KITTY HUDSON WAS BORN IN ARNOLD, NOTTINGHAM in 1765, the granddaughter of Mr. White, a sexton of St. Mary’s Church, Nottingham who she was left with from a young age. During the latter part of that century, Kitty’s strange story became infamous and saw her achieve something of a minor celebrity status due to it’s extreme oddity.
Artist’s impression of Kitty Hudson
As a young girl of six years, Kitty was detailed to help out in St. Mary’s in keeping the place of worship spick and span and worked with a servant at the church, a young woman who would give Kitty instructions as they worked alongside each other. It is said that the servant girl would implore that Kitty pick up and collect any dropped pins and needles while sweeping the pews and aisles of the church and reward the youngster with a stick of toffee for every mouthful that she produced. The young Arnold girl diligently set about collecting the pins and needles and storing them in her mouth as she went about her work and it becoming a firm habit. The habit became so engrained in fact that it was said that Kitty could barely sleep, eat or drink without the strange practise of storing pins and needles in her mouth, even to the point of constantly disturbing her sleep to replenish the store of pins and needles in her mouth, that she might rest peacefully. Friends recorded at this time that Kitty’s teeth were ground down almost to her gums.
After time, the young girl reported an enduring numbness in her limbs and intense pain along with difficulty in sleeping and was taken to hospital in August, 1883 after numerous failed treatments. With inflammation in her right arm, a pair of needles were discovered under the skin adjacent her wrist and were removed. Other needles were also found in her arm and painfully extracted.
In an incredible story, before Kitty was finally discharged from hospital in the summer of 1785, the sexton’s granddaughter underwent a long series of operations to remove huge numbers of pins, needles and bone from her arms, legs, feet and other parts of her body. Both Kitty’s breasts had to be removed as needles and pins were lodged around her breastbone. Amongst various alarming notes taken during her two-year plus incarceration in hospital it was recorded that Kitty passed a needle through her urine and also vomited a needle. The minutes from her hospital stay were said to be voluminous and of extreme interest to the medical profession.
There was an extraordinary ending to Kitty Hudson’s story as she survived her self induced ordeal and was discharged to go on to marry her childhood sweetheart from the town of Arnold. The young man, by the name of Goddard, had coincidentally been an out-patient at the same hospital, being treated for a head complaint from which he subsequently lost an eye. Her to-be-intended would cheer Kitty’s spirits by telling her he would marry her should her life ever be spared. The young Arnold girl would later claim that it was her sweetheart’s faith and love that delivered her through her many sufferings to become well again.
The young couple married and, incredibly, Kitty bore her partner nineteen children. In this period of history with infant mortality so high, the practice was for children of the parish to be Christened within three days of being born. Duly, eighteen of Kitty’s children were baptised though sadly just one survived infancy. That child, a daughter, died at just nineteen years of age.
During her later years, Kitty carried the post on foot from Arnold to Nottingham – a round walk of some eight miles – twice daily. She was described at this time as being six feet tall, stout and somewhat masculine in appearance. She would wear a small bonnet about her way and drab clothing of worsted stockings, a coarse woollen petticoat, strong shoes and with a leather post bag slung over her shoulder.
In 1814 Kitty’s husband died and she remarried to Henry Ludham of South Wingfield in Derbyshire where she bore no further children. Interestingly, her step son, Charles Ludlam the village shoemaker stated in the Marlborough Express of 1907 that the legacy of Kitty’s swallowing of pins and needles remained with her for the rest of her life. That journal recorded thus: ‘To the end of life pins and needles kept coming at intervals from her body. At first a black spot would appear and then it soon began to fester, the head next came in sight, and it was pulled out, and the wound soon healed.’ Her step son stated Kitty’s body to be as ‘a colander, full of tiny holes.’ .
In spite of this, Kitty was able to live a decent and good life and remained fit and able to carry out her daily duties until passing away at seventy years of age. So ended peacefully the remarkable story of Kitty Hudson, the human pin cushion of Arnold, Nottingham.
I RECENTLY READ A DISCUSSION ON an online forum on the subject of music that one had previously ignored that later became in vogue with one’s musical tastes. I think many of us can label ourselves in that happy band, enjoying groups, artists and songs that we’d once have turned our noses up at but now evoke pleasant feelings and maybe a little nostalgia.
