The City of Hull in the later Victorian period was a mass of densely packed terraced housing, particularly within a mile of the centre. These were arranged broadly under the term of smaller streets taking the form of off road pedestrian access Terraces, through-arch Parades and Courts, the more auspicious sounding Groves, fanciful Squares, pokey Lanes, multiple occupancy Buildings and the exotic sounding Villas. Thanks to the coming into fashion of sanitation, the intermittent submerging under high tide flooding, localised but devastating fires, dodgy building collapses and much later the combined influence of the urban demolition experts of Adolf, Herman and Co and hapless Town Planners the vast majority of these communities and tightly knit clusters of housing have disappeared completely or with just a surviving glazed street name plaque on a gable wall on a street frontage announcing an empty space or pathway leading nowhere. My wife's ancestors, emigrants from Germany and Sweden had a postal address of 'seventy one and a half' of a long lost street close to the Princes Dock area between the city centre and the River Humber. The old urban maps are almost solid black in colour as an illustration of the packed and stacked houses with little open space or greenery. It is not surprising that old photographs of the main City Parks of the time show large crowds promenading around enjoying looking onto anything not resembling a brick wall. It is conceivable that the sun never penetrated to the dark corners of many of the back to back courts and squares and the sight of an open and bright sky on a weekend will have been greatly welcomed. The main surviving type of smaller street in todays urban setting is the short pedestrian access terrace. This is typically set behind the street front building line and up until the 1970's the clearance between the two paralell lines of houses was fully open and ideal therefore to have continuous lines of washing, communal playground activities or the occasional street party to celebrate a Royal milestone or some sort of national victory. Sensitivity to the perceived need for people to have boundaries and private space led to the creation of individual forecourt gardens for the houses served by a narrow central footway. There are, to my knowledge only a couple of the fully open arrangements left although invariably these are used for off road parking which makes the whole terrace look untidy. As for clothes drying this is very difficult in such circumstances. The individual terraces were often the work of a single builder or developer, a small scale project with the houses being built for long term letting as was the dominant form of occupation in the Victorian period. One or more of the houses will have been reserved for the builder/developer and family members invariably the best ones in terms of floor area, external yard and orientation towards the sun. Every larger street in front of the smaller streets will have been built to a certain informal checklist with the creation of corner shops and premises for tradesmens activities. The commercial uses usually plumbers,joiners, undertakers, coal merchants and builders were set through an archway with double gates or a wicket gate leading to a courtyard with workshops and stables.Many archway properties of sturdy construction remain either in some form of small scale business use or with development of the outbuildings and backland for residential occupation. The old corner shops are still identifiable today although often heavily disguised behind residential frontages and modern infill brickwork. The retention of a corner shop as a going concern is very rare indeed. The Tesco effect being in play. The urban demolition and clearance of much of Hull's oldest and poorest calibre housing really stepped up a pace in the 1960's and 1970's. The streets south of Hessle Road, acre upon acre of dense terraced homes ,survive only now in name. The bustling communities whose livelihoods were dependant on employment on the Docks, aboard deep sea trawlers and in the fishing and processing related industries have been supplanted by a large commercial area which is abandoned and ghostly beyond business hours. The displaced residents were mainly re-housed on the large sprawling and bleak Council Estates positoned miles away on the periphery of the city. There were of course many benefit in terms of modern, dry, warm and healthy homes but at the loss of a sense of common purpose and community. However, only 30 years after being erected many replacement houses have themselves been demolished where faced with uneconomic repairs for latent defects.The use of timber frame, sectional construction, hung tiles and other more wacky systems have proven no match for good old red brick. The west Hull area around Hawthorn Avenue was identified for large scale compulsory purchase for demolition and clearance as recently as 2005-2006. Many homeowners reluctantly took the generous package on offer and moved out and away before the area deteriorated significantly with boarded up and security shuttered elevations dominating the streetscenes. The regeneration project recently foundered in the recessionary conditions leaving a few single owner occcupiers as the only residents in very depressing surroundings. New funding was discovered down the back of a sofa, somewhere in Westminster, allowing promises of relocation to be kept with the stranded and abandoned few. The regeneration that has taken place has included houses of striking appearance, three storeys, a gable balcony and glazed coloured brick panels. If these houses manage to remain standing for the same period of time as their predecessors they may be regarded with as much affection.
The former Quango behind the regeneration project did openly state that they had a policy of attracting a mixture of socio-economic groups to the new housing in the area so that there was an overall improvement in the aspirations of the majority.
Sounds a bit like a form of social engineering through the back door, or rather the patio doors.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
In the Place of Work
A regular spot in the school calendar is allocated to the mass exodus of students off the premises for one to two weeks for the purposes of gaining Work Experience. I went through the process myself at age 16 but who, at that age actually knows what their vocation will be, apart from the Dalai Lama or those in direct succession to a throne. The careers teacher at my secondary school had the attitude that she could have had any job she wanted but had obviously failed in that endeavour. Good motivational attitude there then. The school had longstanding links with local companies who in the distant past had expressed willingness to take on a pupil.Some of the associations were, from the list I was provided with, a bit out of date unless you had firm intentions of becoming a fellmonger, cordwainer or powder monkey. Some employer attitudes were genuinely helpful. They had possibly been in that position themselves or were Old Boys of the school. Other employers simply saw it as one to two weeks of forced and unpaid labour. It was common for the work experience period to coincide with the impulsive ambition of proprietors to clean out the drains, gutters, litter and scrap strewn back yards or ancient dusty attics within the commercial areas of the town. The choice of placement even to the unsure of mind could make or break the legitimate absence from normal school routine. The usual positions were with law firms, accountants, shop work, builders and in public serrvice organisations. I was faintly interested in land and property so I was matched to a local firm of Surveyors, Valuers and Estate Agents. Dressed smartly I turned up at their town centre premises and was left sitting around for a couple of hours, blushing and getting in the way until one of the Partners asked if he could help, thinking I was a customer. The awkward moments of confirming by phone with the school that the firm had liability and responsibility for me for a week did not help my fragile confidence. I was, by midday, allocated to the Drawing Office. The firm was very old fashioned but very traditional and covered all the disciplines required to service the landed and property interests of the county. My first period as an intern in the drawing office was a completely new experience. The Land Surveyor was designing a drainage scheme for an agricultural field out by the River Humber Bank in the wilds of Holderness. I assisted in clomping around in the muddy acres with a 3m tall red and white ranging pole whilst the surveyor frantically gesticulated where I should stand, stop, move, stop and so on for the rest of the day. At each point he took a reading of the level from his theodolite. The windy open field and an ever increasing distance between us made the scene quite comical. I returned home at the end of the day with a very ruddy and wind blown appearance. The next day I was seconded to the Estates Management Department. I was provided with yet another 3m long pole but this time with a paint brush lashed to the top. My brief was to identify all dead trees in a wooded thicket on a managed farm and then paint on a white cross in a prominent position. This would enable a lumberjacking contractor to follow on and fell them. I stress that no training was given. The judgement of life and death in the hands of a 16 year old is both frightening and sobering. Even to this day, I cringe when I drive through that very area and see a large hole through an otherwise lush wooded copse. That was my lasting contribution to the landscape. Day Three was with the Auction Department with some visits to the homes of the recently deceased to label chattels and with the Valuer identifying the more valuable artworks, silverware , furniture and valuables which would later be catalogued in a forthcoming Sale. Day Four was office based as the firm believed that I should have an insight into the administrative practices as well as the outdoor fun stuff. I suspect that the entire compliment of Partners and qualified Surveyors were away on a jolly at the races. I was during my confinement in the office heavily embroiled in the tittle tattle , rumour-mongering and downright bitchiness of the staff as they miraculously ran an efficient office and a poisoned personal life at the same time. This was perhaps my first exposure to the wonders of multi-tasking and using the firms phone for long private phone calls. These were of course the days well before social networking and texting but the world still revolved and managed as well without. My final day was accompanying one of the Partners on what he explained was a typical working day. A valuation of a house for possible sale, a Survey of a terraced house for a mortgage loan, measurement of a garden in a neighbour dispute , discussion with a house owner of planning potential to demolish the lovely house and build an office park and checking the standard of workmanship on a large building project.
The week had been both interesting and engaging and did shape my actual course of education from therein towards my eventual career as a Surveyor. I had been fortunate in my placement. I did hear a horrendous story where a pupil expressed a preference to work with animals and the school secured him a weeks work experience in a Butchers Shop.
The week had been both interesting and engaging and did shape my actual course of education from therein towards my eventual career as a Surveyor. I had been fortunate in my placement. I did hear a horrendous story where a pupil expressed a preference to work with animals and the school secured him a weeks work experience in a Butchers Shop.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Treemendous
(Reproduction of a bit of writing first done in November 2011)
It has done very well to survive.
