In praise of the wonderful RAF Museum, London

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Above: Owen and the immortal Hawker Hurricane, RAF Museum

Karen was off Christmas shopping yesterday, so Owen and I went to the RAF Museum at Hendon, London.

What a wonderful place. Owen's too young to appreciate the significance of the RAF's role in saving Britain 70 years ago, but he loved the aircraft – and the hands-on gallery that explains the wonder of flight.

He was intrigued by the film about the famous bouncing bomb that the valiant dambuster squadron unleashed against Nazi Germany in 1943. What he doesn't know is that his grandmother regularly saw dambuster leader Guy Gibson in her hometown of Penarth during the war: Gibson's wife came from the seaside town.

Yet I was slightly uncomfortable as we had a snack in sight of the peerless Avro Lancaster bomber. Yes, I share the regret of many that the enormous sacrifice of Bomber Command crews was brushed under the carpet after peace came in 1945. (Back in 1942, the nation was grateful that the RAF was alone in taking the fight to Nazi Germany. Three years later, the politicians were more queazy about the resultant death and destruction.) But as we sat underneath the gun turret, I knew that I'd want Owen to understand that war is something to avoid rather than glorify.

Here's my video of our day at the RAF Museum.

 

 

Poppy day pride – and prejudice

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Above: my father and uncle in uniform during the second world war

I wore my poppy with pride today, as Britain marked Remembrance Day. 

On Friday, the 93rd anniversary of Armistice Day (11.11.11), I left my office in Richmond to walk to the Poppy Factory, the place where remembrance poppies are made for people in Britain and many other Commonwealth countries. The modern entrance stood in stark contrast to the original building, built soon after the end of the Great War.

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Above: Richmond's Poppy Factory

The last veterans of the Great War have passed away in recent years. Yet there are still some very old people alive who lost a father in that terrible conflict. The Guardian yesterday interviewed several, in a very moving feature. As Donald Overall, 98, said, "I'm an old man, I am supposed to be tough. I thought I was hard but I'm not. He's my dad and I miss him." The killing fields of Flanders exert a powerful emotional pull down the years. 

My grandmother (born 1891) and her siblings lived through terrible times. The two world wars left millions dead and injured, while economic depression and recession blighted many other lives. How lucky we are by contrast. 

The poppy appeal is a simple call to commemorate the dead of the great and small wars alike, while helping today's veterans. Yet my father, Bob Skinner, who served in the army during the second world war, is uneasy at the way this quiet tradition is becoming a compulsory exercise in sentimentality. He asks whether BBC newsreaders would be allowed to go on screen without a poppy. Political correctness has taken over. Bob hasn't worn a poppy for several years. 

I'm also uneasy. I was appalled by the undignified argument between England's Football Association and FIFA over whether players could wear a poppy on their shirts during a game. FIFA's view that it was a political symbol was as crass as the FA's totally inappropriate aggressive stance. It's significant that these arguments are raging now, over 70 years after the end of the second world war, and not in the immediate aftermath of those great wars. This is the era of Daily Mail intolerance of alternative opinions – especially ones that are critical of the military. Back in 1921, when the first poppy appeal took place, no one would think to glorify war. The object was to mourn, to commemorate and to help survivors. Almost a century later, Britain is much less likely to criticise its warriors, their leaders or the decision to send them to war. As a result, we've been involved in wars that have nothing to do with us for well over a decade. 

 

 

In praise of Brindley House nursery, Beaconsfield

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Today was a sad day. Our three year old son Owen spent his last day at his first nursery, Brindley House Childcare Centre, in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire. He's been going there since he was 11 months old. Owen starts at his school nursery in September.

We first heard about Brindley House when Karen was pregnant. A visit before the centre opened confirmed that this was the place for Owen. We've never regretted the choice. The care has been fantastic, especially in the early days when Owen was getting used to being looked after by someone other than his parents. Brindley House has reinforced our emphasis on good manners – so we were delighted when Owen said thank you to his carers today after yesterday's Gruffalo party! The party was a good example of the activities the centre runs. It also organises a very impressive Christmas concert at Beaconsfield's Curzon centre. 

Brindley House founder Sarah Fahey opened a second Beaconsfield childcare centre last year after the success of Brindley House. We've always been impressed by Sarah's professional and caring attitude, and haven't been surprised at how popular both centres have become. Parents want the best for their children, and that's exactly what Owen has enjoyed at Brindley House. 

We’ll always remember Brindley House with affection and gratitude. 

PS: just one less happy note. We've only today received the cheque returning the deposit we paid when Owen joined Brindley House – eight weeks and three chasing phone calls after Owen left. 