Such a band for me were seventies pop group, Sweet, who had a string of successes in that decade yet were taken non-too-seriously by ‘serious’ rock aficionados. Of course artists can’t always have things their own way and whilst the members of Sweet always espoused to being a much ‘heavier’ group as the term went at the time, they nevertheless ploughed a furrow of attaining chart hit after hit in what was considered a ‘bubblegum’ style.
Brian Connolly – Sweet
Sweet’s style of music was ably directed by the band’s management team and ace pop producers, Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman. Sweet were certainly at the forefront of ‘Glam Rock’ too with the attendant pros and cons contained in that. That the band were clearly decent musicians capable of producing strong songs and a good gig experience meant little and at the time, appeared to offer them some frustration in their career together.
I guess for me, when Brian Connolly and the band were in their pomp, ripping the best-selling singles charts apart, though being fairly young and in my school days I would never have admitted to ‘liking’ them, rather espousing weightier bands such as Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Faces and so on. Nowadays however, when I listen back to some of those no-no seventies band such as Sweet and their ilk, I can honestly say that their sound brings nothing but pleasant memories and enjoyment of some masterful three-minute pop songs – a much maligned art form I believe.
Flicking through a few collections of sixties and seventies classic 45s online I came across a collection of Sweet’s greatest hits and fed a few through my headphones. The hits kept on coming and all sounded as fresh as a daisy, well-produced, well-performed good old-fashioned catchy pop songs that stick in your head as you silently hum them to yourself for hours afterwards. A stand-out was Funny Funny which sounded of rich quality and heavily evocative of the time. It also had a great hook with a chorus that was eminently singable.
Sweet’s singer, Brian Connolly was an interesting character and often referred to as Scottish actor Mark McManus’s brother or half-brother. The young, fostered Brian from Glasgow was apparently however not directly related. Rather, theTaggart actor was the nephew of the singer’s foster father. Brian left Scotland at the age of twelve to move to Middlesex and sang in a variety of bands. He soon found success fronting Sweet on their initial hit Funny Funny. At the peak of the band’s popularity and with an invitation to support The Who in their legendary Charlton Football Stadium gig of 1974, Brian however suffered a horrific beating when leaving a nightclub. After receiving several kicks to the throat he and the band were unable to play Charlton with Brian sustaining injuries that left him without a voice for some time and a permanent loss of part of his vocal range.
In due course, the singer’s relationship with his fellow band members soured and this was exacerbated by Brian’s growing problem with alcohol abuse. In later years, the band fell foul of the Inland Revenue with Brian having to sell his home. Multiple heart attacks and paralysis had already occurred, connected to Brian’s alcohol consumption, before finally quitting drinking in 1985.
A final heart attack in 1997 saw Brian hospitalised. He discharged himself to no avail as just a week later he sadly died of renal and liver failure at the age of just fifty-one. The once pretty-boy singer, adored by a legion of teenaged girl fans, was no more.
The band leave the legacy of a stream of popular and much-covered hits which were a signature of the era in which they were produced. A fun time.
The following article appears in the 2013 Scottish Cup Final edition of Mass Hibsteria. It was written for the Hibs fanzine shortly after the recent victory in the Edinburgh derby game.
I WRITE AS A TORRENT OF HIBERNIAN green blood surges through my veins in the immediate aftermath of a famous away derby victory against ‘they who shall not be named’. A conquest made all the more sweet in that it was achieved with an injection of youthful promise, little in the way of great expectations and a terrific late, late goal by the muscular young talent of Ross Caldwell. It will be recorded that earlier in this lively affair, Hibs, after falling behind despite boasting huge territorial advantage, fought back tenaciously and levelled with yet another stunning strike from a free kick by goal machine, Leigh Griffiths before scoring for a second time at the very best juncture possible.
It’s a late call for me too, writing these words at the pinnacle of publication deadline time after a kind request. The kind of contribution that is always a great pleasure as I think of my Hibernian brothers and sisters back home and indeed all over the globe. At this moment, they will variously be celebrating in Edinburgh pubs, sitting behind their computers at home like me (poring over a small avalanche of Facebook and Twitter updates and the like) or maybe even retiring to bed in the wee sma’ hours. In just two weeks time, and maybe as you read this, many of us will be reunited once more in a common cause.