I am thrilled to report that I will go down the garden in the next couple of days to check on the health, welfare and beauty of the only Christmas Tree that I have managed to keep alive for more than the festive period.
This will be the third year that the tree will stand on the shallow balcony at the front of the house.
Unprecedented. I have however had many concerns over the period from when we first purchased the small Fir for £29.99 from the local garden centre.
The purchase and display of a real and live Christmas Tree is not itself an issue. What does tend to throw my whole budget out on the approach to Christmas is the extortionate price charged for a tree. It is a captive market.
Any deemed failure on the acquisition of a decent tree is a failure in manhood, fatherhood and husbandry.
We do have an indoor real tree and my son has developed an expert eye to pick out a perfectly formed and symmetrical example of the exact height and girth for its traditional position in the lounge bay.
The smaller balcony tree is another issue but just as vitally important.
In the past we went for just a straightforward un-rooted one. This just about lasted until the Twelfth Day before being cast down onto the front path to be set aside for shredding and stripping.
My wife was both shocked and amused at my collection of many years worth of skeletal and almost petrified former balcony trees which emerged from under the mass of the compost heap and from behind the garage during a recent blitz to tidy up the back garden.
Perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment and kept the remnants out of shame for their eventual undignified fate.
The small tree bought in 2009 was as they say 'rooted and booted.'. It was wrapped in a string bag which was ceremoniously cut away as soon as the tree and root ball were packed tight and watered in the old fire bucket up on the balcony. Being considerate for the diminuitive stature of the tree it was stood on a low table. From the street the tree now appeared to be a towering 5 feet tall. The balcony rail concealed the support structure very nicely. Remarkably, and without any additional watering the tree looked good and healthy throughout the period.
The micro-climate on the balcony will, on reflection, have been ideal. Sheltered from direct cold and frost, dry but airy. The boughs and needles were still beautifully green and supple. I whisked the tree down to the bottom of the garden and purely as a biological and horticultural experiment re-planted it in the soil.
Out of sight I did forget about it for some weeks. On a rare visit to the far reaches of the garden I noticed fresh bright green accelerated growths. It was thriving. I moved it a couple of times in the first 12 months after it looked a bit sun scorched or swamped by the native vegetation. The soil in the garden is a heavy clay not really of the free draining and light characteristics that the genetics of the tree are geared up for.
The tree took up residency back on the balcony for Christmas 2010. From November to well into January the average daily temperature did not get much above minus 2 to 4 degrees. Exposed trees and the garden hedge suffered very badly from the sheer weight of snow and ice and the upper parts became blackened in the foliage equivalent of frost bite.
Many of the plants out in the open perished. The small tree will have witnessed all this from the recess of the balcony but remained snug and healthy. I replanted it again. The mild spring weather was good for recuperation but in the summer months it looked to be wilting. The buddleia tree behind which I had planted the fir had swamped and stifled it more than I had anticipated. It was touch and go for a while but the patient responded to emergency watering and some kind words of inspiration.
So, it is now the tail end of November 2011. The anticipated return of the tree to contribute to the celebration of Christmas is very satisfying and poignant. We as a family have been through some difficult times in the three years since we adopted the tree but it has been a constant ,whether bedecked in lights, tinsel and atopped with a star or just blending in , with ultimate camouflage , at the bottom of the garden.
Our house is currently up for sale but when we move on I will find the discarded fire bucket and the tree will accompany us to wherever we next put down our own roots.
(nb. we did eventually move house. The tree we left behind)
It has done very well to survive.
I am thrilled to report that I will go down the garden in the next couple of days to check on the health, welfare and beauty of the only Christmas Tree that I have managed to keep alive for more than the festive period.
This will be the third year that the tree will stand on the shallow balcony at the front of the house.
Unprecedented. I have however had many concerns over the period from when we first purchased the small Fir for £29.99 from the local garden centre.
The purchase and display of a real and live Christmas Tree is not itself an issue. What does tend to throw my whole budget out on the approach to Christmas is the extortionate price charged for a tree. It is a captive market.
Any deemed failure on the acquisition of a decent tree is a failure in manhood, fatherhood and husbandry.
We do have an indoor real tree and my son has developed an expert eye to pick out a perfectly formed and symmetrical example of the exact height and girth for its traditional position in the lounge bay.
The smaller balcony tree is another issue but just as vitally important.
In the past we went for just a straightforward un-rooted one. This just about lasted until the Twelfth Day before being cast down onto the front path to be set aside for shredding and stripping.
My wife was both shocked and amused at my collection of many years worth of skeletal and almost petrified former balcony trees which emerged from under the mass of the compost heap and from behind the garage during a recent blitz to tidy up the back garden.
Perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment and kept the remnants out of shame for their eventual undignified fate.
The small tree bought in 2009 was as they say 'rooted and booted.'. It was wrapped in a string bag which was ceremoniously cut away as soon as the tree and root ball were packed tight and watered in the old fire bucket up on the balcony. Being considerate for the diminuitive stature of the tree it was stood on a low table. From the street the tree now appeared to be a towering 5 feet tall. The balcony rail concealed the support structure very nicely. Remarkably, and without any additional watering the tree looked good and healthy throughout the period.
The micro-climate on the balcony will, on reflection, have been ideal. Sheltered from direct cold and frost, dry but airy. The boughs and needles were still beautifully green and supple. I whisked the tree down to the bottom of the garden and purely as a biological and horticultural experiment re-planted it in the soil.
Out of sight I did forget about it for some weeks. On a rare visit to the far reaches of the garden I noticed fresh bright green accelerated growths. It was thriving. I moved it a couple of times in the first 12 months after it looked a bit sun scorched or swamped by the native vegetation. The soil in the garden is a heavy clay not really of the free draining and light characteristics that the genetics of the tree are geared up for.
The tree took up residency back on the balcony for Christmas 2010. From November to well into January the average daily temperature did not get much above minus 2 to 4 degrees. Exposed trees and the garden hedge suffered very badly from the sheer weight of snow and ice and the upper parts became blackened in the foliage equivalent of frost bite.
Many of the plants out in the open perished. The small tree will have witnessed all this from the recess of the balcony but remained snug and healthy. I replanted it again. The mild spring weather was good for recuperation but in the summer months it looked to be wilting. The buddleia tree behind which I had planted the fir had swamped and stifled it more than I had anticipated. It was touch and go for a while but the patient responded to emergency watering and some kind words of inspiration.
So, it is now the tail end of November 2011. The anticipated return of the tree to contribute to the celebration of Christmas is very satisfying and poignant. We as a family have been through some difficult times in the three years since we adopted the tree but it has been a constant ,whether bedecked in lights, tinsel and atopped with a star or just blending in , with ultimate camouflage , at the bottom of the garden.
Our house is currently up for sale but when we move on I will find the discarded fire bucket and the tree will accompany us to wherever we next put down our own roots.
(nb. we did eventually move house. The tree we left behind)
Sunday, 27 November 2011
2-3
My Dad took me to my first proper football match in 1974. The nearest professional club to where we lived was Scunthorpe United, then in the Fourth, lowest, Division of the English Football League. I was a Liverpool supporter at that age and the fact that Ray Clemence and Kevin Keegan, then at Liverpool, had previously played at The Old Showground on Doncaster Road, held some excitement for me and brought the names and clubs on my collection of football cards that little bit closer. The ground had certainly seen better days. The stands were just big steel framed open bay sheds with a lot of corrugated iron or even asbestos sheeting forming the sides and roofs. Not at all watertight or weatherproof. My first match was a winter afternoon game so the floodlights were already on at 3pm when we had walked the full length of the High Street from the brand new multi-storey car park that was the centrepiece of Scunthorpe's new shopping precinct. I vividly recall that first sight of the still lush green pitch under the glare of the lights.That is still my favourite part of attending a game. Emerging from the underground maze of sub-terracing turnstiles into the mix of bright light and the competition between the tannoy system and the crowd. The ground, I cannot use the word stadium, was standing only, apart from the Directors and VIP area where hard plastic seats and bring your own cushion were the indicators of first class accommodation. The terracing in the Donny Road end behind the south goal was in harsh concrete that made your legs and souls of your feet ache after only 20 minutes. Me and my Dad sought refuge just in front of one of the metal barriers set in the concrete which gave some protection against being crushed by the surge of the crowd. The game must have been just before or just after Bonfire Night because, no sooner had we got settled to await the arrival of the teams, someone threw a banger which landed just behind an old chap near us. I think that the general noise of the crowd, in serving to stifle the actual explosion of the firework , may have saved the man from the full and startling impact of an unexpected improper explosive device. The crowd were quite unruly, foul mouthed, drunk and very handy throwing and rolling around beer cans and bottles which littered under foot. The teams filtered on and the game got underway. I could see most of the play but being somewhat short for my age I had to edge up on tip toe to see any attack down the far end or if the crowd in front jumped up or got otherwise agitated. I found it strange that the phases of action were not available to view and analyse on a replay having been used to this on my TV only based match experience. I was so enthralled by being at a real game that time flew. Half time came. A packet of crisps from the local Riley's brand cost 2p. I will not attempt to describe the squalid conditions in the communal toilets save I decided that I would not put myself in the position ever again to need them. Disappointingly, I cannot remember the score or opposing team but thanks to the internet it was apparently 0-0 against Swansea City. The walk back through the town to the car park was a bit frightening as the crowd spilled out at the end of the match. The evenings mayhem in the town centre had already begun.
