A PENNUTH O' COSHIES Three little lads went into Smithsons', the grocer's shop at the bottom of the Avenues in Sheringham, to spend their pocket money one day. "What kin Oi git yew, sonny?" Mr Smithson asked the first boy. Oi'll hev a pennyuth o' pepmints," was his reply. Gob-stoppers, liquorice allsorts, peppermints and other sweets were kept in a row of glass bottle, high on the top shelf behind the counter. Mr Smithson went to the back of the shop and returned with a step-ladder, which he climbed, then brought down the bottle of peppermints. After weighing them into a paper bag he gave to the boy, took the penny and took the steps into the back room again. Turning to the next boy, Mr Smithson asked: "An' what kin Oi git fur yew, moi boy?" "A pennuth o' pepmints," came the reply. Back went the grocer to get the step-ladder and then repeated the performance. But, this time, to save himself the trouble, he decided to ask the third lad whether he, too, wanted a pennyworth of peppermints. Once more he had to go through the same performance. But this time, before returning the stops to their place, he decided to ask the third boy whether he wanted a pennyworth of peppermints. "No," was the little lad's reply. So Mr Smithson took the steps away again, then returned to ask the boy what he wanted. "O'll hev a ha'puth!" he said. (Coshies: Norfolk dialect word for sweets!) * * * GOOD IDEA Many years ago, a vicar from Norwich was accompanying members of his church's Women's Fellowship on an outing to Burnham Thorpe, to show them the village where Admiral Horatio Nelson was born. To break their journey they stopped at a small village for morning coffee in the tea-shop, whereupon a local, seeing the charabanc of women and only one man, asked him: "What are yew a-gorn t'dew wi' orlthem thare women?" To which the vicar replied: "We are going to Burnham, my good man." "Gorn t'burn 'em, are yew?" laughed the countryman, "Jist yew hang on, ole partner – an' Oi'll go an' got moi ole woman!" * * * THE TIP An affluent-looking gent was getting off the train at Wroxham, looking forward to a boating holiday on the Broads. As he had quite a lot of luggage with him, he asked a porter to carry his bags to the boatyard nearby.
* * * A NOICE QUIET WEEK FOR JARGE AT LAST!
Jarge’s wife had died and John, an old friend, went round to offer his condolences. “Well, Jarge,” he said, “Oi’m suffen sad to hare yew lorst yar woife. What did she die of – Oi mean, what wuz har complearnt?” “Complearnt, bor?” Jarge replied, “The ol’ mawther is dead an’ ivryone’s satisfied. There ent no complearnt!” “When’s the funeral, Jarge?” “Nex' Mondy.” “Nex' Mondy?” asked John, “Yew ent a-keepin’ har a week are yer?” “Yis, John,” Jarge replied. “That Oi am; arter orl, when she wuz aloive she sear to me, she sear: 'Jarge, bor, when we’re married we’ll hev a noice quiet comf'table week tegither.’ Thass what she sear – an' I’re bin a-weartin’ nigh on 50 yare for ut!” “Was she insured?” asked John. “Oh ah, yis, she wuz,” Jarge replied, “wi' the Norwich Union anorl!” “Norwich Union?” queried John, “but, dornt they dew fire insurance?” “Yis,” laughed Jarge, “she knew where she wuz a-gorn’ orrite!”
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Boy Albie
Norfolk born and bred. Archives
August 2020
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