It falls upon me to speak of the past season, 2012-13 as we reach it’s very zenith, a somewhat extraordinary campaign in many ways. After a summer of low spirits, constitutions were thankfully fortified towards putting matters right at Easter Road. After a largely successful time achieving these aims as the winter approached, a slow, insidious (and it has to be said) perhaps slightly predictable deterioration took place. This was tempered generally by the insistent, eye-catching and dazzling success of one-man forward line, Griffiths’ attempts putting the ball in the opposition net where it belongs. Very well done to staunch and loyal Hibee, Leigh in carrying our hopes through some darker moments. Will that magical thirty-goal target be achieved, I wonder, before the final whistle sounds on 2012-13?
There have, happily however, been two Hibernian FC’s as the season has drawn inexorably on. The afore-mentioned, slightly toiling league team that has left some frustration amongst us and also the excellent cup team who have fought their way to yet another opportunity to win the Scottish Cup through some difficult ties and an incredible almost once-in-a-lifetime fight back in a Hampden semi-final. This is the team I would like to focus on as I am full, yet again, of hope.
The twelfth of May in this year of 2013 has left manager Fenlon and his staff with some intriguing questions to answer. I refer mainly to the belated introduction of youth into the Hibs starting line-up and regarding who shall be accommodated in the final eleven that walks out in Hibernian’s name in Glasgow at the end of May. Of late, we have witnessed the clever urgings, mature skills and intelligent football brain of Alex Harris, evidencing an overdue beginning to his senior professional career. Significant today for me too was the Ross Caldwell goal, a beautiful and clean derby strike which will perform great things for the young forward’s confidence as he begins to understand how to score for the ‘big boys’. Teenager, Jordan Forster too carried out a solid and assured debut today in this most difficult of events amidst a cauldron of Edinburgh passion.
Clearly, the way forward is written, it is in youth, not the acquisition and juggling of middling, run-of-the-mill journeymen. Hibernian has been and will again become a football factory of effervescent and confident young talent. I hope to see such a confidence in and parade of that talent on the twenty-sixth. I remain upbeat about the blessed institution that is Edinburgh Hibernians Here endeth today’s homily.
Those who know me well understand that my love of Hibs travels beyond football and into family, roots, history and tradition. I know that others are with me in these thoughts and more than occasionally I hear a heartening and lovely story that reaffirms this culture and set of beliefs. Today was one of those days. A fellow Hibee and great friend related the story of how she packed away her late father’s – a lifelong Hibs man – bunnet with her into the away end at today’s derby. It happened as follows:
‘At 89 minutes I took my late Dad’s flat cap (inclusive of 2 Hibs badges) and placed it on my head. I made a silent wish for a last-minute goal……. and boom! Love you Dad x’
This to me illustrates the ties of generations past and future. It is a love like no other, as I have often stated. The deep feeling, the faith, the passion and the knowing that you ‘belong’.
I look forward to meeting some of you again very soon. The Hibernian Football Club and its family, reaching back to 1875.
We walk together.
At times I struggle with the local media here in Nottingham for a few reasons. A bugbear of mine is the former Nottingham Evening Post, now simply termed The Nottingham Post after a change of the daily publishing time (note: leave the title and history reaching back to 1878 alone, guys, we can handle it, honestly). I’ll pass over for a moment, some of the Colonel Blimp-type reader’s submissions to the comments section of stories, the loud blaring music that fires up sometimes unexpectedly on opening a page with a news story and even the incredibly trivial ‘stories’ which sometimes feature
A snip today then from the new-look Nottingham Post website (click for actual size, yes really). Previous incarnations of the site have been seriously poor but this one is laughably bad. Perhaps they imagine that people in Nottingham need something akin to a learn-to-read book for a five-year old for their local newspaper?
Stop press…must do better.
AS WE APPROACH THE FINAL few days running up to the Scottish Cup Final with Hibs due to make a second consecutive appearance, Hibs boss, Pat Fenlon has a major conundrum before him. With influential captain, James McPake injured and off-form, young Jordan Forster has stepped up and taken the opportunity offered to him, installing himself in the heart of the Hibernian defence during the past three games and performing with distinction
If it’s the case that McPake is borderline ‘injured’, which is not clear, then there’s obviously a tough decision to make. Although I’m not particularly a fan of Manager Fenlon, I have some sympathy with him regarding this as he is basically on a hiding to nothing, unless Hibs win of course when all will be forgotten!