Going to a game yesterday was such a massive contrast to the dark days of the 1970's. It was Jake's first match, age 7.Hull City versus Burnley. I did not want to go on my own so we came to a pact that if he saved up half the ticket money then I would pay the balance. He managed to get to 47p but thanks to a very enlightened pricing policy at Hull City he was already just under 16% paid up. We went on a nice clean Park and Ride bus which dropped us off just outside the KC Stadium. I was at its opening on a bitterly cold night in 2002, a purpose built £44 million facility. The concourse was lively but well illuminated as the winter afternoon light faded. Jake bought a programme. He had a couple of pounds from his Grandad towards the cover price. A thick and informative volume that could keep a young lad in reading matter and statistics for a month. We were very early, about an hour before kick-off but Jake wanted to soak up the atmosphere as he was into all things football and Man Utd. First on our list of pre-match things to do was to check the away team coach and then the players and officials cars in the car park. The owners Rolls Royce, lots of matt black 4 x 4's and definitely some sponsorship link with the local Audi franchise. Jake easily got through the turnstile although my big bulky coat made it a tight fit for me. He made sure that he got back his ticket stub as a souvenir. Our seats were high up in the two tier West Stand, just level with one of the goals. Jake plays goalie at school so he was thrilled that all three of City's keepers were out training in front of us. There was no one else yet sat in our block so we went walkabout. Loo, food franchise, popping through the other block entrances to see what was going on down on the pitch and then back to sit down with a bag of crisps and hot chocolate. Compared to my 1974 experience we were lording it up. Jake was anxious for the game to start. I think he actually counted the crowd in as I had told him that the game would start when everyone was sat down, yes, all seater, comfy seats and good leg room. All first class accommodation. The teams were on and warming up. I had to squint to make out any familiar faces but the team was mainly new signings and Andy Dawson who had played in all the Divisions and the Premier League for City was the only one I recognised. Then the announcer and guard of honour marked the start of the game. Jake was on the edge of his seat. The game started slowly but City were 1-0 up after ten minutes. We jumped around with the crowd at this good start. By half time, no more goals but our team were well on top. I was quite happy to stay seated or stretch my legs where we were but Jake needed the loo again and he was also hungry. The food franchising is a slick operation as required in a numbers-served game. The long queue we joined soon snaked it's way to the till. We left for our seats and the second half with a foot long hot dog in a foil warapper as big as a sleeping bag and a bottle of Pepsi. City were 2-0 up and cruising by 66 minutes. Arch rivals, Leeds were 2-0 down at home so we would leap frog them in the table, up to 5th. We had not really accounted for the course that the last last twelve minutes of the game went. Twelve minutes of madness in which Burnley scored three very good goals and then the final whistle. We were stunned in to silence. Jake was not downhearted though and was already starting negotiations towards the percentage he should be expected to put towards his ticket for the next home game.
Going to a game yesterday was such a massive contrast to the dark days of the 1970's. It was Jake's first match, age 7.Hull City versus Burnley. I did not want to go on my own so we came to a pact that if he saved up half the ticket money then I would pay the balance. He managed to get to 47p but thanks to a very enlightened pricing policy at Hull City he was already just under 16% paid up. We went on a nice clean Park and Ride bus which dropped us off just outside the KC Stadium. I was at its opening on a bitterly cold night in 2002, a purpose built £44 million facility. The concourse was lively but well illuminated as the winter afternoon light faded. Jake bought a programme. He had a couple of pounds from his Grandad towards the cover price. A thick and informative volume that could keep a young lad in reading matter and statistics for a month. We were very early, about an hour before kick-off but Jake wanted to soak up the atmosphere as he was into all things football and Man Utd. First on our list of pre-match things to do was to check the away team coach and then the players and officials cars in the car park. The owners Rolls Royce, lots of matt black 4 x 4's and definitely some sponsorship link with the local Audi franchise. Jake easily got through the turnstile although my big bulky coat made it a tight fit for me. He made sure that he got back his ticket stub as a souvenir. Our seats were high up in the two tier West Stand, just level with one of the goals. Jake plays goalie at school so he was thrilled that all three of City's keepers were out training in front of us. There was no one else yet sat in our block so we went walkabout. Loo, food franchise, popping through the other block entrances to see what was going on down on the pitch and then back to sit down with a bag of crisps and hot chocolate. Compared to my 1974 experience we were lording it up. Jake was anxious for the game to start. I think he actually counted the crowd in as I had told him that the game would start when everyone was sat down, yes, all seater, comfy seats and good leg room. All first class accommodation. The teams were on and warming up. I had to squint to make out any familiar faces but the team was mainly new signings and Andy Dawson who had played in all the Divisions and the Premier League for City was the only one I recognised. Then the announcer and guard of honour marked the start of the game. Jake was on the edge of his seat. The game started slowly but City were 1-0 up after ten minutes. We jumped around with the crowd at this good start. By half time, no more goals but our team were well on top. I was quite happy to stay seated or stretch my legs where we were but Jake needed the loo again and he was also hungry. The food franchising is a slick operation as required in a numbers-served game. The long queue we joined soon snaked it's way to the till. We left for our seats and the second half with a foot long hot dog in a foil warapper as big as a sleeping bag and a bottle of Pepsi. City were 2-0 up and cruising by 66 minutes. Arch rivals, Leeds were 2-0 down at home so we would leap frog them in the table, up to 5th. We had not really accounted for the course that the last last twelve minutes of the game went. Twelve minutes of madness in which Burnley scored three very good goals and then the final whistle. We were stunned in to silence. Jake was not downhearted though and was already starting negotiations towards the percentage he should be expected to put towards his ticket for the next home game.
