The Dansette

I have always mined my own life for stories and adventures which I have illustrated. Now I have more time I have been putting them in a book format and these are some examples.

We lived in an isolated area outside Kampala, East Africa and I had a magical childhood in the 1950's and 60's. One of the unfortunate things was being regularly burguled and I lost my beloved Dansette record player in one raid.

The Dansette.

I woke up late in the night and saw that my Dad was leaning over the Dansette record player in the dark. This was not totally unexpected as it had a nasty habit of giving electric shocks to the unwary and I had been begging him to fix it. It was my pride and joy and even pain could not lessen my pleasure of ownership. One of the first portable record players, cream with an orange lid, it was my passage to adulthood when even being a 'teenager' was light years away.

I had been given three records for my eighth birthday:

'I'm leaving on a jet plane' by Peter, Paul and Mary.

'Distant Drums' By Jim Reeves

'Jailhouse Rock' by Elvis

I found Elvis slightly suspect as my sister and I had gone to a matinee at the local fleapit and I hadn't understood a thing. Or rather, I had understood that it was all about stuff to do with romance like my mother's Women's Own magazines. I knew that they were 'dirty' so he must be too.

Still I loved the other records and would drone on too them continuously until my hair fizzed with electric sparks from the shorting record player and the dog howled in protest.

He unplugged the machine and took it out the room.

I lay listening.

I needed to go to the toilet but as a well known night wanderer I was not allowed out until morning. I waited until all was quiet then made my move, running down the corridor and leaving the toilet door open behind me.

All hell exploded. Yells. Running feet. Doors banging. The smell of fear.

'They've taken Judy' my mothers voice shrill with rage and terror.

Two loud bangs.

I tip toed to the door and peered around the corner to see my mother waving an extremely large revolver at the backs of retreating burglars. Seeing me deflated her murderous rage and she dropped the gun and held me, crooning her relief.

'I only went to the toilet' I pointed out.

The next day she took the gun apart and dropped it at various places along the river. She bought a starting pistol instead as it looked frightening, sounded loud and didn't kill people.

My mother made me feel very safe.