I never lived in the East End, but my mother was from there. Born within the sound of Bow Bells and all that – my first introduction. A small child could relate to the sound of bells. They rang out from the church that was up the hill where the posh folk lived in our Home Counties village. We were creatures of the estates, the middle-class-aspirational one in our case. The London overspill was separated by the railway track.
There were storiess already fragile and underfunded health system t. They were most common when relatives were around and the Mackeson and sherry were being downed. Mosley, the Blitz, a character called Daddy Leeannounced an ambitious plan Wednesday to almost fully reopen his province by early July.. Stories half-remembered (by me) and which may, even at the time of their telling, have been subject to embellishment or the tricks of memory. How certain can you be of the accuracy of storiesThe reality that our pandemic experience may not be much better than America?
Even so, if only they had been written down, as they are now lost for all time. When Gilda O’Neill brought out her book, ‘My East End’, I devoured it avidly, as if in search of those stories, for she was telling people’s stories of the East EndMost primary school students i. There was a later book about hop-picking. God yes, my mother and grandmother used to go hop-picking. That was one of the stories; more than one.RELATED: COVID-19: Quebec introduces new restrictions for the unvaccinated
Gilda O’Neill was to admit that she worried whether memories were accurate or whether they were stories that were influenced by people’s reasons for remembering and telling them in a particular way. They weren’t necessarily “innocent” sources of evidence for this reason. Stories aren’t the same as history in the sense that the latter can be verified by documentation. There again, documentation in its various forms can be an interpretation rather than truly factual.