Start of the Pier show: Penarth wins lottery money

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Snow on Penarth pier pavilion, 23 December 2010. Photo: Bob Skinner

It's lovely waking up at Mum & Dad's home on Penarth's seafront and looking out the Bristol Channel past the town's pier. The view wil be even better soon, as the Heritage Lottery Fund has just awarded £1.65m to Penarth Arts & Crafts' plans to restore the distinctive art deco pavilion at the pier entrance. Fittingly, I heard the news after we got back from a weekend in Penarth.

Penarth is a small town in the shadow of the Welsh capital, Cardiff. It was once a significant port, but is now best known for its short seafront and pier. Penarth has featured in countless family memories – ice cream on the pier and trips on P&A Campbell's steamers to Weston and Ilfracombe. 

The winners of Penarth's lottery funding, Penarth Arts & Crafts, are based in the excellent Washington Gallery, which hosted the launch of my father Bob Skinner's autobiographical book on 60 years in journalism and PR, Don't hold the front page

Penarth has a special place in our family. Mum was born here in 1928, and both parents started their journalism careers on the Penarth Times in the 1940s. (Mum took Dad's job as chief reporter when he joined the army in 1944!) Now Owen is the latest member of the family to discover the town's charms. It will be even better when the iconic pavilion is open again. 

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The pier and pavilion, November 2010

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Winter sunrise: 28 December 2004

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Penarth Pier, February 2008

 

 

Happy 120th birthday, Nan!

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Above: me with Nan at her 100th birthday party, April 1991

I'm celebrating my Victorian grandmother's 120 birthday today.

Sadly, Nan won't be there to blow out the candles. But 20 years ago today she celebrated her 100th birthday, and enjoyed two further anniversaries. 

Gwendoline Annie Skinner (nee Dymond) had a remarkable life. She was born on 22 April 1891, and turned ten a few months after Queen Victoria died. The Titanic sank the week before her 21st birthday and she was married the week Alcock & Brown made the first flight across the Atlantic. She made just one flight herself: from Cardiff to Bristol in her nineties. 

She was a perfect grandmother: kindly, lovely and a source of endless stories. I was fascinated by her tales of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. And moved by her harrowing story of helping fetch her dying father's oxygen cylinders by Hansom cab in 1912.

Like many of her generation, she had a tough life in many ways. She lived through two world wars and the Great Depression. She was bombed out of one home in London's blitz. Her husband's twin brother died in the great flu epidemic at the end of the Great War. And she was widowed at 51 – exactly half way through her long life. 

Yet she had tremendous spirit. She took great pride in the success of her three children and five grandchildren. And lived to enjoy the arrival of six of her nine great grandchildren. 

Turning hundred was quite something, especially as she had been so ill during the war, fifty years earlier. (The devoted care of daughter Dorothy, whom she lived with after husband Frank's death, was a big factor in her longevity.) We all enjoyed a special party at County Hall in Cardiff. And on her 100th birthday the Lord Mayor of Cardiff visited Nan and toasted her centenary – below.

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Finally, here's a photo of Nan as a young woman. 

Gwen as young woman

 

 

 

 

Census memories

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Above: my grandmother. She appeared in nine UK censuses, starting in 1901

We completed the 2011 UK census online last night. It felt odd but good to be taking part in this ancient ritual in such a modern way. 

I've seen a lot of criticism of the census in the media. The usual civil liberties crowd have condemned the amount of personal information required. I can't see what the fuss is about: how can government plan for future services if it doesn't know anything about us? 

The Office of National Statistics is obviously still coming to terms with online services. When we filled in the section about our two year old son, it asked for his marital status, and queried whether he looked after family members! (More sensibly, it didn't ask for employment details.)

For me, the census is a significant, even moving event. Almost 20 years ago, my grandmother appeared in her last census, the day before her 100th birthday on 22 April 1991. She was born 17 days after the 1891 edition, and first appears in the 1901 census for Cardiff, Glamorgan as Gwendoline Dymond, aged 9 years old. She would have taken part in 10 censuses had 1941's not been cancelled because of the second world war. It's very moving to be able to look her up in the 1901 census, which took place less than three months after Queen Victoria died, and two years before the first aeroplane flew. 

Surprisingly, I have vivid memories of my first census in 1971. This is purely because my mother volunteered to help. She collected the forms in Whitton, Middlesex, and made sure people had returned their forms. (She complained that one nasty man was very aggressive.) But the main reason I remember the 1971 count was that it gave me time with my first love, Helen! I may have only been seven (Helen was about 18 months older), but I stayed the night at Helen's house while Mum was on census work; in return, Mum looked after Helen while her mother was on census duty. We moved back to Wales shortly after, but I still remember the special time Helen and I spent together thanks to that long-ago census!  