You need experience in these types of games, it counts for much to have the big game mentality that having been around the block a few times can bring. You also need leaders on the park – especially if things start to go wrong. McPake, I believe brings these qualities.
Forster, however, must be feeling very confident after his introduction and early promising start. There have been many examples where youngsters with ability and in his position have been trusted and have come through. ‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough’. Brian Clough was particularly adept at plucking a youngster from obscurity and trusting them with the responsibility to perform a good job for him.
I’d leave well alone. Forster has done little wrong and deserves his chance. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it, as they say. Bringing in McPake is a big risk, shame though it would be not to have his qualities out there at Hampden Park. I don’t think he is offering these qualities though currently.
There are aspects of McPake’s game I’m not convinced about generally, for example his tendency to over-commit himself and his haphazard distribution, his good points tend to overshadow that though. I’m not too happy about his moping around either – desperately disappointed though he must be – he is still the captain of Hibernian and has a duty to show strength, leadership and resilience – especially where younger, less experienced players are concerned. I have concerns that he is a negative influence around the squad of late.
I’d like to state though that I have a large degree of sympathy for McPake. I feel his heart is in the right place where Hibs are concerned and I admire that. I think many times he has served us very well when in desperate need and I like to hope he will again – just not in the Scottish Cup Final 2013 I’m afraid.
The name of Mordecai Sherwin, a local and internationally-known sportsman of his era was known to me from doing a little research and reading on the golden age of cricket in the nineteenth century and the county of Nottinghamshire’s part in it. I recently came across his name once more as being a former mine host of The Grove Hotel at Daybrook, Nottingham, approximately a mile down the road from my own home just a few minutes north in Redhill. The Grove is sadly no longer. Never a public house that I visited and now earmarked for demolition, it did however have an interesting cave system underneath the bars and a significant slice of history surrounding it. On reading that Nottinghamshire-born Mordecai was at one time the landlord of The Grove, I decided to take a little look at his story.
The man himself not only played professional cricket for Nottinghamshire and England but also appeared in goal for Notts County Football Club before retiring to become a cricket umpire and publican. In the mid-1880s, Mordecai was in his pomp and feted as arguably the leading wicket-keeper in the land and more than useful batsman. This was all achieved despite possessing a less than sylph-like 17 stone frame coupled with a reasonably modest height of 5ft 9ins for his bulk!
In the age of distinction between professionals and gentlemen (amateurs generally from the upper classes) in cricket, with few working-class professionals being bestowed the honour of leading their county, Mordecai was apparently the very last professional captain until many years later in the mid-1930s.
The famous Nottinghamshire back-stop was also well-known as something of a joker on the pitch it is said. Wisden, in choosing it’s wicket keeper of the year for 1891 said of him thus:
‘Always in the best of spirits, and never discouraged, however much the game may be going against his side, Sherwin is one of the cheeriest and pluckiest of cricketers.’
The almanac also added:
‘In point of style behind the wicket he is more demonstrative than his Lancashire rival, but, though the applause and laughter of the spectators may occasionally cause him to go a little too far, he has certainly never done anything to really lay him open to censure.’
Mordecai is further described as being of ‘great bulk’ but nevertheless ‘wonderfully quick on his feet’ and capable of acts of extreme brilliance behind the stumps.
Giving further colour to Wisden’s review, Mordecai is also immortalised by E.V. Lucas, humourist, essayist, playwright, biographer and publisher in his ‘Cricket All His Life’ book, as follows:
‘Moredecai Sherwin, the famous wicket-keeper in the great period, and as leader of the side in 1887 and 1888 the last of Nottinghamshire’s professional captains, was a very notable man … When interviewed … by Captain Holden at Trent Bridge as a potential wicket-keeper, he had been asked if he was afraid. “Nowt fears me,” he replied. He followed by keeping wicket for Nottinghamshire for eighteen years with a remarkable record. Mordecai (and I think Sherwin must have been the only cricketer with that name) was a rotund man of mirthful character and a leading member of the Nottingham Glee Club, which used to meet at the Black Boy to sing and be hearty together.’
The theme of Mordecai as entertainer persists with tales of him offering renditions of Oh Dem Golden Slippers and performing various somersaults and jigs to the amusement of others at social events!
