.S. in 1968, she has visited me many times, beginning in 1995 shortly after her eldest son came over here to work. This October she was here once again. Her son, married with two small children, now lives in Connecticut, so the trip to my house from his is only 45 minutes. This time, as Julie and I sat outside in the beautiful fall weather, she was full of stories of the EBOG Reunion, telling me of the people she met there, how a certain classmate is still as pretty as she was when we were in school; how the boys we use to have crushes on have become men, how some of us have aged well, and others not so well. I took Julie out to lunch with my little group of friends here, who meet monthly, and who have met her several times before, so often that they feel like she is a regular member, albeit one who only comes once or twice a year. We all went to see the new museum that my alma mater, Quinnipiac

University, opened on October 11th, devoted to the Irish Potato Famine, and called “The Museum of the Great Hunger.” It was very interesting with a video show telling the story, wonderful paintings, old and new, magnificent sculptures, as well as historical documents and letters telling of that terrible time. We were reminded of how little we learned in school about the Famine, and how the English have quite a lot to answer for, when we went out to conquer the world during the reign of Victoria. How we let the Irish starve while exporting foodstuffs from that benighted isle to England and the Continent of Europe. This was particularly jarring to me coming after the triumphs of the Summer Olympics and the Diamond Jubilee, which was very popular viewing over here and for which anyone who was English came in for a lot of reflected glory. (Not to mention the popularity of “Downton Abbey,” “Upstairs Downstairs,” and “The Midwife.”) I also took Julie to my Yoga class. There we were, with another friend of mine, three 70-year-olds among what my brother calls the “Yummy Mummies”. doing ‘down dog’ and ‘swan dive’ and other poses which pushed us to the limit, all the while listening to very relaxing piano music. The kind where you knew the tune but couldn’t quite name it. What was it about that shared life experience at East Barnet Grammar that has enabled us to get right back in the groove any time we meet? Julie says that she also meets regularly with Iris Litchfield and Sheila Cullinan Stojsavlievic and Iris Chapman

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Loveday and they all share the same camaraderie. Now through the EBOG newsletter, I often think about Pamela Coxen and worry about how she is doing in Spain, what with all that country’s financial troubles. How are you, Pam? I also enjoy Bunny Warren’s stories of Italy and marvel that she seems so integrated into that country. My memories of Bunny are of her rushing up and down the hockey field with Miss Thomas yelling “Shoot, girl, shoot!” These newsletters have been a wonderful way of keeping us together, including those of us who are now in far-flung parts of the former empire, as well as other countries. Thank you Brian for your hard work and let’s hear from some of those people who haven’t written before. And, while I’m at it, does anyone have a copy of the Speech Day program for 1954? I used to have one somewhere but cannot locate it. Stay well, enjoy life, and Namaskar to you

all. Valerie Dodd Kent (Ed. note: According to Wikipedia, Namaskar, a variation of Namaste, is "a common spoken valediction or salutation originating from the Indian subcontinent. It is a customary greeting when individuals meet, and a valediction upon their parting". Valerie's comment concerning her being taught nothing at our school about the Irish Potato Famine is not surprising since, at least in our year, we were taught History in strict chronological order. The last event that I remember being taught about was when Oliver Cromwell chastised Charles 1, effectively ending the hapless monarch's reign because he no longer had anywhere to put his crown.)

Form 1, 1959 from Andy Sharp. Standing: Phil Sutcliffe, John Strongman, Barry Jones, Richard White, Dave Smith, Doug Keep, Geoff Painter, Anthony Bushell, Keith Burridge, Howard Amos, John Meads, Mark Cowling. Third row: Mary Harris, Vivienne Pieri, Anne Hamblin, Pamela Hill, Terry Hearing (Form Master), Anne Crawt, Cheryl Wells, Christine Wade, Susan Clarke. Second row: (half of) Colin Daniels, Diane Sills, Alison Oldman, Carolyn Gatfield, Kathleen Milliken, Jacqueline Franklin, Marsha Cannon, Elizabeth Björck, Ann Kendall, Deryk Walker. Front row: John Danter, Alan Williams, Mike Stevens, Andy Sharp Ed. note: This photo was also in the July 2012 Newsletter but in the meantime our regular contributor, Marsha Cannon (now Roni Hermony), supplied all the names that were previously missing.

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Classmates from entry year 1947, Brian Edwards (left) and Philip Edwards (not related) at the 2012 Reunion pondering the age-old enigma of how a brown cow can eat green grass and give white milk.

