Filthy Lucre

Money comes easily to some people.

It may be from the inheritance of a fortune, the germ of an idea that becomes an indispensable part of modern life, a piece of writing that captures the imagination of a generation, a natural skill that can be put to good exploitative use by others, stumbling across something valuable, from the proceeds of despicable crime or it is won in a game of chance or on the scratching away of a small sliver of silver.

I like one of the sayings attributed to the American multi millionaire J Paul Getty which shows a good attitude to and a wicked acceptance of his fantastic wealth, "Rise early, work hard, strike oil". On that mantra I can be severely criticised as performing only at just over 66% of my potential.

Money has always burnt a hole in my pockets and I find it very difficult to hold onto it for very long if at all. Not that I am upset or feel at a disadvantage by this trait. Indeed I have casually observed people with plenty of money whose main pursuit in life is not to lose it and this sadly produces much anxiety and stress that must serve to completely hamstring them from ever really enjoying the rewards of their endeavours, however it has been got.

It is often the case that the wealthiest are also the most cost conscious or what the rest of us refer to as tight. In the current but prolonged recession it is clear that around 85% of the nation is skint and retracting in their spending and confidence whilst the remaining percentage are cleaning up nicely, thank you very much, by being able to access cash or other funds. In adversity comes a determination to survive and resourcefullness and innovation emerge as a strong motivation. This may explain the upsurge in such operations as hand car washes, wheelie bin swiller outers and the chronically accident prone as customers for the sudden proliferation of accident lawyers.

Money can empower and faciltate great things but any reference to it still attracts derogatory and quite obscene terms. This is by no means a modern phenomena as early literature and drama refers in ribald and bawdy language throughout many centuries. My favourite term of 'filthy lucre' is reputed to have been a broad interpretation of a passage from the book of Leviticus by William Tyndale in his translation of the Bible in 1525.

It is clear that money can also cause great misery. Perhaps one of the best documented cases is that of Viv Nicholson. In 1961 there were few opportunities to win a lot of money but the main competition of the time was the football pools. I remember a regular caller to our house being the 'pools man' who would drop off and collect the weekly coupon. Talk about confusing to a young child. The form was ultra complex in its multiple boxes, permutations , red and black inkiness and it took a keen mathematical brain to work out how much had to be handed over in payment before the duplicate slip could be detached and propped up behind the clock on the mantelpiece. We never to my recollection won anything. Hopes were readily dashed by the dour voice at the end of the saturday football results if the pools forecast was poor or even moderate. Viv Nicholson won over £152,000 which in current monies equates to around £3 million. An unimaginable sum in the early sixties and with enough spending power to buy 306 standard Mini's or 54 average priced houses depending on whether you had an indoor toilet or not. Sadly a combination of personal tragedy, poor investments and the much coined 'Spend, Spend, Spend' approach did little for the rainy day account.

The prospect of winning £3 million pounds today may be met with cries of 'is that all?' because of the cheapening of money as a prize. Its easy availability to win with almost every commercial break on TV, on alternate pages of newspapers and glossy magazines or on the purchase of a lottery ticket means a much reduced perception of what is a life changing amount. We should just stand back and do a quick piece of mental arithmetic on how many years it would take of our current working income to reach such a figure. Adopting an average annual wage from the combined male and female figures makes it around 109 years.

The sight of Lottery winners is now so commonplace as to be overlooked as an event or to be acknowleged as good fortune. Some of the back stories of winners do attest to justice and entitlement but the majority do not.

Hard earned money by conventional and lawful means does have a special pedigree of its own. I can appreciate the dewy eyed sentiment of many who have trod this path that accumulating that first fortune was the best time of their lives.

I was told a great story in recent days about what having a nice amount of money can mean. It centres around a family from what was a hardcore coal mining town in South Yorkshire. A life downt' pit was replaced by a thriving business in the community which grew to multiple shops and consequential wealth. The matriarch of the family expressed delight to a long time friend in the town in announcing that they had just purchased a plane. As an indicator of sustainable wealth an aircraft is right up there with a yacht or overseas homes. It meant, above all, to the family that it now only took 20 minutes to get to Skegness. True class always shines through.

Thoroughly modern

In the late 70's I was a Mod. The options available to my age group were, at that time, quite limited.

There were, in addition to my chosen clique, followers of Rock, Punks , New Romantics and then the rest, usually the forerunner of what are now referred to as Geeks although yet to be provided with computers and IT worth admitting to beyond a Sinclair Spectrum.

I did like some of the mainstream rock and the up and coming wave of British Heavy Metal. Punk was still hanging on from 1977 and was still vibrant and exciting. New Romantics were just a bit too girlie for my liking.