As has been stated, the Nottinghamshire man was also a hit between the posts with Notts County Football club in the late 1970s and early 1880s. From an age when it was customary to attempt to bundle the custodian into the net along with the ball, Wikipedia informs us of a memorable incident. Young and sturdily built Joseph Lofthouse (an apt name for this particular event) of Blackburn Rovers decided to have something of a run at Mordecai but unhappily for him rebounded harmlessly off the Notts goalie with Mordecai stating nonchalantly: ‘Young man, you’ll hurt yourself if you do that again’. Not to be deterred, Lofthouse attempted another physical charge on the last line of defence with Sherwin, belying his size, dancing deftly to one side and watching the young Blackburn forward crash painfully into the goalpost.
The Grove Hotel, (right) Daybrook, Nottinghamshire, C. 1900
Finally, an interesting link has also been suggested between Mordecai Sherwin and no less than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A strong theory exists that Sherwin, along with fellow Nottinghamshire team-mate Frank (T. E.) Shacklock was the inspiration behind the Edinburgh writer’s classic Sherlock Holmes character with the legend ‘caught Sherwin, bowled Shacklock’ appearing with monotonous regularity on Notts’ scorecards in the 1890s. The two surnames being amalgamated to form the name of super-sleuth, Sherlock.
Mordecai Sherwin was most definitely a sportsman characteristic of a different age. An unusual sporting hero by today’s standards and criteria but nonetheless a high achiever and a success in two professional disciplines in a great era of professional sports.
I’ve written previously about the numerous networks of caves that run under the city of Nottingham and some of it’s outlying suburbs such as the one I live in. They are many in number, not generally connected to other systems across the area and generally speaking, hand-hewn from the soft sandstone that the city lies on, for all sorts of reasons.
Some time ago, I came across an interesting academic article regarding the disused sand mines that line the main arterial Mansfield Road which leads directly out of the north side of Nottingham. Interesting to me, partly due to the fact that it’s a part of the city I use frequently, in particular for visits to The Lincolnshire Poacher pub just a few minutes walk up the same road heading towards to the old Rock Cemetery and Forest recreation ground, home of the annual Goose Fair.
I’d long been told that underneath The Lincolnshire Poacher and it’s neighbouring businesses there are deep caves which I assumed were the result of the sand mines originally in-situ. Notable in this is The Golden Fleece, another Mansfield Road hostelry close by which in the past has held charity abseiling events down it’s two-storey caves below the public house.
Last night I had the opportunity to visit The Poacher’s cellars briefly. Again, they are two-storied with the first level being traditional brick by construction. Interesting enough in their own right but it is when descending a further narrow staircase through the rock down to a second lower storey where things become quite remarkable and thought-provoking.
As can be seen in the above images, this part of the cellars is a hand-made cave, whether this is the result of former sand mining or excavated especially for this former dwelling house is not clear to me. Quite clearly, the indentations of tools used to scrape away the soft rock are apparent, forming a uniformly shaped ‘room’ complete with a ‘drop’ for beer barrels, at the end, leading down from the pub back yard.
The cellars are of course a busy working environment under the former Old Grey Nag’s Head, the pub’s previous incarnation and so are laden and scattered with beer barrels, bottled beers and the various paraphernalia required to serve the pub’s many satisfied and loyal customers. The atmosphere, as one might expect, is damp and temperate, the floor sticky and with a general feel of the labour required in keeping a busy city-centre pub replenished. Even in 2013 though there remains a little evocative history and a few questions outstanding deep under The Lincolnshire Poacher and the businesses and homes nearby.
IT’S BEEN A LONG WINTER and it’s so welcome to finally see a little watery sunshine again and have a brief respite from the chilling winds of the past few months. I felt it time, upon this encouragement, to pull out some summer training gear and head out to the local villages for a canter round the pretty lanes.
Over the past six weeks I’ve been running three and latterly four miles twice a week to augment the single mile minimum I undertake to carry out every single day in order to continue my running streak of consecutive days which now stands at around thirteen years and three months. For the past few weeks too I’ve been trying to slowly awake from my winter slumbers with a short session of Royal Canadian Air Force exercises each and every day, building up very steadily.
Substituting the track suit bottoms and rain jacket with a pair of shorts and t-shirt for the first time in some six months, it was a pleasant and reassuring feeling cruising in the car down Bank Hill which overlooks the beautiful Woodborough valley, to my start point at The Nags Head at the east end of Woodborough village. Today I thought, I’ll have a slight bump up to five miles of a run.