KISS OF DEATH by

James A Gilman In February 1953, having successfully defended our country -- and some of you -- against the threat of nuclear annihilation in a Third World War, a grateful Army discharged me from any further responsibilities and sent me back into Civvy Street, armed only with the civilian clothes I'd worn throughout my Army service and a one-way Travel Warrant to London. I was determined that my own Civvy Street would be located somewhere within the territories of the then British Empire, being myself a child of that institution. Despite having left school at 16 (for reasons set out in an earlier article) opportunities for employment in those days were plentiful for a young man with a good general education. A Hatton Garden jeweler offered me a job, on condition that I completed a 3-year degree course in gemology at the University of Witwatersrand in South Africa -- but I was looking for a job, not a career! Tate & Lyle, the sugar giant, invited me to join their staff in British Guiana, where my role would be to ride up and down their sugar plantations on horseback, chivvying on the workers to tote even more barges

and lift even more bales than the negroes in 'Old Man River'. Lipton's Tea offered me a post on one of their plantations in India, where my emoluments would include a horde of servants plus two polo ponies. And Union International were hoping I'd go out to Argentina to help them restart the chilled beef business that had been their main import in pre-War days. But I settled for West Africa where, as a functionary of the Liverpool company John Holt Ltd., I was to help run a trading estate some 300 miles up the Niger River. My life out in Nigeria needs be related elsewhere and at some other time; but a passing mention must be made of my encounter in a Dakar nightclub with Twirl. To say that Twirl was a stripper is to say that the Queen breeds corgis -- both statements are the truth, but not quite the whole truth and nowhere near to being nothing but the truth. Twirl was a stripper extraordinaire, possibly the best in the business. The essence of striptease is that the artiste goes on stage so fully dressed as to be sartorially over the top; she or he (such has the world changed since those days!)

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then proceeds to remove every article of clothing one by one to a background of raucous music until finally (if the management allows it), in the words of a song by the American satirist Tom Lehrer, 'revealing for all of the others to see, just what it was that endeared you to me!'. Twirl was contemptuous of such a hackneyed routine. She started her act on the stage totally nude, and finished it stark naked -- and if you don't know the difference between the two, your education at EBGS has been sadly deficient. But Twirl, too, belongs in that other chapter of my life yet to be recounted… In the autumn of 1954 I returned to England and took up temporary residence in The Woodlands near Southgate Tube Station where my parents had rented a house for 6 months, this proving both cheaper and more comfortable for me than living in 'digs'. My mother & father had just returned from shouldering the white man's burden in Malaya & Singapore, where the Communists were trying to seize power from the British after the defeat of the Japanese. (At the same time my sister was working for the Government in Northern Rhodesia, thus upholding the family tradition of Empire burden- hood!) I had taken on a job as Assistant Sales Manager of a London plastics company in the West End, when one evening an advert in the paper caught my eye. It was placed by a night club in Kensington, and invited interested persons to invest the sum of £500 in the business, in return for a share in the profits. A dazzling prospect opened up in front of my eyes: my own West End nightclub -- that would pull in the birds! The only problem was that I didn't have £500 to my name, a sum which represented a year's salary for me at the time. To my amazement, and completely against character, when my dad saw the advert he offered to loan me the £500 to be paid back from my share of the profits. So it was that somewhat nervously, I picked up the phone and rang the number given in the advert. "Yes?" said a gruff voice, and I proceeded to refer to his ad and give him my details. "Right-o," gruff voice replied. "Here's the address. Come along on Saturday at 6 pm. And don't forget your dick." My what? If he'd been referring to what the Americans call by that nickname, I seldom left home without it. I told my dad what gruff voice had said, and he roared with laughter. "He means your dickey -- your soup & fish -- your dinner jacket!" Relieved, I unpacked this essential item of colonial dress from my trunk, and on Saturday evening set off in it from Southgate Tube Station, bound for Kensington and