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Fowl play by ducks
I loved the story that I heard today about ducks. This comes after a working day during which I had a lot of bird related problems and difficulties. The tale of fowl play comes from the 1950's when a particular cabaret act touring the clubs and entertainment venues consisted of very tame ducks performing a series of stunts and sequences. They would waddle around and jump over obstacles, career down slides and shutes, play football and, by being just ducks doing such things, thrill the assembled audiences. The grand finale was apparently amazing to behold. The ducks would be placed on a tin lidded box and proceed to carry out quite a complex but obvious dance routine, hopping about and making hilarious movements. At one top venue the main part of the act went very, very well. The wined and dined clientele expressed great delight at the act. Those at the tables who were familiar with the Stage Empresario and his ducks could be seen hinting to their fellow diners of the magnitude of the final act. However, with the ducks placed ceremoniously on the tin lid they point blank declined to do anything and just stood around or huddled together with no reaction to the clamour of the crowd. The whole performance fell flat on its face.There was talk of refunds and that the ducks would never work in the theatres or clubs again. The shattered showman was later asked in his dressing room what had gone wrong. He replied that it was all his fault as he had forgotten to light the candle in the box before putting on the tin lid. My own troublesome birds were at a property just outside Beverley. The house was a bit of a wreck, not humanly habitable but nevertheless dry and free from draughts. The ideal place therefore to use as a nursery for young game birds. What had been the lounge and kitchen were filled with small rearing pens for all manner of breeds. Even as a townie I recognised Guinea Fowl, Partridge and Pheasant. Approaching Christmas and with a ready market demand for an alternative dinner bird to a turkey these were being brought on and fattened up for the table. The smell in the ground floor of the house was quite unbearable and I had to break open some of the grubby paned windows just to get some sort of a through ventilation. There was the sound of mass panic from the main wood and wire mesh pens as I entered the room. Thinking that I might reassure the birds that I meant no harm I approached and peered into the compartments. Upon first actual sight of the looming source of the initial startling noise the birds went berserk. The air in the room filled with the dust from whatever formed the floor surface of the pens mixed with a lot of fine feathers. The only calm group of birds sat in an open top cardboard box under a heat lamp. I have no idea what breed they were. The six of them were a greasy black colour with no distinguishing markings. They could have been albatross,cormorant or shag for all I knew. They were quite inquisitive. Five of the occupants of the box seemed to cajole and physically heave the lone other bird onto the metal feeder so that it stood at head and bird shoulders height in relation to the others. The feeder had a dome shaped upper part with a shallow mucky water filled surround. The oval top was quite difficult for the delegated representative of the birds to balance on. Then it surprised me by leaping from the feeder onto the lip of the cardboard box. It wobbled a bit but regained its composure quickly. I tried to poke it back into the box with my clipboard. A flapping bird was, I found, very distressing and unsettling in a confined space. Rather than fall back to be chastised by it's possible siblings the bird jumped the other way onto the floor and scuttled into a corner formed by the pillar between the lounge and kitchen. I did not want to get into a pointless bird chase situation, nor did I want to actually come into contact with the thing being mindful of the whole bird flu epidemic in more recent times. I was also on a bit of a schedule so left the bird where it was hoping a mutual fear would keep it in its current location. Periodically I checked on the status of the scruffy bird. It stayed more or less in the same spot but was looking around obviously assessing its options. At one point all I could see of the bird was its backside and tail feathers. For some reason it had sought a feeling of security. To the bird this involved climbing beaklong into a brick sized hole in the wall just above the skirting board. Perhaps it felt invisible simply because it could not see me. It must have been boring because the next time I checked on the situation the bird had hopped up onto the edge of another but vacated rearing box about a metre away from its starting point. That was enough for me. With my toe end I negotiated the perching box towards the rearing box. The bird threatened to jump ship but as the two boxes came together I flipped up the edge lid and the sole bird was reunited. As if to welcome back the escapee the 5 encumbents immediately surrounded and cosseted the bird in quite a defensive and touching way. I had finished in the house. That just left a perambulation around the 8 acre grounds. The owner of the whole property was obviously hoping to cash in on the festive season. At the back of the house was a line of a dozen rather bare and sorry looking fir trees. These looked as though they had been salvaged, root ball intact, from a skip or the local Civic Amenity Site prior to being shredded and mulched for the benefit of the Parks Department flower borders. The main cash flow item was however the paddock of free range turkeys. The flock or whatever collective noun applied insisted on following me around the field. I must say that whoever associated such an ugly creature with a tasty meat must have been the most enlightened person ever. I suppose originating in the wild some poor soul may have had to resort to capturing and eating one of the diabolic looking creatures only for survival purposes. What a very pleasant experience and subsequent commercial venture that will have been. Their faces were an undefined mess of blue and red folded skin. With only a little more imagination and CGi effects they could easily have become another arch nemesis for Dr Who. The genes of a turkey do make them very conscious of their importance to the enjoyment of Christmas lunches the world over and they seemed undeniably proud of this in their demeanour and attitude. It was still sad to think that, as I completed my work, they would not see the light of Boxing Day.
Friday, 25 November 2011
Grubb, F H
I could not fail to notice that everything in the house had a label attached to it. The traditional type of label with a small tie of clean white string through a reinforced punched hole in the cream coloured paper tag, about the size of a library card. Some of the lables bore just a single initial, the majority had the same surname but prefixed with various initials, a few had a very formal and civil full name approach as though for a neighbour or aquaintance who had once admired the item and then the rest just said the single word of Charity. It was the slow process of the clearance of a house by a grieving family, some quicker than others to claim their entitlement amongst the furniture, framed prints and ornaments. I had met a middle aged man at the house. It had been a long time residence for his late father, in fact the family had bought the property from new in the late 1940's and he himself had been born in the place as had his siblings. It was a long time to be in a house but why think about moving when everything is provided under the current roof. I was there to value the property, less the chattels. I was left to wander about through the disarray of furniture, the small collected piles of similar items, a few bags of clothes, stacks of paperback books, kitchen pans and utensils and all the accumulated ephemera of a long life. It was difficult to negotiate a way through most of the rooms because of the upheaval and aftermath of family, friends and distant relatives searching and scouring the contents for a memento or keepsake. The loft hatch had been removed and had been rested against the staircase spindles. Grubby, dust streaked fingermarks indicated that the roof void had also been the subject of investigation and part clearance of the manageable items of worn suitcases, packing boxes and bundled up old curtains and sheets. A standard sized tea-chest had been evidently lowered through the loft hatch, and had snagged the wall with an unruly piece of the metallic edge trim before being deposited disappointingly empty in the doorway to the small front box-bedroom. I examined the abraded scar in the old wallpapered finish and then carefully moved the sharp edged chest out of the way to inspect the room. Of all the rooms in the house the smallest one was empty apart from a bicycle. I thought that I was the only person who kept a bike in the house and not in the shed or garage. The bike was not complete or serviceable. It had wheels but these were of the metal rims only, no tyres and of a poorer modern aluminium type usually provided with a new starter or junior racing bike. They had obviously been hastily fitted to keep the frame of the bike upright and safe from damage. It was clear that the frame was of good quality beneath the faded and corrosion speckled paint job. The lug work around the head tube was elaborate and well crafted. The same quality showed on the brazings for the main tubes and around the axle. I inserted two fingers of my right hand under the mid point of the crossbar and lifted slowly. Even with the dead weight of the wheels the bike was featherlight in weight. This, in its heyday, had been a top calibre machine for road-racing or the off-season leisure rides up to Scarborough or the Moors. As I lifted the bike higher, engrossed in its lightness, the wheels fell off from their loose association with the front and rear drop-outs. The clatter of noise brought the man to assist me, concerned if I was alright and apologising for the state of the house which was now completely at sorts to the standards kept by his parents and latterly his widower father. From the initial suspicion of me on my arrival this broke the ice and we got to talking on the subject of his father and his passion for cycling. The bicycle in the house had been all he could remember from his earliest years. He recalled that it had always been in pristine condition, shining and chrome polished even after a run out in mixed weather. The original wheels had been made of cane for absolute minimal weight. The components had been the best his father could afford. In the 1930's cycling was a major interest in the City and there were a number of very well patronised clubs catering for racing, socials, longer weekend runs to cafe's and cycle-touring. His father, a keen member of 'something or other Wheelers' had met his wife to be through the mutual love of cycling in a large group. The front of the frame was moved into the sunlight from the window. The man pointed out the emblem on the tubing below the handlebar head. It read "F H Grubb". This immediately sparked a memory from a conversation with my father about his cycling days, when as a mere teenager he had pedalled through Holland, Belgium and to Paris. He had spoken of many classic bike makers and Grubb had stood out as both unusually ugly for a commercial venture and a bit comical. The pedigree of the frame had been validated beyond doubt. The frame did not have a label attached so cheekily I asked what was to become of it. The man said that it would probably go to a youngster in the family as was his responsibilty as Executor for his father's estate. I had immediate visions of the frame sprayed lurid yellow, fitted with a front wheel smaller than the rear and used for stunts and jumps over scrap-wood ramps or dirt hills. The frame would prove disappointing in such pursuits as it would surely buckle and fold on any minor impact for which it was not intended. I asked if he would consider selling it to me. He said he would if I took it all away, frame ,wheels and , also, a box of bits which over the years had become detached or broken off . He disapperared into another bedroom. I heard some shuffling, the moving of heavy items, a profanity and then a cry of success. The box was indeed full of cycle related components topped by the protruding curl of clearly the original handlebars. I would check the boxed contents out in more detail later. The transaction did not take much to close. I offered £30 which was immediately accepted. The man obviously felt I was an idiot to want nothing more than a collection of welded pipes on wheels, notwithstanding the sentimental value. Personally, I could not believe my good fortune. Later, after work I took the frame, less the cheap wheels, to present to my father. He was amazed at my acquisition and availed the full story of the great Freddie Grubb, a Silver Medallist at the 1912 Summer Games in Stockholm in the individual and team road races before his retirement and setting up in the bike making business. My father and Freddie, whilst a generation apart, did have a common association with Croydon, north of London as a place of birth and manufacturing respectively. F H Grubb built bicycles from 1914 and even into the late 1970's after the Holdsworth brand continued his name two years after his death in 1949. My father over the following months took on the restoration of the frame as a project. It took much time and care to strip back the frame to the bare metal after accumulated dirt and corrosion had dulled the definition between lug and tube. Unfortunately, the task could not be completed within the lifetime of my own father but all the hard work has been done and I look forward to completing the project at some time in the future.