‘From little acorns do mighty oaks grow’ is an old phrase not lost on me when it comes to running. I’ve had so many years doing this thing year in, year out, that I understand that whilst not being very fit at the moment, this will change once the ‘building blocks’ of regular training are cemented into place. It takes patience, hard work, commitment and perseverance.
With April bird song sweetly ringing in my ears I was shortly passing along Epperstone villages’ Main Street and on to the rural Gonalston Lane. Bordered by green fields and busy hedgerows, accompanied by the tip-tap sound of my training shoes. The countryside still looked in hibernation with only an odd strenuous and failing attempt at Spring blossom by a solitary cherry tree in Epperstone. Further along the route, evidence of Winter’s destructive and stormy weather manifested itself with a collapsed wooden bridge at Lowdham Mill. Grave council warnings lay pinned to the fence stating the footpath to be blocked for that reason but a ginger few steps took the runner on his way to the seclusion of the Old Lowdham Road, passing on to Lowdham Lane and the end point at Woodborough village.
A drink of cold water to finish at the gate of the Nag’s Head’s deserted garden. Just a few brave daisies push up from the grass and the bench and umbrellas wait patiently and silently for the Summer months.
Since this pleasant run I’ve been fortunate enough to have another identical run at the weekend around the villages and enjoyed it’s portents for the oncoming of summer and longer runs in the warmer weather and sunshine, hopefully. It’s time to get ‘back on the road’ again.
WELL, THOSE OF US OF A HIBERNIAN persuasion can breathe again. It’s the day after a tumultuous, worrying and ultimately relieving victory over First Division Falkirk by four goals to three. The unusual score line barely begins to tell the tale of the day though.
After thirty minutes of the Scottish Cup semi-final at Hampden Park, Glasgow, Hibs looked completely dead and buried, three-nil down to a tigerish and eager young Falkirk team looking for the blood of an SPL scalp and finding it. Many Hibs supporters began trooping out of the ground at that point, a hail of booing erupted and the player’s heads were down. Very seldom have I witnessed such an abject forty-five-minute display by Hibs – or indeed any time. The performance was at the level of an under-12’s side.
Leigh Griffiths strikes.
Football is a ‘funny old game’ however and what followed was quite sensational with Hibs rattling in three goals to tie the game and take it into extra-time. With the Hibees so clearly on top and Falkirk struggling to cope, the writing was visibly on the wall for Hibs’ young opponents and so it came to pass with a clinical Griffiths strike in extra-time to book his side a return journey to Glasgow for another May cup final.
In spite of a famous victory there were few pass marks being handed out to players in Green and White yesterday. The great and notable exception was 18-year old Alex Harris who used the big stage to good effect in his fledgling career. Alex’ screaming goal, intelligent prompting and willingness to go forward and take people on was as refreshing as Hibs’ general (in the first half at least) display was dull, listless, artless and infuriating. Full marks go to the young winger.
Hibs’ Alex Harris scores
It’s a curious position that Hibs followers are placed in today. On the one hand, the club have reached a second consecutive Scottish Cup final and given themselves an opportunity to atone for last year’s disgraceful performance in May. On the other hand, all of the team’s glaring problems were showcased, with Manager Fenlon and his negative tactics in particular coming under great scrutiny.
I’ve documented my feelings about Fenlon previously but I’d like to add that this game alters my opinion of him as a manager in no way. It is being argued today that having identified his errors yesterday he set about correcting them in the second half to good effect. That may well be true, and fair play to him on the tactical changes he made, but in my view, the turnaround came from deep down inside the players themselves. Apparently, there are rumours of dressing room fisticuffs at half-time and harsh words. It this is true then so be it. It is about time that Hibernian FC found some passion to match that of the club’s supporters which is never in doubt.
Onwards to Sunday 26th of May then. Another date with destiny beckons.
Glory Glory to the Hibees.
I AM THE SON,
Of a man who worked in the pits of Fife in Scotland,
In eighteen inches of water, on his hands and knees.
As a fourteen-year-old boy.
And who came for many a year, to work in the deep coal mines of Nottinghamshire.
To put food on his family’s table.
I will not forget these men, and their families.