The main catalyst to following the mod scene was the availability of an old suit which I found in my Fathers wardrobe. It was a very ancient thing. Faded to light grey from a slightly darker grey. A bit shiny on the lapels, worn in the seat and with holes in the softer cloth linings of the pockets. It was also huge on me, not that my Father was at all larged framed but because I was for the first time in my life, skinny.

The outsized look was however well ahead of its time but I can take no credit for its later emergence as a fashion statement by The Talking Heads. The jacket swamped me and I had , in a rather OCD way,to keep tugging up the sleeves so that they did not make me look as though my hands had been severed.

As for the trousers they resembled a cross between jodphurs and those rather comic winged examples favoured by Mussolini and other dictators. The original tailoring will have wandered in and out of being in fashion on a regular cycle from the late 1950's and early 60's. I am not really sure if it was actually a new purchase by my Father or of a second hand, charity or inherited status to kit him out for his early working years. I do not actually recall Father ever wearing any suit other than a black, formal business number.

The only alteration I had done was a tapering of the trouser legs to eliminate flap and wind drag. I was just trying to follow the trend of skinny leg jeans in which you had to sit in the bath to get a tight shrink fit. The definitive and authentic Mod suit just needed some accessories and shoes to complete the look. Again the wardrobe was a rich seam for such things. I made use of some black thin braces to hold up the still baggy trousers. They had previously graced Fathers best dress suit for attending formal dinners and presentations.

The shirt was a choice between a collarless one to give a casual stylish look or a very sharp and stiff collar to go with a thin black tie. These things were from the section of the wardrobe of clothes worn to funerals.

The final item was a pair of suitable shoes. These were very uncomfortable being about two sizes too small but that was a small sacrifice to acheive the pointy toe style of a real pair of Jam shoes. A real pair of winkle pickers.

In fact, the only thing that came from my own collection of clothes was a pair of grubby, off white and holey socks. They were a bit of a let down.

Fee Fi Fo Fum

It is important in modern parenting to be truthful but also entertaining as far as bringing up the children is concerned. Sometimes one of these stipulations may be at the expense of the other. This is where the myths and legends are born that stay in the memory of your children forever. They remain fresh and alive because they served to excite, stimulate and to be honest, petrify, young, formative and inquisitive minds at the time.

Even when they reach adulthood, when things gets a bit more serious, this memory resource kicks in and reminds them that ,at heart, they are still children, your children. Their fondest recollections may be based on a complete fabrication of nonsense but that is perfectly fine because they have assimilated all the information themselves and have come to their own reasoned understanding which will serve them well for the rest of their lives.

Take the story told to our three children about the invisible giant who lived in the next street to ours.

He/she/it, not wanting to judge giants on a gender basis, would be sat up on the telephone wires every time we walked to town from our house.

We would gradually pick up speed as we approached the cut through snicket over which the giant had a great vantage point. The children would skulk along, heads down in order to avoid any form of eye contact with the creature. I may have mentioned that people could be turned to stone in such an event. What a ridiculous thing to say to impressionable children. Everyone knows that it is the Gorgons that do that to onlookers. A giant is more inclined to just eat you and grind your bones as a substitute for flour for home baking -possibly a sign of intolerance to wheat products.

Perhaps I should not have provided a running commentary on what the giant was doing as we passed by under his swinging feet but it felt right to keep the children up to date with the behavioural traits of such an uncommon creature for our local area.

The high fencing flanking the snicket, when we eventually reached it, did provide some shelter from the persistent staring and drooling of the grumpy giant and we were glad to duck into the narrow passage after being stuck out in the open of the roadway.

From the relative sanctuary of our refuge we could glance back timidly at the sight of the telephone wire sagging and straining under the great flabby weight of that fearsome and intimidating figure. We always planned to come back by another, much longer but definitely safer route as laden with bulging shopping bags we could be easily picked off one by one.

The giant resided there for many, many years but behaviour and attitude towards us did not improve with familiarity.

As the children grew up and got more independent they did not feel that they wanted to go on the usual trips to the shops with their parents and started to go out with their friends, firstly on their scooters and bikes and then by bus and later by car. The treading of the usual path under the malevolent gaze of the giant was no longer a large part of our lives.

We moved house, a little further away and had no cause to use the snicket as a cut through to town. Many years later I found myself on that street but sadly the giant had upped and left. I conveyed the news to my now older teenage children and we were a bit sad but also optimistic that the giant had moved on to somewhere with a better view than a residential street.

Personally I blamed the telephone company for driving the giant away. I suppose that they have a responsibilty to replace wires where the outer weatherproof cover has separated from the actual cable and hangs down as though under the haunches of a fantastical but clinically obese mythical entity.

