Author: Mel RJ Smith
Genre: Memoirs / Adventure fiction
Book: Memoirs of an Ordinary Guy
Mel RJ Smith is the author of his debut story Memoirs of an Ordinary Guy, described by his fan base as ‘Hilarious and such a hard book to put down.’
He also has a love for poetry and has written in various genres, one of which won him a competition for a National Newspaper during the 1970’s.
His forthcoming Novel / Novella, A Time for Adventure is due to be released in the latter half of 2015. Currently in the hands of his editor who described it as ‘A great read.’
Mel was born in Wallingford, Berkshire in 1964 and was the youngest of seven siblings. At the tender age of five, his family moved to Basingstoke and started life dwelling in a Nissen hut, before spending several months living with relations in a Split-level, end Terraced house, becoming a household of approximately sixteen. Seeing sense, the council allocated the Smith’s their very own house on a newly built housing estate, often referred to as part of the ‘London overspill.’
Educated with comprehensive schooling and trying his hand at various career options during his early years, Mel finally embarked on a career in hospitality, where he works to this day in Peterborough, as a Night Manager for a major Hotel chain.
Come inside and reminisce with me as I take you on a humorous journey of discovery, disappointments, fun and adventures of my life, just an ordinary guy growing up in the 70’s and 80’s.
From boyhood to manhood and all my escapades in between.
Meet the characters I encountered along the way whom helped make this a funny, yet almost truthful account of my memoirs.
Mel takes the reader on a journey through time in sound bites about his life. The story starts in 2012, after he foolishly let his marriage and a happy family life slip away. This is a lively account of his memoirs; from boy to man and how he got to this point in time where the story ends. Despite the obvious humour sprinkled throughout the book, the reader will be able to empathise with Mel’s challenges along the way, along the the “What the hell was he thinking!?” moments when he makes the wrong choices with disastrous consequences. I hope Mel goes on to write a second book of memoirs, this was a totally enjoyable read that many will be able to relate to. Highly recommended
Back to the Beginning
So that’s how I got here, writing my memoirs. I do have lots of truths to tell, so let me rewind and take you on my journey of reminiscence, to a time before technology took hold of me and became my downfall, back to those hazy days of summer, when the sun always seemed to shine. Back to my youth.
My earliest memories date back to when I was a bonnie wee lad, swinging to and fro in my wooden-slatted swing, which Dad had strung up in the back door leading from the kitchen, to what then appeared to be an extraordinarily large garden. The aroma of Mum’s home-cooked pie and cabbage filled the air, as I swung backwards into the kitchen and the summer sun scorched my blonde curls, as I ventured forth into the garden.
Is it just me, or do the memories of your youth distort the truth? Looking back now, I seem to remember the odour of cabbage staying with me as I swung, not only into the kitchen but also out into our miniature plot that backed onto an extraordinarily large field, where Mum would take me, while she picked potatoes for a living. Well, that’s when I wasn’t happily swinging with a nappy full of cabbage-flavoured shit for a cushion. Oh, those hazy days of summer.
Just like my clothes in later years, this swing had been handed down from sisters to brothers. I come from a fairly large family, which I think had something to do with Mum and Dad not having a TV at that time.
Let me take a moment here to introduce my family. Carol is the eldest and then comes Shelagh. Wendy and Maureen are followed by the twins, Maurice and Lorraine and then, of course, there’s me, the baby of the family, or Beanpole, as Mum often used to call me her little beanpole.
As I was saying, those were hazy summer days and one image springs to mind. Jenny. I suppose you could class her as my first girlfriend.
I was about seven as I recall, the colours seeming so vibrant, yet dreamy, as I lay beneath the soft blue sky, the sun’s rays filtering through cotton wool clouds, warming my brow. The lush greens of the grass were like a soft under blanket and Jenny’s turquoise-covered lap was my pillow. We were amidst a kaleidoscope of colours. As I lay dreaming, Jenny placed a band of yellow and white over my head, a chain she had made from the myriad of daisies that surrounded us.
I don’t have many memories of my early days; obviously not a lot happened there, so let’s skip forward a few years to my schoolboy encounters.