Thursday, 24 November 2011
Quirang
I am just not good at heights. My most frightening experiences have involved heights. I do not like heights at all. This has caused much mirth and merriment amongst my family who, I am convinced, go out of their way to make sure I am exposed to some sort of height related threat at least three to four times a year. Holidays tend to throw up the most opportunities to scare me to a point of absolute petrification. The trip, during a holiday on the Isle of Skye, to The Quirang was a prime example. The natural feature comprises a raised plateau within a crown shaped surround of volcanic basalt rock at some altitude and quite something to see. In the days of frequent Norse raiders in the Scottish Islands or general banditry The Quirang provided a safe and impregnable refuge for residents and their valuable livestock. If it was difficult to be attacked by a determined and motivated enemy then I held little hope of actually getting there as a tourist. The road up to the car park on the inland side was a forerunner of what could be expected on foot. Steep, tight turns, a sharp falling away below and the precarious and alarming positioning of sheep above and below the road as though they had two short legs on one side to appear level and steady on the otherwise hostile gradient. We set off along a footpath across a meadow, fairly good going and then beyond a drystone wall the path took on an all too sinister and threatening route. It sat on the only shelf of level ground atop a very steep drop into the valley below. On a map it would be represented by a thin brown contour line amongst many similar and closely packed brown lines. It felt as thin and narrow as the actual representation on the map. Add to that the fact that it was a bit windy. After all it was August, more of the same rainy season which prevailed for the whole twelve months of the year on Skye. Anticipating wet weather I had my waterproofs on as standard day-wear. In the wind my anorak rippled and flapped which increased my already heightened sense of danger and instability. A few walkers approached us from the direction of The Quirang so to my mind the route was do-able unless of course they had given up and just turned back. I did not want to appear weak or uncommitted by asking them. The path continued along the ledge and then disappeared around a bend following the topography of the hillside. That was enough for me and I sat down on the upper path edge and went on strike. The rest of the family struck on and out of sight. Within a few minutes they had returned. The pathway was blocked by a couple of ladies obviously suffering from the same allergic reaction to the prospect of plummeting to a painful death as I was experiencing. That and the fact that what looked to the eye like a straight route was in fact quite uppy and downy and could take at least a couple of hours of quite energic hiking to reach the base of The Quirang. I proposed we go and find a tea shop somewhere and the others, not wanting to lose face at their defeat by the path, gratefully agreed. I suspected from the large numbers of the general public in view enjoying that landmark feature that there was probably a large and very accessible coach park on the seaward side only a short hop and skip away from The Quirang posing no difficulty whatsoever to the elderly, infirm or very young. Other situations where I feared for my life included accompanying my wife on one of her favourite activities of walking coastal paths. Nasty situations were encountered along both the high cliff routes in Cornwall and on the North Yorkshire coastline. I also have problems going over bridges where the planking of the walkway leaves a narrow gap affording a very clear and unambiguous viewpoint of white-water rapids. I was proud of myself in successfully negotiating the cliff side path and a suspension bridge up to Tintagel Castle for an evening of magical Arthurian legends acted out by puppeteers. On a day to day level my work also puts me in what I feel are hazardous situations as far as heights are concerned.
Assured that my right hand was holding on as tightly as humanly possible to the top of the ladder I extended my left hand to ease myself up with the intention of actually clambering up onto the flat section of house roof. At that point, on a 30 foot hired wooden ladder, my legs began to shake uncontrollably as though bared open on a nerve end. The builder who had ascended onto the flat roof just before me remarked with some amusement that I did not appear to be enjoying myself. He was absolutely right and I had added another sorry chapter to my list of high places that I should never have attempted to get to. The most recent similar experience was only just this morning. At the top of a newly converted and swankily refurbished former Brewery building was the means and therefore an impulsive invitation to get out on the roof for an inspection. I assembled my own trusted 15 foot aluminium ladder and released the catch handle which held the bubble type perspex skylight in position. Immediately freed from its restraint the lightweight dome caught the wind and was wrestled out of my hand. I grimaced in case the hatch actually blew off its hinge and cascaded down to the ground or worst still clattered down the roof of the adjoining Catholic Church. The force of the wind had not been apparent during my ground level working but at a height of over 50 feet there was quite a strong breeze. I put my head out over the shelter of the hatch surround. What was left of my head of hair was ruffled and there was a definite feeling of suction and negative pressure through the vast expanse of the building below me. In the depths of the empty building I could hear a door slam. I was sure that during my progression through the four floor levels I had secured all the internal doors. I listened for the sounds of footsteps. Nothing followed the resonance from the slamming door. I was now at the threshold for stepping out onto the flat roof. There was however no shelter from the wind and in the absence of a safety rail to the overhanging edge I declined to detach myself from the ladder which otherwise kept me connected to the ground. There were some good photo opportunities for my work. The strap for my camera was draped around my right hand as I was fearful of dropping it beyond reach or even over and into the precipice between the building and its near neighbours. One detail of a sagging gutter on a lower roof section had to be recorded. This meant my rotating on the ladder trying to simultaneously hold on to the top rung and the camera whilst operating the zoom focus. I had by now come to the attention of the city centre pigeons who were congregating in the sheltered dead spaces between the buildings. Not expecting any food they just milled around or expressed annoyance that I had trespassed into their exclusive domain. I narrowly escaped a couple of warning shots from the agitated birds. It was time to retreat back into the calm of the building. Unfortunately the bubble hatch in its vertical position was now out of my immediate reach without upsetting my delicate balance. The hatch was above a small plant room on the top floor. There were offcuts of electrical cable strewn on the floor and I selected one of the shorter lengths. Catching in the wind my lassoo was difficult to control and it took about 5 minutes to toss the cable around the catch mount with enough purchase to draw the cover down within reach. I was happy with my improvisation and started to dismantle my ladder. I then realised that my camera was missing. I had, after all that, left it on the roof just below the lip of the hatch. The process was repeated with some annoyance. The hatch was just as unruly as before. As I stretched to pick up the camera I could feel that all too familiar leg wobble starting. This could easily cause a vibrating effect down the angled ladder to its footing on what had formerly appeared as a non-slip concrete floor. In natural light flooding in through the open hatch, the floor was the most highly polished screeded finish I had ever seen. I carefully made my way to down. As with most of my self exposure to heights the moment of touch down with both feet is ecstatic. The spine tingling feeling associated with above ground levels continued as I made my way out of the building. The renovation of the old Brewery building had included the creation of a full floor to three storey height atrium, a very indulgent waste of otherwise lettable space but visually stunning. I descended the resin floored landings, treads and risers carrying all my equipment and ladders. The view over the handrails and clear glass balustrade panels left little to the imagination of the vertigo sufferer and at last arriving at ground floor level I felt like kneeling down in Papal style to kiss terra firma.
Assured that my right hand was holding on as tightly as humanly possible to the top of the ladder I extended my left hand to ease myself up with the intention of actually clambering up onto the flat section of house roof. At that point, on a 30 foot hired wooden ladder, my legs began to shake uncontrollably as though bared open on a nerve end. The builder who had ascended onto the flat roof just before me remarked with some amusement that I did not appear to be enjoying myself. He was absolutely right and I had added another sorry chapter to my list of high places that I should never have attempted to get to. The most recent similar experience was only just this morning. At the top of a newly converted and swankily refurbished former Brewery building was the means and therefore an impulsive invitation to get out on the roof for an inspection. I assembled my own trusted 15 foot aluminium ladder and released the catch handle which held the bubble type perspex skylight in position. Immediately freed from its restraint the lightweight dome caught the wind and was wrestled out of my hand. I grimaced in case the hatch actually blew off its hinge and cascaded down to the ground or worst still clattered down the roof of the adjoining Catholic Church. The force of the wind had not been apparent during my ground level working but at a height of over 50 feet there was quite a strong breeze. I put my head out over the shelter of the hatch surround. What was left of my head of hair was ruffled and there was a definite feeling of suction and negative pressure through the vast expanse of the building below me. In the depths of the empty building I could hear a door slam. I was sure that during my progression through the four floor levels I had secured all the internal doors. I listened for the sounds of footsteps. Nothing followed the resonance from the slamming door. I was now at the threshold for stepping out onto the flat roof. There was however no shelter from the wind and in the absence of a safety rail to the overhanging edge I declined to detach myself from the ladder which otherwise kept me connected to the ground. There were some good photo opportunities for my work. The strap for my camera was draped around my right hand as I was fearful of dropping it beyond reach or even over and into the precipice between the building and its near neighbours. One detail of a sagging gutter on a lower roof section had to be recorded. This meant my rotating on the ladder trying to simultaneously hold on to the top rung and the camera whilst operating the zoom focus. I had by now come to the attention of the city centre pigeons who were congregating in the sheltered dead spaces between the buildings. Not expecting any food they just milled around or expressed annoyance that I had trespassed into their exclusive domain. I narrowly escaped a couple of warning shots from the agitated birds. It was time to retreat back into the calm of the building. Unfortunately the bubble hatch in its vertical position was now out of my immediate reach without upsetting my delicate balance. The hatch was above a small plant room on the top floor. There were offcuts of electrical cable strewn on the floor and I selected one of the shorter lengths. Catching in the wind my lassoo was difficult to control and it took about 5 minutes to toss the cable around the catch mount with enough purchase to draw the cover down within reach. I was happy with my improvisation and started to dismantle my ladder. I then realised that my camera was missing. I had, after all that, left it on the roof just below the lip of the hatch. The process was repeated with some annoyance. The hatch was just as unruly as before. As I stretched to pick up the camera I could feel that all too familiar leg wobble starting. This could easily cause a vibrating effect down the angled ladder to its footing on what had formerly appeared as a non-slip concrete floor. In natural light flooding in through the open hatch, the floor was the most highly polished screeded finish I had ever seen. I carefully made my way to down. As with most of my self exposure to heights the moment of touch down with both feet is ecstatic. The spine tingling feeling associated with above ground levels continued as I made my way out of the building. The renovation of the old Brewery building had included the creation of a full floor to three storey height atrium, a very indulgent waste of otherwise lettable space but visually stunning. I descended the resin floored landings, treads and risers carrying all my equipment and ladders. The view over the handrails and clear glass balustrade panels left little to the imagination of the vertigo sufferer and at last arriving at ground floor level I felt like kneeling down in Papal style to kiss terra firma.
