Mags can’t have been really mad!

Jun 16 2008 by Our Correspondent, Huddersfield Daily Examiner

JAKE the Rake of Sally Nook adds to the debate about the ageing process.

He sends a poem written by Margaret Whitaker of East Yorkshire; “her

preferred nickname was Mad Mags”.

Mags was approaching 80 when he knew her 20 years ago and was, he says, eccentric, witty and intelligent. Among her many talents she played the church organ.

“One of her japes was to write to the Queen about 100-year-old Cecilia (her favourite organ) as if she was a lady church member. The Queen’s office fell for it and replied as required.”

Here is Mags’s poem about changing times rather than growing old:

I remember, I remember, the house where I was born,

When pot was what mother cooked in and grass was that stuff on the lawn.

Porn meant a visit to “Uncle’s” and chips came fried with an egg,

If a chap was gay he was merry and bright and joints were on arms and legs.

Fixing meant glueing together and glue was for sticking not sniffing.

Hardware was bought at the shop down the road; cold turkey was eaten at tiffin.

Being bombed meant Jerry had been, being stoned was reserved for Saints.

Aids were assistants or beauty helps and drugs were used for complaints.

Now a Virgin is merely an airline, for bed comes long before church.

Hanging is mainly for pictures and a tree is the only birch.

I often think of those days of old, when grass was green and got mowed.

Cleavage was something the butcher did and a trip was by chara, by road.