Opinion

Anita Robinson: Children today don't know what cold is

School children in west Belfast play in the snow on the way to school last week - but they don't know the meaning of feeling truly cold, says Anita Robinson. Picture Mal McCann.
School children in west Belfast play in the snow on the way to school last week - but they don't know the meaning of feeling truly cold, says Anita Robinson. Picture Mal McCann. School children in west Belfast play in the snow on the way to school last week - but they don't know the meaning of feeling truly cold, says Anita Robinson. Picture Mal McCann.

CHALLENGING circumstances last week when it came as a surprise to us all that winter is cold.

Our little province, along with much of the rest of the British Isles came to a standstill, with transport, education, business, entertainment and sport disrupted and only those clad in that epitome of cold-weather fashion, the 'puffa jacket', bravely ventured out.

As an ex-teacher I was amused too by the curious contradiction in terms that allowed numbers of youngsters loose in parks and green spaces to sleigh, slide and snowball, get soaked and hurt themselves when, if it happened in a school playground, there would be a court case for negligence. But that's by the way.

On reflection, I realise I've been cold half my life. We were a hand-knitted generation. Apart from 'bought' Chilprufe vests and thick interlock knickers, we were hand-knitted from the feet up: woollen knee-socks with elastic garters to keep them up, which left welts and cut off circulation below the thighs; pallions of jumpers and cardigans, scarves, mittens and pixie-hoods, fruits of the busy needles of grannies and aunties; and a good wool coat over the top.

New synthetic fibres just coming on the market were rejected wholesale: "There's no heat in them."

Modern centrally-heated children don't know what cold is.

Our house was draughty. When the wind blew from the east, the sash windows rattled and the hall runner undulated like the waves of the sea.

Though there was a fireplace in every room, only the living-room fire was ever lit - a small oasis of warmth hedged about with sanctions: "Don't sit too close, you'll measle your shins"; "Don't sit with your back to the fire, it'll melt the marrow in your bones."

The bathroom was a place of sepulchral cold. Bath-night was a goose-pimpled, teeth-chattering ordeal.

My mother bought a revolutionary 'heat'n'lite' bulb which hung forlornly from the central light-fitting, raising the temperature by half a degree.

And so to bed with a scalding hot water bottle, scrambling into my winceyette pyjamas and diving under the flannelette sheet, three wool blankets, a candlewick bed spread and a slippery satin eiderdown. I could barely turn in the bed for the concerted weight of them.

Come the morning, my window was opaque with frost-flowers and my breath hanging in the air.

For sickness and emergencies there was an ancient electric fire with a fabric-covered flex and a single zigzag element which exuded an acrid smell. When I had the measles, it was put in my bedroom and I knew I was going to die.

School was no warmer. A country classroom with an open fire at one end surrounded by a steel guard and the milk frozen in the bottles, their waxed cardboard tops pushed upwards like little top hats.

With the advent of snow, we were released screaming with delight to the playground. How well I remember the purple ache of snowballing fingers and the stinging pain as circulation was restored.

The big boys made a slide, polished by many feet to a lethal black diamond gloss. They ran at it, arms windmilling madly, towards the inevitable tumble.

I can still feel the clammy chill of clinging wet wool and my envy of the happy half-dozen steaming visibly as they took their turn thawing out by the classroom fire.

'Big school' brought no increase in temperature. Classrooms were located in a stable block and the antiquated claw-footed radiators never more than lukewarm to the touch.

My first residential year at college, sleeping in a cavernous dormitory coincided with the big freeze of '64.

Subsequent years in a student flat, where we often slept with our coats on and went to the pictures to get warm, and watch Natalie Wood and Doris Day float about in silk negligées in plush apartments.

Marriage, a Victorian three-storey terrace and convector heaters brought the thermostat up a notch or two - until the first electricity bill arrived.

And finally, a new bungalow with central heating. At long last I could take off my cardigan...