Seat of learning

The stout, elegant chair had been surplus to the requirements of Lloyds Bank or had just fallen out of favour being replaced by a green plastic moulded type on metal legs, one requiring a wipe down with a damp cloth and not a lifetime of care. I expect it will have graced the branch managers office. The legs, masterfully turned by hand with cross bracings were properly jointed into the broad seat. A steadying semi circle of spindles and a slightly raised back will have given the manager a good upright and authoritative appearance for those all important decisions of lending which could change the fortunes and future of a nervous customer or alternatively to assist in the passing on of bad news for a weak business plan.

It just arrived at our house one day, carefully negotiated out of Father's car and taking up a place in the back room which contained the upright piano and a large table for doing homework and activities. Through the growing years of the five of us siblings it survived being stood on, jumped from, being turned upside down, dragged around , rocked on one, two or three of its legs, being left in the garden overnight and assaulted by orange squash, painting water, water paints ,wee-wee and worse.

When the family moved in 1979 I assumed stewardship of the chair and it ended up in my bedroom, the first time I had had a room to myself ever. The move to the new house had included our Gran taking up residence in a downstairs room and the furniture that had come from her bungalow was distributed amongst the main family rooms. I got a dark wood bureau desk. It looked classy but when the drawers were removed it was of a rough almost matchwood quality typical of the shortages of good wood in the years after the first world war. The flimsy ply back panel regularly deposited a fine dust from active woodworm onto the carpet. Both chair and desk went well together. When shuffled up under the drop down leaf it felt very comfortable and solid. I spent many, many study hours in that position and that chair was a major reason for acheiving the results that allowed me to pursue my career.

It was some years before the chair followed me to a house of my own. The strength remained in the wood and my own children put it to the test as I had when a similar age. From time to time the mahogany was subjected to a thorough feeding and polishing and looked as good as new. It continued in daily use until eventually being stored in the garage. The deterioration in the moist atmosphere was rapid and alarming. Any organic material in the wood seemed to have been sucked out and the sheen from polish and thousands of abrasive sitting movements was replaced with a black surface mould. The familiar weight , bulk and presence had gone and in its place was a dry almost brittle skeletal frame. I lifted the deadwood off its nail on the garage rafter and in doing so it fell apart in my hands.

I think the abandonment and betrayal felt by the chair had killed it.

In search of Suilven

Check fuel guage, tyre pressure and condition. Stock up with warm clothes even though it is mid July and have a good supply of water, chocolate, oatcakes and crisps. Sensible precautionary preparations for any intended road trip and even more so when the route is through the most sparsely populated area in Europe.

It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start stop sort of day.

Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box. As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignataries and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway. The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommisioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.

As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely paralell to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers. Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles. The seaviews disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks. By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea. The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports. Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the Germanic tribes going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motorhomes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a columm of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.

Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey. The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel. It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace. The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving. Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating placenames. The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.

The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh.
Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland. The reason for the journey is now close at hand.

Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policemans helmet of a mountain. It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilbergs Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting. It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile. The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refridgerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.

The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.

Bonnie and Clyde

A sweeter, nicer octogenarian couple you could not have hoped to meet.

Silver Grey haired and a bit creaky on their pins but with minds as active and engaged as someone a quarter of their age. I had arranged the appointment to survey their property for a prospective buyer myself. We had hit it off well in the telephone conversation to agree a date and time for me to call. Exceptional manners and courtesy were apparently highly valued and I made a mental note to make sure that, on the day of my visit, my shoes would be well polished and I was groomed and tidy. We ended the phone call with pleasantries, a few points of humour and the prospect of copious cups of tea and lashings of sandwiches and cakes. In the run-up to the appointment I imagined the old couple preparing for my visit by refreshing the wc rim block, replenishing the lavender drawer liners, re-stocking the toilet rolls under the knitted doll covers, replacing the old and worn doylie covers on the dining table, relentlessly boiling up the antimacassars and activating a power sapping array of plug in air fresheners.

Their property, a bungalow, was in Skegness, not quite the Cannes of Lincolnshire but nevertheless a pleasant place to retire to. Wide windswept sandy beaches, wide open skies and on the fringes of some beautiful countryside glimpsed above the roofs of acre upon acre of static holiday caravans and the Butlins Holiday Camp. I speculated that the couple had taken up a hard earned retirement, perhaps 20 years before ,with a move from perhaps the sprawling and foreboding industrial cities of the English Midlands or emerging from the dark satanic mills of the South Yorkshire manufacturing and mining areas. I imagined their mutual excitement about a fresh start and the possibility of seasonal stays from their children , granchildren and family friends who would no doubt see a trip to the coast as a good excuse for a visit.

The bungalow was in a cul de sac of very, very similar looking properties. Brick and tiled exteriors, neat manicured lawns and borders to all and always a compact Japanese car on the driveways. I could see failing eyesite and early stages of senility amongst the residents as a potential source of confusion for pulling up outside and even entering the wrong property.

