Here it is, then!

Hello there, I’m Sylvie and this is my first blog. I run the hospital shop in Rochdale. Well, it’s more of a small booth, really. Annabel Pemberton (our area manager) announced that we have to start ordering stock on the line as soon as we get our computer.

I’ve used my clipboard for years but we need to move with the times. Annabel booked me and Joyce into evening classes to learn all about it. Mind you, she only booked one place, so we’ll have to take us turns.

Joyce will be here next week but don’t be surprised if she bangs on about the time her cat got her tail stuck up the Hoover. You learn to live with it.

Ivy Nuttall is teaching us at community centre. Her husband's run off with the Yoga teacher. They’d been at it for two years. Honestly, it gets more like Knot’s Landing round here!

Ivy set up this page in July when she were on anti-depressants and vodka. She told Joyce that we should write a weekly blog as it’s all the rage.

Here’s a bit more about me, then. I was born in Rochdale, an only child. My parents were in their mid-forties by the time I came along and they didn’t really know what to do with me. It was quite a lonely childhood, full of daydreams and tears.

As I got that bit older, I’d spend most of my time listening to dance tunes on wireless while trying to pout like Diana Dors at mam’s dressing table.

Times were hard with little money to go round. Mam took in other folk’s washing and I’d work the mangle while dad smoked his pipe and mended clocks in back room.

I became a bit of a handful and left home while fourteen and moved in with my friend Maggie’s family who were loud and had a caravan in Clitheroe. I left school a year later and worked in cotton mills before moving onto broken biscuit counter at Woollies.

I eventually ended up in stationery at Kendals department store, which is where I met my dear Eric, he came in to buy a Parker pen and some Basildon Bond paper.

Eric was four years older than me and quite a heart throb with local lasses. He looked like a young Tony Bennett. We were a striking couple with his black quiff and my blonde beehive.

We’d drive about in his red convertible and everyone would stare at us. He loved that car but it got stolen outside The Astoria Ballroom where we had gone to see The Beatles. He couldn’t stomach them after that.

We were wed at town hall in 1964, I wore a lemon shift and Eric chose a navy mohair suit. Our friends took us for a meal in Chinatown, it was such a bonny day and we got hammered on champagne!

Eric worked as an insurance rep and travelled all over North of England. He won ‘Salesman of the Year’ in 1968. His firm presented him with a decanter and paid for a weekend at Butlins in Skegness, or Skeg-Vegas as we liked to call it!

Our Clint was born in 1971, the long wait made him all the more precious. He were a right big bairn. Eric decided that one kiddie was enough, I would have liked more but there you go.

We had a good life which came with its ups and downs but we always worked at it. We went to Costa del Sol every year and made some good friends with folk who had moved there to start a new life. Clint calls it ‘Costa del Crime’, cheeky bugger.

Eric started to pop over to Spain to choose a property for our retirement. We looked forward to putting us feet up and drinking Sangria in the sun, while our Clint fancied setting up his own radio station for ex-pats. He could teach that Richard Branston a thing or two.

Sadly, our plans went to pot. Eric passed away in 2001, heart attack.

He used to stay at Doreen Bradley’s B&B in Scarborough whenever he was on the road. He was putting up shelves in her lounge alcove when it happened. She said he managed one last screw and that were it, he were gone.

Clint drove me there in the van after we got the call. It were the longest journey of my life.

Doreen was at the hospital with mascara running down her cheeks. I remember thinking she could have made time to wash her face.

The chaplain came over and took me and Clint to see Eric. The room was dimly lit and smelt of bleach and plastic sheets. I noticed there was a picture on the wall just like the one we had at home to cover a damp patch.

I combed Eric’s hair the way he liked it and waited for him to wink at me, but he never did. I kissed his cheek and told him I loved him.

Clint hovered by the door, he’s not very big on goodbyes.

I miss being Eric’s wife. He was the lid to my pot. I sometimes watch Match of the Day when I’m alone as it makes me feel closer to him. He liked nowt better than to watch his team of a Saturday afternoon followed by a pie and a pint down British Legion.

Clint doesn’t like football, he couldn’t knock snow off a rope, but he’s a musical man and a gentle giant. He works as a disc jockey for hospital radio and has quite a following. Even when folk get better they still come back to listen to his show.

He used to visit Radio Manchester and play his hospital tape cassettes in reception. He hasn’t done that for a while, something to do with a restriction order, I wasn’t really listening.

He could be as big as Steve Wright given half the chance.

Clint’s been engaged to Mandy for three years but he still lives with me. She works in hospital laundry and specialises in stain removal.

Mandy's a good lass but I wish she wouldn’t come round so much, I can smell those hospital sheets on her. I always have my Fabreze handy and give the sofa a good going over after she’s gone.

As for me, I’ve been at the hospital shop for six years now. I was promoted to manageress after Edna Cribbins got caught with her hands in the till. She had champagne taste and lemonade money, that one.

This is the ideal job for me because I’m a people person. I’m looked upon as a social worker by my customers who all come to me with their problems.

Clint says I’ve got healing hands. I thumped his back and saved his life t’other week when he choked on an onion bhaji.

I’m also an Avon rep, which is quite a responsibility. I try to look my best and keep in shape. Folk often remark on how young I look for my age. I’m like Jane Fonda only with less liver spots.

I better skidaddle. Me and Ivy are off to a wine and cheese party downstairs. It’s arranged by the Autumn Dating Agency which is run by Molly Chadwick whose wig has seen better days.

We only signed up for a giggle, really. We're daft like that.

I’ve picked out a few words which might link my blog to Goggles or whatever the heck it’s called, I’ve listed them below, look.

But I can’t see for the life of me what a blog has to do with ordering a box of Wagon Wheels on t’ internet.

Cheerio for now. Love from Sylvie x