Pies Were for Thursdays
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
As the first-born, and for three years the only, child of my generation, I was a spoiled brat in those days (no change there then as my wife’s friends might say!) Indeed I was told in later years that my tantrums were legendary and that on one extreme occasion as a tiny tot I actually chewed a corner of the carpet in a frustrated rage about not getting my own way. Personally I find that hard to believe. For a start I don’t remember any carpets in our house. We went in for bare floorboards, not as a matter of fashion as it is nowadays but as a matter of carpet cost. I prefer to think that my tantrums were simply a bad case of what is now called attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, unwittingly brought on by eating too many sweets! My wife prefers the spoiled brat theory and no excuses................................................................................................................................................................................................. One momentous day in 1946, my mother called me in from the back court where I was playing with my pals. She wanted me to meet someone. ‘Do you know who this is?’ she asked. Standing before me was a man in uniform with a red and white diced boat-shaped bonnet. Now it so happened that I had already met a man in soldier’s uniform at some earlier date so I confidently said ‘Yes, that’s Uncle Tommy.’ Uncle Tommy McElroy was my mother’s brother and he had given me sweets on a previous occasion when he was on leave. So he was an OK guy with me. No chance of my burning his house down. No’, laughed my mother, ‘This is your daddy! He is home from the War.’ I don’t know what she found so amusing. I had heard of this mythical figure of course but was not too sure about how keen I was to have another man in my mother’s life ................................................................................................................................................................................................... My worst fears were soon realised. Not only did he have the unmitigated nerve to take my place in her bed but he also began knocking the spoiled brat out of me – quite regularly I seem to remember. But then I suppose when you have built up almost four years of brat behaviour there is a lot to knock out. I didn’t like him very much. The war against Hitler was over; the war against me was just beginning. ........................................................................................................................................................................................................ To tell the truth, I was really quite sorry at first that Hitler had not killed my dad the way he had killed wee Johnny’s dad next door. Everybody was shocked about the news of wee Johnny’s dad and the fact that he would not be coming home. Not half as shocked as I was when mine did. Thoughts of patricide as well as of matricide began to prey on my mind...
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
‘One of my earliest memories is of the first time I tried to burn our house down. My mother had refused to give me something I wanted so I went out into the back court – or drying green - raided the dustbins and then piled up bits of paper and cardboard underneath the kitchen window of our ground floor tenement flat. Then I set the lot alight with matches that I had borrowed for the purpose. Unfortunately the blaze quickly died down and my mother was not burned to death as I had intended’.
Dick Lynas looks back at his post-war childhood in the east end of Glasgow where, despite his self-confessed determination to be a spoiled brat, the strength of family values, together with the weight of his father’s hand fresh from dealing with Adolf Hitler, ultimately made a man of him – more or less.
‘Wonderful. I look forward to your final draft’... Mary McLaughlin, Bothwell
‘It is certainly more entertaining than listening to you going on about leadership and management’... Angela Hester, Strathaven
‘A stupendous saga’... Gerard McElroy, Cumbernauld
‘I laughed out loud at times’... Moira McClay, Inverary
‘Even people who do not know you liked it’... Mary-Rose Martin, Saltcoats
‘What are you doing with your royalties?’...Tom Bradshaw, Bellshill
‘Thanks for the wonderful memories’... Kathleen McAleer,
‘I now understand so much that I did not before’... Neil Lynas, Glasgow
‘You – spoiled? No change there then’... Viv Casteel,
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy has nothing on you when it comes to being looked after’... Frances Burns, Glasgow
‘I just hope I do not have to proof read any sequel’... Phil Lynas, Glasgow
About the Author
Born and bred in the east end of Glasgow, Scotland where he spent the first twenty five years of his life, Dick Lynas has lived for the last forty years in the leafy suburbs of Cathcart in the south side of the city, having been a secondary school head teacher and then a consultant in educational leadership.
Father of three, and ‘papa’ of five (including the recent arrival of twins) he continues to run his leadership consultancy for aspiring school leaders on a part-time basis – in between planning continental holidays. Other than that, he generally swans around in his own self-indulgent way, taking full advantage of the kindness of heart of his long-suffering wife, Phil.
In Pies Were for Thursdays, Dick takes a light hearted look at the people, the events and the values that shaped him in the post-war years of 1945 – 1961 and contrasts them, in a more serious mood, with the values of the 21st century almost fifty years later and their impact on family life.