I was welcomed into their home like a long lost son. The couple had more than lived up to my speculations and imaginings. I made a point of subtly showing off my clean shoes and this was met by a favourable reception and an immediate sit down, slap up light tea. I made polite remarks about the nice intricate doylie's and that there must be a large fragrant field of lavender close by given the overpowering scent in the room. We traded condensed life-stories and I gracefully commented on their framed photos of what were, frankly, quite ugly and chubby grandkids. I was loathe to break up our cosy and intimate love-in but I had to remind myself that I was there to do a good thorough inspection for my client.

The outside of the bungalow was of conventional appearance and in well maintained order.

The inside of the bungalow was a completely different entity.

The first window I opened as a basic test of operation fell out of the frame and into the flower bed.

On tapping around the inner surface of the outer walls there was a distinct metallic resonance.

The floors were weak and springy.

In the roof space there was a strong theme of grey in large boarded sheets.

Between the grey sheets was a mass of tangled and distorted mesh.

My diagnosis; The bungalow was a bricked around chicken wire rendered former asbestos prefab.

I quizzed the couple on what they knew about the place as I was now very suspicious about their motivations in buttering me up. It was on their part a very calculated, measured and cynical diversionary tactic. Now confronted they feigned deafness, frailty and complete ignorance of everything to do with the bungalow. I had rumbled them and they did not like it. Their active and engaged minds had been wholly misused for the purposes of financial gain. I did not want to stay there any longer. In fact driving out of the cul de sac I was mightily relieved to have got away without mishap or worse. I did not find out what happened to the couple or whether if fact they did dupe anyone into purchasing their glorified asbestos packed chicken wired seaside retreat.

In quieter moments I have toyed with the idea that they were the kingpins of a massive nationwide scam perpetrated by a gang of retirees exasperated by the diminishing returns of savings and investments and, lets face it, desperate for a bit of a thrill and a buzz that could not be attained even by faulty wiring on a stannah stair lift or a bath hoist that has no earth bonding.

What's another year?

Strong recollections of a particular time, place, emotion and person can be triggered by something quite ordinary- a specific song, a smell, a familiar view , a sound or even a piece of writing.

1980 was a year packed full of many memories for me. It was the year of my 17th birthday, time to begin to accept the fast approach of adulthood and with that a realisation of responsibility for self and future. The standard ritual of applying for a provisional driving licence was followed and decision time was looming for what I wanted to do for a career.

However, on a tuesday in particular the most important and critical issue in my life, which overshadowed all other issues, was the music charts which came out about midday from the only broadcast station worth listening to, BBC Radio 1. Living close to the school I was on home dinners and my role amongst my classmates was to report back with the top ten singles which always established the bragging rights for the forthcoming week for the mods, rockers and , well, no other allegiance mattered.

Musically it was a very strange period. After the punk and new romantic era in the late 70's it was the time in 1980 for the commercialism of Ska, a revival of the Mods and the birth of the new wave of british heavy metal. An exciting time for being young but then curiously tempered and stunted by massive chart topping success for The Nolan Sisters, Kenny Rogers, Johnny Logan and St Winifreds School Choir. Some days I dare not go back to school after lunch.

Emotions around musical loyalties ran high with much scribbling of graffitti and band logo's on pencil cases, sports bags and text books. Confusion over music was also rife. In a poll for the school magazine amongst the whole compliment of male pupils the absolute best in a certain category of music also and in complete contradiction came rock bottom.

An honorary minutes silence was held in our slum of a common room for the untimely passing of John Lennon (shot) and Ian Curtis (suicide).

World events did start to be followed by an age group otherwise led by hormonal changes, music, fashion, girls and those old enough to own or have access to a car. There were tumultuous times everywhere else to where I lived giving a strong feeling of wanting to do something, anything to feel connected to what was going on. I was becoming aware that I was living a safe and privileged life and this evoked very mixed feelings of guilt and relief.

In Poland the strike led by Lech Walesa was a distinct threat to the communist regime. The Russians were in a corner over this, in a war in Afghanistan and boycotted over their hosting of the Olympic Games. Fittingly for the volatile nature of the Soviets a main film released during the year was 'The Empire Strikes Back'. The Cold War was back on. I recall watching the live TV coverage of the Iranian Embassy siege in London. Mount St Helens exploded to provide a whole new line of study in my geography 'A' level. A dingo was reported to have run off with a baby in the Australian outback. Laughingly, the British car industry launched the mini metro. Such times.

Teenage angst, feelings of mortality and the stress associated with thinking about going out into a challenging world was not at all helped by the delivery to our house, along with every household in the country, of a small orange coloured booklet entitled 'Protect and Survive' or paraphrased as 'How to make your house and family as safe as possible under Nuclear Attack'.