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Pot of Gold
The promise of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow is a very tantalising thing particularly as the whole spectrum of gossamer continually evades being followed or captured and will not therefore relinquish the prize.......ever.
Such must have been the over-riding feeling for a man that I was asked to meet some years ago in order to discuss what was, in hushed tones, a potentially lucrative property deal.
Of course, my experience in the property market and in business generally has firmly taught me that if something sounds too good to be true then it surely is. However, that does not discourage many from pursuing it anyway just in case it does happen to be the deal of a lifetime.
I drove to the home of this particular man. It was a small, modest terraced house amongst many similar forming part of the 1930's suburban expansion of Hull. The garden was nicely kept, a neatly cut square of lawn, dug over and planted borders, small lavender hedge leading up to the front door. The net curtain in the bay window twitched as I touched the gate and the man was waiting on the doorstep by the time I had negotiated the short tarmac concreted path through the forecourt.
He confirmed his identity to me and as he did not drive, never had he proudly stated, we set off in my car. No specific direction was indicated. He glanced nervously around as though fearful we were being tailed.
Just past the football ground of Hull City some 2 miles away from his house I was instructed to pull over and park up. He had some difficulty alighting from the car in suffering from stiff joints and I noticed his rather scruffy long black coat, pin stripe trousers with turn-ups but good pair of sensible shoes.
He could have been, in age, anywhere between 55 and 80. Stubble on chin and cheeks, thinning grey hair and prominent red veins on his face and forehead.
I followed him along the main footpath past a few semi detached houses and then we darted down a narrow, unmade footway, chain link fenced between the last pair of houses and the start of a longer terraced block. The three foot wide path soon opened out into a large open space dotted with small sheds and greenhouses, bamboo canes standing like slalom gates and a faint whitish mist of a bonfire.
The land, private allotment land was, by my rough reckoning, about two acres in size.
I had not known of it's existence as it nestled in the centre of a built up suburban area and with the footway the only access point. Quite an oasis of production with well tended vegetable plots and soft fruit bushes and even some exotic specimens of grapes amongst the ramshackle glasshouses.
The man explained that he had been approached by someone who had expressed an interest in buying some bits of the allotments. There was an offer on the table of a few hundred pounds for each designated allotment plot and this, I calculated did add up to a fairly tidy figure if extrapolated across the whole parcel of land.
However, I was aware of the tricks and deceptions of the Site Finders and Land Buyers who regularly exploited the ignorance and poverty of many in similar situations in order to assemble a good body of land which could, for the initial investment of pennies be sold to a National House Builder for hundreds of thousands if not millions of pounds. Some complicated assembly projects could take a decade of subterfuge, confidentiality clauses and the taking out of options as a calculated gamble of getting Planning Permission for the highest possible value use. In most cases the waiting game was well worth it.
I looked around. This one would test the patience and nerve of any Site Finder.
There were upwards of 30 sheds so multiple owners and interests to consider. I asked the man which bit belonged to him. His expansive arm movement caught me by surprise. He was indicating that he was monarch of all we could see. It appears that he had worked the allotment for the last 30 years amongst a longstanding community of like minded horticulturalists and veg growers.
They had become firm pals wiling away many hours just yards away from each other and enjoying the quiet communion of a small patch they could call their own. The open space was a cloister away from their small and densely packed terraced houses where only weeds could grow through the forecourt and yard concrete. Their numbers, of course dwindled progressively every year either through ill-health, death or the invitation to live with family elsewhere in the country.
When an allotment strip was surrendered my contact willingly took it over, lock, stock and wheel-barrow for a reasonable financial consideration. On an hours, days , weeks and years worked basis the remuneration to his buddies was pitiful, but faced with possible expenses for healthcare, funeral charges or relocation the recipients themselves or their widows were grateful.
So, it transpired that the man owned two acres of potentially prime development land.
It would take outside money to buy a house on the road frontage for demolition to create a suitable access road but otherwise everything seemed to indicate that the rainbow's end was all pervading in this very spot.
I advised the man that he should gather together all the paperwork and the Legal Title documents and keep them safe. "The What?", he said. Although he owned the land in its entirety he had no actual proof to that effect. All transactions had been strictly for cash and on a handshake where the beneficiary of his generosity was, of course, alive or with his immediate dependants. Would that be a problem he asked?
Within eighteen months a national builder ,Tarmac Homes, had developed the site with tightly packed detached executive boxes along the length of a winding cul de sac road. I had lost touch with the man shortly after breaking the news to him that his expectations of a windfall would not materialise. He had been understandably shaken and devastated by my news.
The sad part was that it had never even crossed his mind that there was any added value to his own endeavours for any sort of development other than a more expansive vegetable patch. He just loved the thought of owning all that he saw and could walk around in the course of his allotment working day. The arrival of the Site Finder had in fact been as unwelcome as discovering insect teeth marks or fungal blight on his prize produce or the signs of a nightime feasting by snails on his delicate lettuce plants.
I never saw or heard of him again but on passing the former Show House, the best plot of the whole development at the entrance to the housing estate I have often remarked on a very neat square of lawn, freshly dug borders with a very good stock of hardy perennials and a trimmed lavender hedge leading up to the front door.
Such must have been the over-riding feeling for a man that I was asked to meet some years ago in order to discuss what was, in hushed tones, a potentially lucrative property deal.
Of course, my experience in the property market and in business generally has firmly taught me that if something sounds too good to be true then it surely is. However, that does not discourage many from pursuing it anyway just in case it does happen to be the deal of a lifetime.
I drove to the home of this particular man. It was a small, modest terraced house amongst many similar forming part of the 1930's suburban expansion of Hull. The garden was nicely kept, a neatly cut square of lawn, dug over and planted borders, small lavender hedge leading up to the front door. The net curtain in the bay window twitched as I touched the gate and the man was waiting on the doorstep by the time I had negotiated the short tarmac concreted path through the forecourt.
He confirmed his identity to me and as he did not drive, never had he proudly stated, we set off in my car. No specific direction was indicated. He glanced nervously around as though fearful we were being tailed.
Just past the football ground of Hull City some 2 miles away from his house I was instructed to pull over and park up. He had some difficulty alighting from the car in suffering from stiff joints and I noticed his rather scruffy long black coat, pin stripe trousers with turn-ups but good pair of sensible shoes.
He could have been, in age, anywhere between 55 and 80. Stubble on chin and cheeks, thinning grey hair and prominent red veins on his face and forehead.
I followed him along the main footpath past a few semi detached houses and then we darted down a narrow, unmade footway, chain link fenced between the last pair of houses and the start of a longer terraced block. The three foot wide path soon opened out into a large open space dotted with small sheds and greenhouses, bamboo canes standing like slalom gates and a faint whitish mist of a bonfire.
The land, private allotment land was, by my rough reckoning, about two acres in size.
I had not known of it's existence as it nestled in the centre of a built up suburban area and with the footway the only access point. Quite an oasis of production with well tended vegetable plots and soft fruit bushes and even some exotic specimens of grapes amongst the ramshackle glasshouses.