whatever destiny had in store for me there. The nightclub was situated above a shop with a discreet entrance to the side. Pushing open the door, I found myself at the bottom of a flight of carpeted stairs which led up to the first floor. At the top was a foyer with a cloakroom counter on the right and a couple of padded doors labelled 'His' and 'Hers' respectively. A pair of swing doors opened into a very large dimly lit room with a curtained stage at one end, a central dance floor, and tables and chairs disposed in two ranks on the carpeted fringe. There was a stage and a bar on the far side, with a small flight of stairs going up to, presumably, office accommodation. Red, upholstered banquettes occupied every spare foot of wall space and above them there were framed photographs of show-business personalities. A smell of stale tobacco and alcohol blended with the aroma of cheap perfume There was nobody to be seen, so I called out: '"Anyone about?' After a second and a third try, a woman came down the steps from the stage. She took my breath away. I found myself being assessed by a blonde in a dazzling blue dress which swooped down off her left shoulder in surrender to the gravitational pull of her gold evening shoes with their stiletto heels. I remember generous scarlet lips. And eyes. I couldn't tell you the colour of her eyes, but they glowed as she swayed towards me, as if lit by a tiny LED behind each pupil. "Hello!" I stammered, falling back a little step from nervousness at this vision. "I'm here about investing some money. I'm James Gilman, but please call me…" "I will, darling," she interrupted, " You can depend on it!" She advanced to hold me by the shoulders, and looked deep into my own eyes. "I'm Ruthie, and you're my Billy Boy. Like the song says, 'Where have you been all my life, Billy Boy?'" A short man standing just behind her, whom I hadn't noticed in her glow, muttered "Ruthless, more like it!". It was clearly an old joke which neither paid any attention to. Ruthie's eyes switched off as she turned to him. "Take Billy up to see Jake" and, my audience clearly over, she turned away as I was escorted up the stairs to one of the offices at the top. There, behind an enormous desk, sat a short black beetle. His hair was gleaming black with Brylcreem, his eyes were dull black with boredom, he wore a black jacket over a black waistcoat which, presumably partnered black trousers which I couldn't see but which ended in shiny black shoes which I could. Straightening the cuffs of his shirt to show off the gold cufflinks, he listened to my telling him why I had come to his club, together with my

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personal details. After a brief exchange I was dismissed with a flick of a hand, and saw myself out and back down the stairs, to be greeted at the bottom by Ruthie, a glass of champagne in her hand, which she handed to me.

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"I know we’re going to get on real well, Billy Boy," she breathed at me, her eyes aglow once more, "Here's to next time!" Before I could reply, she drew me to her, enveloped me in her arms, and invaded my startled lips with a soft, warm, liquid embrace which bubbled all the way down to my feet and exploded there like a volcano, to lava its way back up again and singe every part of my being. Job done, her eyes switched themselves off as she wandered over to speak to an early customer who'd just come in through the door. I staggered across to the stairs, stumbled down them, and was once more back in the real world of the High Street. But we never did meet again, for the beetle had told me that in addition to my money, he'd require me to grace the club with my presence from 9.00 pm till 2 am on four nights a week, as part of my role. I could never manage this and continue with my day job as well, and the night club's financial returns would be too uncertain to be relied on as my only source of regular income. Besides, truth to tell, having been both shaken and stirred by my experience with Ruthie, I doubted I had the stamina or the emotional maturity to cope with that kind of life -- not four times a week! Some two years later I was living in a bed-sit at the top of a house on Parliament Hill in Hampstead, where I'd taken a job at the Royal Free Hospital. Each morning as I walked down to the bottom of my road on my way to work, my eyes couldn't resist being drawn to the two bullet holes in the wall of the pub, The Magdala, on the corner. They were the sole surviving sign (still there to this day) of the drama played out one evening soon after our meeting when Ruthie, then living in Tanza Road just off Parliament Hill, had teetered down the Hill on her stilettos, waited outside the pub until a smart sports car pulled up, opened her handbag, pulled out a revolver, and shot six times at her lover who'd just climbed out of it. Four of the bullets thudded into his body while the other two hit the wall of the pub -- Ruthie was a poor shot. But then, she'd never killed

a man before. Calmly holding the gun at her side and her handbag on her other arm, she waited for the police to arrive, making no effort to run away and offering no resistance as they bundled her into their car. In due course she was tried on a charge of murder, convicted, sentenced to death, and executed. One thing would have pleased her: by her death, she achieved a fame that had eluded her throughout her shortened life. For by her execution, Ruth Ellis entered the history books as a footnote to the pages of British criminal justice, as the last woman to be hanged in Britain. Poor Ruthie, with your blonde hair, figure-hugging dress, stiletto shoes, scarlet lips, on/off eyes, and empty head, you deserved a better fate than that. Sure, it was you who fired the fatal shots. But as to who placed the gun in your handbag, the idea in your head, wound you up, and sent you tottering off down the road that night to meet your fate, no-one seems to know. Rest in peace and sleep tight, wherever you are. And thank you, for that unforgettable kiss you once bestowed upon your

Billy Boy. (Ed. note: this is another in the series of articles that James has contributed to the Newsletter about his amazing experiences. I found this recent picture of The Magdala on the Internet. The bullet holes can be seen just below the window.)