This had been released by the government in response to criticism and concerns that there were in fact no contingency plans whatsoever in place for such a scenario. The emotions upon browsing through the pamphlet ranged from sheer terror to comic amusement. The publication was the catalyst for many TV dramas, an animated film and discussions and I can vividly remember a programme showing the arched flightpaths of ballistic missiles on leaving their silos. The guide showed how to build a shelter against fallout, provided a list of essential supplies and what to expect in the aftermath. The cheery optimism was the funniest aspect as though a full blown attack would just constitute a minor interruption and inconvenience to normal everyday life. There was some degree of alarm and paranoia in the country as a consequence of the threat of annihilation.

At such times when things  look too massive to contemplate or we feel powerless to act we do look around for support and a sense of proportion . This was found through my Mother. She wrote a wonderful letter to The Yorkshire Post, which they published, appealing for an end to what was speculation and scaremongering when the population had enough to worry about let alone for the prospect of the end of the world.

In a small way I firmly believe that this calm and reasoned voice, in contributing to many a common opinion, set the world straight and to a better understanding.

Slap Happy

It is always a nice feeling of relief if something you are not looking forward to is cancelled or postponed. In adult life this may involve a dreaded meeting or a presentation for which you may not be confident of its outcome or adequately prepared. In such a scenario, the reprieve will give an opportunity for that mental preparation or attention to detail necessary to wing it better.

In childhood I experienced many similar moments of foreboding and trepidation.

In home life any serious misbehaviour was met by the potential sanction from our Mother of ‘Just you wait until your Father gets home’. To his credit Father was a very fair and reasonable man and did give myself and siblings considerable leeway even if we were particularly badly behaved or disruptive. I can only ever remember two occasions of actual punishment in the form of a short sharp slap and although meted out by the man he will have felt more aggrieved and dispirited by the whole thing even though it was entirely justified.

One of the events was in the Morris Minor. We had been driven a long way to collect Auntie Jessie for what would be a very rare stay with us. She would be well into her later years at the time, a slim, upright and dignified lady, very quietly spoken, immaculately dressed and groomed and I recall a spinster well into her 80’s until she surprised and delighted everyone by getting married to a long term companion in her residential home. I expect that a bit of showing off combined with over indulgence in barley sugar travel sweets  contributed to all of us children larking about in the confined space of the back seat. It was only me however who transgressed the law of “How children must behave in the presence of a Maiden Aunt” (1889 version, revised 1953). I commented in a loud and unabashed voice that I could see the hairs up her nose. That was enough for our father, usually of ultimate patience and tolerance, who executed an emergency stop somewhere between Bedfordshire and Suffolk and then gave me a resounding slap on my bare leg between shorts and long socks. It was a stinger. My siblings, relieved that they had escaped punishment, settled down and the remainder of the journey was conducted in reverential silence.

In the winter months of my younger years there was a frequent cancellation of school as the post war boilers regularly failed or a pipe burst and cascaded water through the asbestos laggings into the assembly hall and classrooms. This information, nowadays conveyed by e mail, text or by local radio was only known then by battling through the ice and snow and then being turned away at the playground entrance. The feeling of relief and enjoyment at getting at least a day off school is still capable of being recalled even some 40 years later. The attraction of skiving was first appreciated.

In secondary school it was always a bonus if the regular teacher could not take a particular lesson and it was too late or the timetable did not permit a late substitute. We would be left to private study or relied upon to behave in a responsible manner. Idle hands and minds do make for significant potential for trouble. As a member of a maths class of around 40 teenage boys with no staff member it was not long before battle commenced using chewed up and saliva bonded bits of paper. These were torn from the margins of school text books and were spat out or, more effectively projected on the end of a flexible ruler. One of our number, in miscalculating the elasticity of his ruler sent a spitball rocketing into the air where it affixed itself to the high positioned ceiling. This pioneering effort was swiftly followed by all participants and within a few minutes the ceiling effectively resembled a cave roof of stalactities. The noise of the riotous behaviour soon attracted the attention of a Senior Master, Mr Stinson, or nicknamed ‘Bing-bong’ the origins of which, I do not know.

The classroom was immediately silenced and we were lectured on the anti social and disrespectful aspects of our behaviour. At that stage of the recriminations we were expecting to get away with just a short sharp verbal warning. That was just before the spit, holding up the pebble-dash effect on the ceiling, started to dry out under the principal in Physics that heat rises and from a group of recently rampant pubescent male students that was considerable. As it appeared to Bing Bong that it had started to snow indoors he looked up to see our handiwork. The whole class suffered a detention for a week in addition to writing out 100 lines each. The sentence to be copied was itself over two lines, complex in punctuation and grammar and not capable of being transcribed by taping ten pens together in a pan pipe type arrangement. We were always closely supervised from that day onwards.