The man explained that he had been approached by someone who had expressed an interest in buying some bits of the allotments. There was an offer on the table of a few hundred pounds for each designated allotment plot and this, I calculated did add up to a fairly tidy figure if extrapolated across the whole parcel of land.
However, I was aware of the tricks and deceptions of the Site Finders and Land Buyers who regularly exploited the ignorance and poverty of many in similar situations in order to assemble a good body of land which could, for the initial investment of pennies be sold to a National House Builder for hundreds of thousands if not millions of pounds. Some complicated assembly projects could take a decade of subterfuge, confidentiality clauses and the taking out of options as a calculated gamble of getting Planning Permission for the highest possible value use. In most cases the waiting game was well worth it.
I looked around. This one would test the patience and nerve of any Site Finder.
There were upwards of 30 sheds so multiple owners and interests to consider. I asked the man which bit belonged to him. His expansive arm movement caught me by surprise. He was indicating that he was monarch of all we could see. It appears that he had worked the allotment for the last 30 years amongst a longstanding community of like minded horticulturalists and veg growers.
They had become firm pals wiling away many hours just yards away from each other and enjoying the quiet communion of a small patch they could call their own. The open space was a cloister away from their small and densely packed terraced houses where only weeds could grow through the forecourt and yard concrete. Their numbers, of course dwindled progressively every year either through ill-health, death or the invitation to live with family elsewhere in the country.
When an allotment strip was surrendered my contact willingly took it over, lock, stock and wheel-barrow for a reasonable financial consideration. On an hours, days , weeks and years worked basis the remuneration to his buddies was pitiful, but faced with possible expenses for healthcare, funeral charges or relocation the recipients themselves or their widows were grateful.
So, it transpired that the man owned two acres of potentially prime development land.
It would take outside money to buy a house on the road frontage for demolition to create a suitable access road but otherwise everything seemed to indicate that the rainbow's end was all pervading in this very spot.
I advised the man that he should gather together all the paperwork and the Legal Title documents and keep them safe. "The What?", he said. Although he owned the land in its entirety he had no actual proof to that effect. All transactions had been strictly for cash and on a handshake where the beneficiary of his generosity was, of course, alive or with his immediate dependants. Would that be a problem he asked?
Within eighteen months a national builder ,Tarmac Homes, had developed the site with tightly packed detached executive boxes along the length of a winding cul de sac road. I had lost touch with the man shortly after breaking the news to him that his expectations of a windfall would not materialise. He had been understandably shaken and devastated by my news.
The sad part was that it had never even crossed his mind that there was any added value to his own endeavours for any sort of development other than a more expansive vegetable patch. He just loved the thought of owning all that he saw and could walk around in the course of his allotment working day. The arrival of the Site Finder had in fact been as unwelcome as discovering insect teeth marks or fungal blight on his prize produce or the signs of a nightime feasting by snails on his delicate lettuce plants.
I never saw or heard of him again but on passing the former Show House, the best plot of the whole development at the entrance to the housing estate I have often remarked on a very neat square of lawn, freshly dug borders with a very good stock of hardy perennials and a trimmed lavender hedge leading up to the front door.
Long Lost and Forgotten Occupations
From time to time my company are invited to attend at School Careers Evenings and we are more than happy to do so. This usually involves our preparation of a short powerpoint presentation about the Surveying Profession, a collection of enlarged photographs of some of the more interesting properties we have looked at in recent years, some frightening photographs of bad workmanship, rampant fungus or hazardous arrangements that defy all the laws of construction, physics and gravity and a few leaflets hurriedly obtained from our Professional Institution outlining the broad range of actual work under the term of Surveying.
The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.
If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.
This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.
The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.
If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.
This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.
By way of actual research I have sourced the following list of forms of employment for Kingston Upon Hull from 1892. These come from a trade directory covering the main central city area which was at that time very densely populated with back to back terraces, numerous short off road terraces with a central footpath approach, larger town houses and the semi detached and detached villas of the better off. Some of the jobs are self explanatory but I have had to look up some of the terms which have been lost from public understanding over the ensuing century but were commonplace in the late Victorian period. The majority of the jobs are listed against male names although some will have been open to both men and women.
Sausage and skin dresser Bristle merchant Letter carrier
Brick burner Rag merchant Currier
Bird dealer Inventor & Patentee Seed crusher
Water Bailiff Mast Maker Wharfinger
Sail maker Lead grinder Dry salter
Waterman Cooper Cow keeper
Stamper G.P.O Canvasser N.E.R Rullyman
Waggonette Proprietor Stevedore Tinner
Brass finisher Smack owner Soot merchant
Lighterman Wardrobe dealer Oil Press Wrapper
Maker
Maker
Tar distiller Corn Factor Rate collector
Many of the jobs are specific to the maritime status of Hull as a trade and fishing port but are a very interesting insight into the life and times of our relatively near ancestors. The majority of the jobs have just died out although some do survive today in some guise or under a more technical description.
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo.
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.
Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course, no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.
(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic)
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo.
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.
Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course, no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.
(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic)
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
A Cut Above
The prospect of going for a haircut is, today, both pleasurable and therapeutic. A nice calm and subdued atmosphere, subtle lighting, background music by original artists and
the frequent offering of quality refreshments. A very far cry from my childhood experiences of getting a haircut. The title of hairdresser was then strictly reserved for a ladies salon, either blue rinse or ridiculously expensive. In those days the Male Barber ruled supreme.
Of course, the first generation of haircuts were done at home. My mother’s dressmaking scissors, sharp and pointy, were ideally made for a good trim. She was very steady handied but we were still a bit nervous and excitable at the prospect of the dreaded instrument. It’s emergence usually signaled a return to school after the holidays or as a pre-cursor to some family event. The scissors were soon to be replaced by a hand held electric macerator type comb, made I think by Phillips, Morphy Richards or Remington. This was a one action, unisex piece of equipment. The hair was thinned out in the combing action but with no concessions at all to style. Standing in school assembly and looking around it was clear whose parents were advocates of the comb-cut. If the respective offspring actually stood together we looked very much like those children in the Midwitch Cuckoo film or the illegitimate children of 1970’s Commander Straker from TV’s UFO series.
My first visit to a barber, that I remember, was to Harry Westcott’s in the small market town in Lincolnshire
I graduated in my early teenage years to my mother’s hairdresser who had a salon just off the town centre. A more genteel atmosphere but equally traumatic for a pubescent lad in the realm of mature women. The main source of my anxiety was the salon owner, the head stylist. She was a large lady in all departments. In the 1970’s the Kaftan was in vogue and this enfolded her ample proportions but with very little left to the imagination of a teenage boy. Floating around the chair I was conscious of her large breasts brushing against me. I was festooned in an atmosphere of perfume. I would blush uncontrollably usually in tandem with perspiration to my forehead and nose and being tongue tied. If she remarked that I looked a bit hot that only served to open up the pores. If I was sat near the shop front window I could easily cause it to steam up. I feared spontaneous combustion was imminent. There was very little common ground on which to base a conversation and the silence for the duration was equally awkward. This was multiplied many times if, as it invariably was, the salon was busy. Head down I would grunt approval of whatever haircut I had received, hand over my £2 and wait until well down the street before checking its appearance in the reflected image from a shop or office window.
I still do not look forward to getting a haircut. The time for a haircut is the subject of strong hints and remarks about my very unkempt and poorly groomed appearance by my wife and children. I, however, am waiting for the Mad Professor look to come back into fashion but find that with my bald patch winning the battle for the top of my head I require less and less time in the Barber’s chair. There are certainly some economies in a dwindling hairline.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Design a Label
“Yes, we are all individuals”. Say it in unison,” Yes we are all individuals”.
This would truly be a nightmare for the marketing industry and those engaged in social engineering who insist on streaming and categorising us at every stage of our lives. Designations can be quite innocent, from New Borns to Pre-Schools which are quite cute labels through to the often derogatory Juvenile and Youff sectors. Whatever the label these are used to channel vast amounts of advertising monies from manufacturers and producers to the Media and other grateful recipients.
I believe that in my twenties I merged into the DINKY designation, by being newly married with a working wife and not quite ready to start a family. This was a definite step up, in my reckoning from being referred to as a YUPPIE, although in the wilds of Lincolnshire where I was working at the time this was as far from a stereotypical truth as possible. My hard-wiring connection to the system was consolidated with a mortgage, the beginning of a pension plan and life insurance. I soon got a transfer from DINKY with the arrival of three children and joined the ranks of the self employed. I refuse to recognise the term Entrepreneur in relation to anything I have done in business because of its negative image of involving dubious operations, unethical approaches and ultimately a wholly selfish and self centred approach euphemistically referred to as single mindedness or possessing a business brain.