Remembering Grampy

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This is my grandfather. The photo captures him at his trade: a linotype operator at the Western Mail & Echo in Cardiff who turned journalists' words into the magic of print. His trade has long vanished, along with the steam train fireman and lamp lighter. 

Grampy died 44 years ago in December 1966, some five years after he retired. I was just three at the time, so I have just one clear memory of him. But it's a precious one: we were sitting in front of the fire in my grandparents' home in Penarth, Glamorgan, and Grampy was showing me how to shell peas. 

Robert, Beverley and Grampy
I was thrilled last week to find this photo of me (and my sister) with Grampy. I reckon I was between two and three years old, which means it dates from the spring or summer of 1966. (Was it taken the same day that I watched Grampy shelling peas?) I like to think it captures Grampy's pride in his two grandchildren. It's strange to think that my son Owen is the same age as I was on that far-ago day in the 1960s.

The day I got my O level results

Millions of teenagers in England, Wales and Northern Ireland got their GCSE results today. The news made me feel nostalgic, as i got my O level results 30 years ago this month (O levels were replaced by GCSEs in Britain in 1988). 

Waiting for exam results is always nerve racking. But my ordeal in August 1980 was even worse. I was convinced that I had failed maths. And in a further twist of the emotional knife, we were on holiday in California when the results came out. We flew back from Los Angeles to Gatwick a few days later on Freddie Laker's Skytrain – the original British low cost airline. Three decades later, I can still recall the tension as Dad drove us down the M4 from my sister's in Wootton Bassett, where we'd stayed the night on the way home from Gatwick. I rushed through the front door and ripped open the envelope. The first thing I saw was the phrase, "This is not a certificate". In my panic, I thought it meant I'd failed the lot! But I had done as well as I'd dared hope – and against the odds had passed maths. 

Two years later, I made sure we were home when my A level results came out. It was far less of an ordeal!

Photo: here I am at Gatwick, about to fly to America for the first time. The DC-10 carries Laker Airways' Skytrain logo.  

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In praise of Chalfont St Giles’ community library

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We love reading and books. We were both brought up to love visits to the library – in my case, the grand old Cardiff central library in The Hayes. 

So we were horrified a few years ago when Buckinghamshire County Council made the crass decision to close the library in our village, Chalfont St Giles. But happily the village refused to accept the loss of this vital service. Good people like Tony Hoare put in long hours to save it as a community library. Tony explained how the village saved the library on BBC 1's One show last Monday. 

We have made a very modest financial contribution as friends of the library and have really appreciated this initiative since Owen was born in 2008. He can take out 15 books at a time, and is currently enjoying Man on the Moon, a vivid story about a man called Bob who goes to work on the Moon every day. The book lending service is supplemented by book readings and other events. 

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Above: Owen loves his library

We hope the library continues to flourish. But it's a huge shame that our local council – which should be nurturing reading in its communities – sought to destroy this vital service. Less well off communities may not have been able to save their libraries. Books and libraries may seem old fashioned in the internet age, but nothing is quite as magical as a wonderful book.  

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A perfect day: Owen enjoys a British summer

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This is Owen, age 22 months, experiencing the joy of exploring on a glorious summer's day. (Let's not quibble over the fact it's technically still spring: in Britain, we take summer whenever it appears!) I didn't deliberately let him roam so far – I didn't realise how quickly he can run now!

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Karen is still recovering from her operation (she had her gallbladder removed five days ago), so Owen and I spent a lot of time together this weekend. Today, we went on a bike ride to the playground in the neighbouring village of Seer Green after breakfast. (Above.) It was great fun sweeping through Seer Green at 18mph on my bike before we set foot on the swings, slides and roundabouts. In the 25 minutes we were there, we didn't see another soul!

We came home in time to join our friends Jo, Ian, Martha and Baby Betty (as Owen calls her) for a visit to Chalfont St Giles' playgroup's fun day at the village cricket ground. Owen was in an independent mood, despite the presence of his first love, Martha. He simply wouldn't be led. But he liked his hot dog, and the lolly that Jo bought him. (And I enjoyed the beer Jo bought me!) I had no idea the fields beyond the cricket ground stretched so far. No wonder Owen felt like an explorer! And as you can see below, Owen and Martha did enjoy their time together.

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 I love these summer evenings. Padding about the house and garden in shorts, t-shirt and bare-feet, while savouring a cold beer. Let's hope the weather holds for our Dorset holiday in two weeks.