In student life any excuse to skive off was sought. My complete trust in my coursemates did however backfire seriously. I was rushing to the exam hall to sit an Economics paper in an important end of year series when, as I passed a familiar face from my year, he muttered that the exam had been cancelled. I had not prepared for the paper very well so took this news to be my salvation, well for at least a few days. I about turned and went off for a pleasurable non-academic day. It turned out the information was bogus. I had missed the exam and had to re-sit it some time later. I was not the only one deceived by the actions of that familiar face and this meant that the authorities were a bit more lenient than if I had just absconded to do better things.

In adult life I may be a bit more cynical and less trusting which is a necessary measure but a shame. I firmly work on the assumption that if something sounds too good to be true it will certainly be the case

Will Power

This complete hatchet job on a very good lyric is dedicated to Will, our teenage son and for close family needs no explanation. The original song by Cameo is not the version I had in my head when I put it together so if you need a backing track to sing-a-long the best one is by the rock band Gun. Just run the track for the first 2 minutes and its ready to serve up........

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EWKphU0c5Q

Yo, that do cooking around the world

Got a recipe to show you, so tell all the chefs and sous

tell your mother, your sisters and your papa too

‘cause they feel a bit hungry and you’ll know just what to do

 wash your hands in the sink like you don’t care

dry them on the apron or wave them in the air

Do your thing, do your thing, do your thing quick ,  son

Come on now Will, tell us what's for tea

Plate up, everybody say

 When you hear tummies rumble, you've got to get it underway

Plate up, it's the food word

No matter where you say it, you'll know that you'll be heard

now  , All you Master Chefs who think you can fry

There's got to be some seasoning and we know the reason why

You put on all the meals and act real cool

 But ya got to cook stuff to make us all feel full

If there's music, we can use it, we need to boil

We don't have the time for aluminium foil

No grav-y, no grav-y, no grav-y for me, Thanks

Come on Will, tell us what's for tea

 Plate up, all the family say

When you hear us call, you've got to get it underway    

C'mon, all you people say

Plate up,  Plate up , Food up

I Roll

The sound of loose ball bearings rolling about in the passenger side door pocket is quite soothing when I am on a long drive for business on nice quiet and winding roads. The nearest comparable sound would be a bubbling brook as it cascades over the rock strewn pools of an eddying backwater.

The same sound evokes a massive annoyance amongst any fellow travellers when I explain  the source. It should really be met with an expression of relief if they had  initially thought it was some form of mechanical or technical malfunction. The ball bearings had burst forth from the weak seams of a small black linen bag. It had been part of a load of surplus household items on the way to a car boot sale at the end of the last season. I am not sure where it actually originated from as it was potentially a bit of a weapon a la Charles Bronson Deathwish mode and certainly not the sort of thing to play catch with unless you did intend to cause major dental damage to a best friend.

In my junior school days the beanbag was a regular feature of the physical education lessons and if they were unfortunate enough to burst then the assembly hall was scattered through with actual black eye beans or if on a tight Local Authority budget, a dry bean soup mix or broad beans from the home store cupboard of a teacher.

Fearful of the bag falling into inappropriate unsupervised hands or the contents finding their way into the breach of a ball bearing gun I had whisked it away from the boot sale stock hence its resting place in the car door pocket. I realised this week that I could no longer hear the therapeutic and chill-out sound because it was being outdone by an altogether different barrage of noises from the sheer volume of rubbish and debris littering my car to a very disgraceful extent. It was time to carry out a thorough spring clean of the vehicle. I had successfully put this horrible chore on hold for some months but in the interests of health and hygiene, to offset any allergic reaction to dust and to prevent the numerous St Arbucks paper cups from getting wedged under the accelerator (not too bad) or the brake pedal (potentially disastrous) something had to be done. It had rained heavily in the preceeding week so I had benefitted from what someone wittily called a Mexican Carwash and the exterior was reasonably clean although a bit streaky around the wheel arches and with a rusty dry powder coating on the tailgate window.

It was time to get to grips with the interior. In spite of the car sales brochure waxing on about so many dust filters and pollen filters it is amazing how much of a fine film collects on the dashboard, over the instrument panel and in the tight jointed gaps between plastic, faux aluminium and the curious vinyl skirt around the gearstick. If I am stuck in traffic I get to work on easing out the dust and grime from the interior trim. The edge of that sticky part of a parking ticket is ideal to swipe through the gaps and to pull out various bits of detritus. The most satisfying extraction is from a small rectangular piece of metal at the lower edge of the steering wheel. I liken the task to the removal of fluff from the belly button.