THE CLAYTON DIARIES 2-26-1951 TO 8-5-1951 Transcribed by Brian Warren (1951-1953)

On the 28th of February 61 pupils and 3 staff members went to see Macbeth at the Intimate

Theatre in Palmers Green Dancing classes commenced on the 1st of March. There was a meeting of the Film Club to see "The Way To The Stars and a showcase from Mr. Vialou, Chairman of the Governors was brought by Mr. Tagg and Mr. Bruno. A chess match between pupils and staff resulted in a 3-3 draw. An audience of over 200 at 6d. each heard Mr. and Mrs. Cotton, whose son was a pupil at the School, give a two hour talk, with colour photos, of a year's stay in the USA and Canada in 1946.. Not so successful was a recital by Rosemary Burne and David Lunnell entitled "English Poetry Through The Centuries". The 5 guinea admission fee may have had something to do with it! This was followed on the 29th March by an excellent evening concert presented by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra to 220 people. The School's Magazine material was ready for the printers by early April. The Senior Society

lecture was given by J. W. Green on Weather Watching to about 30 people. The Junior Speech Day was unsuccessful because the speaker was inaudible but the Senior Speech Day was very successful with Sir Arnold Platt and his wife who distributed the prizes I was waiting in the queue outside the cinema, minding my own business, with Jasper, my eight foot pet crocodile under my arm, when the man behind me tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You should take him to the zoo". "We've already been to the zoo", I explained, "but he got bored so now we're going to the pictures". Then the lady at the ticket window said, "You can't bring that repulsive pig in here". "He's not a pig", I said, "he's a crocodile." "I know", she replied, "it was him that I was talking to".

50th Anniversary of the Clubhouse – Sunday 16th December

It is nearly 50 years since the Clubhouse was built at Alan Drive, and its opening on 15th December 1962 is commemorated by a plaque in the lobby. We are gathering some of the original ‘builders’ together at the Clubhouse as we did at the 40th in 2002. See the picture below.

Back row: Dave Sharp, Ben Brown, John Lance, John Marsh, Fred Ruddle, Derek Atton, John Gubbins, John Argent, Pete Borst,Ron Miller Front row: Laurie Warren, Neil Rowland, Dave Allen, Brian Stanley, Mike Brazier, Brian Griffiths, John Wigglesworth, Terry Boyce, Tom Pratt An invitation is extended to their friends from that era to enhance an afternoon of nostalgia and reminiscence. We only ask that anyone who comes and wishes to avail themselves of the buffet (for the modest sum of £5 each), to let Ros or Roy know on 01707 661722 or roybertauche@yahoo.co.uk so they can gauge numbers. Spouses would be very welcome. Start time is 2pm. Of course, drinks will be available at very competitive prices.

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RANDOM WARTIME MEMORIES From Editor Brian

(Extracts from my unauthorised childhood autobiography "Another Time, Another Place")

We were all issued with a gas mask in case of a poison gas attack which fortunately never happ-ened. Also we were all given ration books and identity cards. Our teachers followed the tradition of teaching history in chrono-logical order. While Adolf Hitler

and his merry men were making genocide a growth industry and the Luftwaffe was rearranging the architecture of our country, we were learning about the Roman Conquest!

Street lamps were never turned on and cars had shields over their lights which made them invisible from the air. Also, before we turned on the house lights at night, we had to insert opaque covers that fitted flush in our window frames. This was because we had no wish to provide an easy target for German bombers. This inspired the song “When The Lights Go On Again All Over The World”, recorded by Vera Lynn. Other poignant songs of hers from the war years include “We'll Meet Again”, and “The White Cliffs Of Dover”. To this day, these still make me feel nostalgic whenever I hear them.

Some of my peers were being raised just by their mothers but this was because their fathers were serving or had been killed in the war. Divorce was rare, partly because it was not socially accepted but also because it was difficult and expensive to obtain. It was granted only on the grounds of infidelity, cruelty or non-consummation and anyone seeking it had to appear before a magistrate and convince him (they were almost always male) that one of these grounds existed. Then, to add to their humiliation, the case would be reported in our local newspaper with all the gory details.

