Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Here is the evenings schedule for those of you who want to arrange Taxi's or rides.
6 P.M. We open the doors for registration and a warm welcome from your Reunion Organizers.
6 P.M. -730P.M. Social time for taking Photo's sharing memories and meeting old and new friends.
7 30 P.M. We will be serving our wonderful buffet supper,be sure to bring your appetite and save room for desert,coffee and tea will be available.
8 P.M. Our famous Pub sing along will be led by our man with the golden voice Terry Finucine accompinied by Sheila Bransfield and the voices of our great Cuckooite choir.
8 30 P.M. Put on your dancing shoes and get ready to dance the night away to all the old favorites performed for us by Christopher Columbus who will be glad to take your requests .
10.P.M. Our grand raffle drawing,all funds go to reducing the cost of our next Reunion in 2011.REMEMBER TO BRING A GIFT THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT TO THE SUCCESS OF THIS FUND RAISER.
10 30 P M WE will continue to dance the night away until the Grand Finale at 11 30 when we will close with Old Lang Sine and We'll Meet again.
11 30 P.M Our farewells until we meet again.
Remember everyone this is a bring your own booze night .
Also those who want to help decorate the hall we will be meeting at 3 P.M. on Saturday,All the help we can get.
Also those who are available ,some of us will be meeting for dinner and drinks at the Crown Pub,Northolt Village at 6 P.M Friday the night before the Reunion. Jackie tells me meals start at Four pounds and are very good.
We still have a few places available for late comers who want to attend as we have had a few late cancellations.Contact Jackie at Busysmiths@aol.com
Any Questions contact me smailto:email@example.com
We are going to have a wonderful evening together,just like old times.
Fondest regards Tommy and Jackie.
P.S. Please do not bring guests who are not registered.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Friday, 14 August 2009
Monday, 10 August 2009
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Also Jackie has some lapel pins for the girls and the guys that every one will want to wear as a sign of pride these are available at four pounds each and includes posting.
You can order yours today by contacting Jackie by email at Busysmiths@aol.com
Please do not wait to long to order or you may miss out on this first printing.
Only six weeks to the big night I am getting excited.
Jackie and Tommy
Friday, 7 August 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
Lest we forget, we are the lucky ones, we were born under the shelter of the spreading chestnut trees.
Like spreading branches of a Horse Chestnut tree, our arms and hands like conker leaves, now continue to reach out throughout the world. Many of us through the use of this site may have found a long lost friend, neighbour or fellow Cuckooite.
I know in our old age we sometimes seem unappreciative or forgetful, but there again, some of life is just as well forgotten, we eventually remember the important and joyous things.
Sure, over the years our hearts have been broken or we have suffered a traumatic incident. How can you go through life and your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or when a beloved pet maybe gets hit by a car?
Like a chestnut tree that has had so many big sticks thrown at it, hopefully with the right attitude, one can still stand tall with pride.
And like some conkers that get smashed in a game, our hearts also get broken, but broken hearts are what give us the strength, understanding and the compassion we need. A heart never broken is too pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect, or be able to spread out it's arms like branches touch someone in need of a hug or a few kind words, or touch a friend after a falling out and be warm and forgiving over a cuppa.
And like a conker it's really ok to be a bit tough and prickly and maybe unshaven on the outside, life can do that to you, but unlike the conker we don't need to become too hard, or uncaring on the inside.
We are so blessed to have lived where we did and played hard and long enough, and like our beloved Horse Chestnut trees, we should have grown strong, spread our seed, blossomed and matured, into adults and loving parents.
Autumn leaves will certainly fall and our silvery hair will shed, our teeth may fall out and some poor unfortunate soul, (no one in particular thought of here and not to even mention anyone by name) may have their things drop off.
However, we will still have those youthful laughs forever etched into wrinkles on our faces.
So many have never, played conkers like we did or really loved, or seen things sag and really laughed.
Tragically so many have died, some for you and me, before their hair could turn silver or become a sixty-er or seventy-er conker or more.
We truly have much to be grateful for.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Two of the last British survivors of World War I have died. Henry Allingham's funeral takes place today, with the funeral of Harry Patch to follow next week. To mark the occasion, we asked Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, to write a poem.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.