The bin bag for the loose rubbish was filling up nicely. More coffee cups and those cardboard sleeve holders, a few drinking straws still in their sleeve packets, crisp packets, foil based chewing gum packets complete with now fossilised discarded gum, a cross section of Cadbury product wrappers, diet coke cans, right angled corner containers from my favourite supermarket lunch deal sandwich (Cheese and pickle) , posh brown paper bags from delicatessen visits and a collection of flimsy carrier bags- some already full from a mini-valet session earlier in the year. I have a superstition not to throw away pens or pencils even if they are only capable of writing one last sentence. The exception is a leaky ball point which is a very unpleasant thing to discover especially if unexpected and is first found by blue inky stains through the back of the seat pocket or on probing fingers. The upside of a spring clean is the unearthing of small change under the seats and floor mats and wedged down the side of the CD holder.

It is only after the loose waste has been removed that I can get in with the Dyson. The attachments, rarely used in a domestic setting, are well suited for car cleaning. I switch regularly between the long thin edge nozzle and the fluffy but stiff round brush to remove the half ton of gravel, grit and farmers straw? that has somehow found its way into the car. I draw a line at the purchase of specialist cleaning products such as dashboard black and vinegar infused window and lens solutions preferring a dettol based but bleach free household spray. This gives me some reassurance that at least 99.9% of lurking germs and bacteria get zapped in those parts I just cannot get to.

Last to be removed are the ball bearings. Regrettable really because they were now unopposed from intrusive and distracting accompaniment, back in a glorious solo performance of a rolling tide, lolling about in a metallic based ripple of subtle burbling and chortling. A few of the sparkling stainless steel spheres escaped during the transfer from door pocket to bin bag and could be heard gleefully making their way down the driveway, onto the roadway and from there, who knows where.

They are probably still rolling even now.

At the Worlds End

There are still quite a few parts of these here British Isles that I have yet to explore. Can you believe that I have not ever been to either Liverpool or Blackpool but I guess that is a weekend waiting to be pencilled into the calendar some time ahead., perhaps a combined Cilla Black memorial tour whenever she pops her clogs.

It is interesting that even though we are not a very large country, expecially when compared to our nearest European neighbours, the actual physical effort to get around and about can be quite a disincentive to do so. On the other hand, if planning a road trip from say Lands End to John O'Groats, therefore the full 960 mile navigable length of the country, this could feasibly be done in a day by car including wee-wee stops which begs the question about what is there to do for the rest of the week?

I seem to think that I have been to the farthest south west tip of England from a photograph of myself as a small child next to that totem pole of a signpost showing the distance to all global parts from Lands End. I cannot actually remember it. Factually, the actual southernmost point for the British Isles is somewhere a bit more Scilly.

Westwards I have been to Enniskillen in Northern Ireland but only for a brief weekend for a wedding. This falls some degrees short of the official westernmost point of Rockall. I can however claim to have visited the most eastern extremity of the country when in 1971  my father, with me as a small enthusiastic hanger-on, test drove a VW 1600 Fastback through Suffolk to Lowestoft. Compared to the wilds of Rockall and the Atlantic battered Scillies the port town of Lowestoft may represent a bit of an anti-climax as extreme places go. Nice fish and chips though. Easily wipeable vinyl seats in a VW as reassurance for those susceptible to travel sickness after a childs portion of fish and chips.

It sounds a bit sad to tick a mental box in the part of the brain dedicated to meaningless and trivial acheivements. I did not even consider this to be the motivation behind a road trip, some years ago,right across the topmost part of Scotland even though it included passing the end of the unclassified and no-through single track road signposted 5 miles to the northernmost place in mainland GB at Dunnet Head- yes, virtual tick. Relax. Move on.

The farthest north eastern section of Scotland is surprisingly bleak and not very inspirational. In saying this I have disregarded the spectacular scenery from the car journey through the Highlands which by setting such a high level of expectation would make even the Natural Wonders of the world look a bit shabby and tacky. The landscape would certainly make a Falkland Islander homesick. A bit on the flat and featureless side with coarse grazing for a large population of sheep .Even this has been wrestled away over many centuries from the harshness of the natural environment as evidenced by mile upon mile of low walling of stones cleared from the land to create an enclosure of even a few square feet to keep livestock from flying away in the wind or being abraded to bone by the driving rains. I had come to that part of Scotland partly out of curiosity but mainly because some of my ancestors came from there.

My Gran, on my father's side, had grown up in the harbour town of Wick in Caithness not too far from John O'Groats. One of a large family her claim to local infamy had been that she was one of the first, if not the first
woman in the town to get a motorbike. Immediately images of a slightly built leather clad figure roaring about the narrow streets with the exhaust tone echoing amongst the granite buildings come to mind. To her it was a way to get to her job teaching at a local school with some independence.