Like most housewives, my mother had an arduous life in those days. Home refrigerators and supermarkets were unheard of so she spent several hours a day waiting in long queues at the butcher's, grocer's and greengrocer's. Then, she would go home, cook, clean the flat, and work for a few hours in my father's shop. This was, of course, long before the era of detergents, washing machines, Laundromats and wash-and-wear clothing. Each week she filled the kitchen sink with hot water and soap powder, dropped in the washing and kneaded it for about twenty minutes. After this she rinsed it, ran it through a wringer, hung it up to dry and then

ironed it. Water was heated in a coke-burning boiler.

However, since coke was rationed, there was only enough to boil water for washing clothes and bathing once a week when my parents, sister and I took it in turns to take a bath in the same water. Also we changed our socks and underwear once a week and bedclothing was washed once a month. Perhaps I should explain that in those days “coke” was processed coal, not something one drank or snorted!

We heated our houses with coal-burning fireplaces in the living room, a highly inefficient method because most of the heat went up the chimney and also because they only heated the area immediately around them. We had the choice of facing the fire and freezing our behinds or vice versa. During the winter, the rest of the house was so cold that we took rubber hot water bottles to bed with us.

When we saw an American serviceman, of whom there were many in London, we greeted him with, “Got any gum, Chum?”, hoping that he would give us some of that delicious stuff called chewing gum, totally unobtainable in our shops. We then proceeded to masticate it, trying to emulate American movie actors. We would have thought ourselves to be very cool, except in those days the only meaning of “cool” was “at a low temperature”.

On the subject of word meanings, in those innocent days, a “fag” was a cigarette, a “joint” was meat for roasting, “gay” meant happy, “queer” meant strange and “LSD” was pounds, shillings and pence.

Because of the petrol shortage, local deliveries were often made by horse and cart. When horses left droppings on the street, local residents, far from being outraged, rushed out to collect them. Most people grew vegetables in their back gardens and fertilizer was hard to obtain so this made horse manure a precious commodity.

Our currency must have been devised by someone with a very twisted sense of humour. The lowest unit was a farthing, which would buy a small bread roll or a few sweets. Two farthings made a halfpenny (pronounced “haypnee”), two of which made a penny. Then twelve pennies made a shilling and twenty shillings made a pound. But that's not all. The guinea coin, worth one pound and one shilling, went out of use in the 18th century but chic stores

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priced their merchandise and professionals listed their fees in these units. Try figuring out, without a calculator, 3.5% of five pounds, four shillings and sixpence three farthings and you will have some

idea of what fun our maths classes were. Masochists that we are, we British did not change to decimal currency until 1971.

Form 5A of 1957 Reunion

from Dave Northwood (1952-1957)

It was a very long walk down memory lane for 12 members of form 5A of 1957 when we met up again on 17 November 2012 at Bushey Hall Golf Club. Many of us had not met in the intervening 55 years and the transition from teenagers to, in many cases, grandparents made us wonder where the years have gone. One of our number, Ray Nottage, is currently Leader of Christchurch Borough Council in Dorset and he recently made the National Press with a passionate reaction to criticism of the town. Ray has another claim to fame. He once held the EBOGFC record for goals scored in one season while playing for the 1st XI but subsequently lost it to ex-classmate, Dave Northwood, who played mainly for the 5th XI, where goals were much easier to come by. So, if nothing else, class 5A has made its mark on the football club. We doubt we can wait another 55 years but hope to meet again before our 60th in 2017. Names in photo from left to right: Back row: John Pennell, Ray Nottage, Geoff Weston (once Biddle), Dave Northwood, Frank Brown, Vernon Doran Front row: Dave Jones, Joan Brown, Pauline Ryan, Vera Evans, Beryl Hooper, Jean Fish N.B. the ladies' school names are shown so that any former boy friends, if still alive, may recognise them.

A CHRISTMAS READING/WALKING IDEA FOR YOUR EBOG FRIENDS

AND NEIGHBOURS Owen Jones (1948–1956) has written a guide

book to walks in the Barnet area for The Barnet Society. It will be published this month on 2nd December 2012 and will be on sale in The Barnet Museum at £4.50.

There are 14 colour photos of some of the areas seen on the walks, 5 black and white photos showing scenes from years past and 4 colour maps.

Each account has information on how to get to the start of a walk by bus or car when necessary.

Notes on local and natural history are included in most of the narratives.

The Museum is at 31 Wood Street in High Barnet. It can be reached by walking about 50 yards past Barnet Parish Church along the left side of Wood Street in the direction of Barnet Hospital. The opening hours are: Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday 2.30pm to 4.30pm, Saturday 10.30am to 4.00pm., Sunday 2.00pm to 4.00pm. Phone 020 8440 8066. Website: www.barnetmuseum.co.uk.

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