My wife and I, in our mid to late twenties became engrossed in a TV series called “Thirty Something”. The couples portrayed were a bit further on in their lives than we were but were having a fabulous time in business, family and social life, plenty of leisure time, disposable income and just plain fun. Of course, an American series and surprise, surprise the couples worked in Advertising with only beautiful people. We were above all, realists but now in our late forties we feel we certainly did our own thing and enjoyed it immensely in that decade. Our daughters are in their twenties away at Uni and our 16 year old son is making his way with us. The media machine tells me that I am approaching the Empty Nester stage. I cannot see this myself based on the statistics that your children are now well into their upper 30’s before they are in a position to buy their first property through no fault of their own if they have student loans and a deposit to deal with. On this possibility we are preparing to move house, a technical downsize but with every intention to have space for our offspring should it be needed until they are ready and able to branch off on their own or indeed at any stage in their own lives . The last few recessionary years have made a big dent in many family incomes and we all expect to have to work up to or even beyond statutory retirement age, conditional on being of sound body and mind and able to operate the next best thing1001.
I have just learned of a new pigeon-hole designation for me, but one I am more than happy to be a member of. This is the term MAMIL. I have actually had honorary entitlement to this designation for many years, even before the abbreviation was dreamt up, probably by some newly graduated but not quite shaving bright young thing entrusted by his seniors to find a new market to exploit. Apparently, it is thanks to the MAMIL socio-economic group that there has been an upsurge in certain business sectors much to the surprise of commentators and at variance from what the recession riddled statistics show for the rest of the economy. What are the signs to spot or even to identify yourself as a MAMIL?. 1) Physical indications of an expanding stomach area or good old beer-gut. 2) The illogical urge to take exercise but at the same time lacking the will power to do it. 3) A garage and a collection of bits that could be assembled to facilitate being a MAMIL. 4) No sense of fashion, modesty or shame whatsoever.
Finally 5) No appreciation of the limitations of your actual age or the likelihood of a coronary or popping a hernia. When do MAMIL’s show themselves? Well, in my case prime time is usually twice over a weekend. This depends on whether I have done all my chores and obligations and most importantly on the weather. I am known as a fair-weather MAMIL. Where are we found? Well, there are two distinct species. The largest group are quite gregarious and like to go around in a large, like minded crowd often downhill or off road or culminating in a session at a pub or cafe. I belong to a more reclusive sub-group in preferring to go it alone and on the open road. More of a purist in pursuit of the essence of being a MAMIL. Some of us are just showy and posers with the latest gear and a brand new sparkling machine from Italy , France or the USA. I am a bit of a traditionalist, or in other words, all my gear is old and has seen better days. Some call it retro and it will however, in the scheme of things, soon be back in vogue. You guessed it, I am a Middle Aged Man In Lycra. A mobile advertisement for the most forgiving but at the same time the most unflattering apparel ever.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
East Fife 5 Forfar 4
Growing up, a Saturday was always a very special day. It was the only day that could really be enjoyed by a child. It marked a school week that be ticked off as having been endured. Another 5 days done out of, well, from Infants school to being a leaver at age 17-18, at least 3500 days of full on education minus genuine sick days or those when fast persistent breathing can cause a light headedness which persuades your mother to let you stay at home. I did this trick often until I was about 13 years old. Unfortunately, I cannot now watch a black and white film without feeling sympathetic anxiety from those days when a skive off usually involved watching Miss Marple movies just before my siblings burst in and took over the sick. By contrast, a Sunday was not to be enjoyed. Smartened up for Church, usually people around for lunch or out visiting family or friends and then preparation for the next days return to school. Bath, hairwash, Nit scrape (seasonally optional) and recovering the contents of the satchel which had been enthusiaistically dispersed about the house after getting back on a friday. In the 1970's I remember the saturday morning TV. Champion the Wonder Horse, The Flashing Blade, Marine Boy. Then along came Swap Shop which was a revolutionary concept for a Kid's programme. The combination of a Live broadcast and interviews with children was highly risky for the BBC but became an important part of the schedule. Following the chaos of Swap Shop was the order and procedure of Grandstand. The sports coverage started with a whistle stop summary of what was on during the day. Horse racing, rugby, the one off annual coverage of the Boat Race, boxing, athletics, rowing, cross country running, very infrequent and poorly reported cycling and of course, Football. I avidly watched the forerunners to Football Focus as it previewed the days main games and from not just the old First Division. In the pre-satellite TV days any football action on the small screen was extremely rare, usually the FA Cup Final and some England or the Home Internationals. The short snippets of action from the previous weeks games was all that was available. There were features on new managers and the best players, all of whom seemed to drive a Ford Capri and have a hairdresser girlfriend or wife. They were easily on at least £100 per week but even at such a high level of earnings they were somehow approachable, literate and articulate. After the football section and faced with the prospect of horse racing from Chepstow it was time to do some activities outside. Perhaps a trip to the shops, a play out at friends, kick about or just up to mischief generally. Somehow, and without a watch, clock or timepiece I always sensed when it was time to get home for the next TV session. Play-Away. This ran from about 3.30pm to 4.30pm. A mix of singing, nonsense, sketches and all round entertainment usually accompanied by the smell of cheese on toast from the kitchen. Then, the pivotal part of saturday. The chattering of the ancient teleprinter with abbreviated latest and final scores and then the football results read on the BBC by Tim Gudgin. Actually, his name was rarely mentioned or at least not at all noticed by me as I lined up my slotted league table from the pre-season Shoot Magazine and prepared to meticulously write down, for posterity, the days scores. Tim Gudgin had that sort of familiar voice that gave a great feeling of calm and well being in the world. The results were never hurried or mis-delivered. There were hints in the tone of his voice of a score draw or a surprise away win even before he gave the facts. The big scoring games were always reported with style and with great emphasis on the second teams heriosm if retrieving a draw after being many goals to the poorer for much of the game. He gave no hint of where his allegiances as a fan lay which showed exceptional professionalism and a very thick skin. The reading out of the results would always, however, drag on. A full league programme extended into the Scottish second division or, if there were Cup matches, even some non-league results to make up the fixture on the Pools Coupon. We did the Littlewoods Pools for a short time but my maths was not that strong on small numbers and fractions and I must have given false hope to my family of a massive pools win by adding up with great innacuracy. I saw the coverage of Tim Gudgin's last broadcast and I was sad. Change is a disturbing thing. It was the same when the Speaking Clock changed sex, when John Peel died and sherbert fountain packaging went plastic.I await to see the pedigree of the next incumbent of the institution that is reading the football results. I hope it is not some automated voice or a regional accent that would require sub titles. The BBC will have asked, no doubt, that Tim Gudgin pre-records a number of announcements to cover all future eventualities. I would not at all be phased or distressed by a voice over the airwaves announcing, for example, " And now for the final moments of the world threatened by meteorite impact read by.........................."
As a footnote, the ultimate football result almost came true on the 1st of November this year.It was amazingly, East Fife 4, Forfar 3.I would have like to have been at that game for the last few moments of unprecedented expectation. Perhaps Tim Gudgin felt it was a case of so close but no cigar and faced with insurmountable odds against it actually occuring this may, I speculate have led him to think about retiring, oh, and he was 82 years old.
As a footnote, the ultimate football result almost came true on the 1st of November this year.It was amazingly, East Fife 4, Forfar 3.I would have like to have been at that game for the last few moments of unprecedented expectation. Perhaps Tim Gudgin felt it was a case of so close but no cigar and faced with insurmountable odds against it actually occuring this may, I speculate have led him to think about retiring, oh, and he was 82 years old.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Big Yellow Taxi Skateboard Song
The 'Big Yellow Taxi' is in for an oil change. Apologies to Joni Mitchell.
She paid over the dough
and bought the big Arbor Blunt
with a drawing board and a laser tape
she was ready to do them stunts
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone
So they paved Taafe Place
And put up a skateboarding lot
She had all the gear
to wear with some style and pan’ache
looked a million bucks
but it didn’t really involve much cash
Don't it always seem to go,
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone
They paved Brooklyn
And put up a skateboarding lot
Hey, Hannah spanner
Put away that attitude now
Do a fancy jump and some turns
but watch out for that kerb and truck
Sucks!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til its gone
They paved New York
And put up a skateboarding lot
On the streets
the crowds, stood around and watched
as long-board Hannah cruised by
wearing headphones and bright pink socks
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone
They paved USA
And put up a skateboarding lot
I said
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone
They paved everywhere
And put up a skateboarding lot
They paved The World
And put up a skateboarding lot
They paved Planet Earth
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