Wick was closed when I got there with my travelling companion of my wife to be. It was, after all, a tuesday. The Bed and Breakfast at Rose Cottage close to the quayside was of a different era. I think we had to show a false marriage certificate to share the same dining table let alone the same bunk bedded room. Although in the height of summer Wick had decided not to participate that year and it was  gloomy and wet and very depressing. The obviously newest, and more enterprising, migrants to the town at the Chinese Takeaway were the only business open at 5pm. The livelihood for the locals appeared to be a combination of loading up refridgerated lorries with fish, ironically to be driven overnight to the wholesale market in my home city of Hull and the manufacture of gawdy glass paperweights. We ate our chow mein very slowly in the car as it did appear to constitute the main entertainment for the evening. There was a more poignant reason for the stay-over in Wick. After finding my Gran's family home, a pinkish hued granite terraced house close to the glass factory we made our way to the cemetery. On the basis of a puritanical B&B, chinese meal in the car and a trip to a graveyard you must be thinking that the guy sure knows how to treat the ladies. In Wick terms I was a real Casanova.

We walked up and down the neatly arranged pathways between the gravestones for some time until a sorry sight came into view. A modest polished granite cross marking a small grave mound was broken in two. The wording on the tombstone confirmed that it was the resting place of my Gran's brother who had drowned, aged 10, after falling into the sea whilst fishing off Scrabster Head. His untimely death was tragic enough but compounded by the neglect to the memorial to him. It is one of my biggest regrets that I did nothing to resolve this situation.

From Wick we drove into the summer weather which was waiting patiently for acceptance just beyond the outskirts of the town.

Road to nowhere

Consumer Surveys and those small print testimonies at the bottom of a TV advert for a shampoo or cosmetics are interesting. They usually say something like, "out of a survey of 1100 women, 78% said they weren't really bothered if animals had been used in the testing of the product".

Of course the famous ones are from such products as cat or dog food, "4 out of 5 cat owners whose pet had spoken to them could report that the food was considered reasonable but not as good as a rat cornered in a dark alley".

There is considerable psychological research behind what appears to be almost a throw-away statement , a multi storey office block staffed with number crunchers and many hours of computer time spent in the analysis of statistics. Such an approach is now prevalent in many aspects of life and will without doubt form the strategy and policy of government, educationalists, bankers and the health sector.

Many aspects of life, if governed by an all encompassing reliance on cold and impersonal factors give the impression that we are but a player in a real life lottery.

I was many years ahead of this trend in my early to mid 20's. My analytical approach to human behaviour was a major influence in my preparation for my chosen sport of cycle racing.

In other words, if I could avoid many hours of training and selfish dedication to diet and lifestyle and yet still get some sort of result in a race then that was what I would do. The main reasoning behind this rather slack attitude was something that I had read in an authoratative cycle training manual.

The average field for an amateur cycle road race consists of 60 riders. On any one day of an event there will be 15 riders out of the total who want to win that race. The next 15 riders have some ability to win but will only act if an apportunity to win arises, usually a crash that wipes out most of the race, a stray motorist disrupting the course or a heavy downpour. A further 15 of the riders have mediocre ability and may follow the second 15 riders as though vultures around a carcass or a magpie stealing away the silver. The final 15 riders lack both ability and motivation and regard the whole event as an excuse to wear lycra and avoid domestic chores or shopping with wife or girlfriend.

I did train and try to lead a healthy lifestyle. Perhaps I overtrained or concentrated too much on getting in the miles but not the speed or conditioning to give that edge which could put me in the top 15 riders or at least the 30 most motivated. That cycle training manual was what I based my preparation on. The best riders in the world had a hearty meal before a race, pasta, meat and carbohydrate based foods for energy. I was an impoverished student and the most I could afford was a sole piece of steak. Nice enough as an evening meal but a bit of a struggle to digest at 5am on a race day morning. For pasta I substituted a tin of Ambrosia rice pudding eaten cold with a spoon. My other carbohydrate intake was a few slices of dry bread. I usually arrived at a race hungry as a consequence.

The best riders had the best equipment. In my bid for a good solid road bike I responded to an advert in the local paper. The owner of the bike gave me his address and on a dark winter night, after a short bus journey, I was able to view the machine. A black coloured Raleigh which in the gloomy artificial light of his shed looked a good purchase. I paid the asking price and wheeled the bike back to my student digs. After a few metres the effort to move the bike became alarming and I was convinced that I was actually leaving a gouge in the pavement like a ploughman. In the bright light of my room the reason for the reluctance of the bike to roll along was more than evident. The rear wheel was a completely different and entirely incompatible size for the frame and at odds with the front wheel.

So from an entirely self inflicted disadvantaged position I took to placing a lot on the human psychological approach. The problem was of course my own attitude. I actually had no idea of my own form and mental motivation on race day.  In one event I was at the front and dictating the race before realising that we were on lap one of 5 on a very hilly course. I retired during lap 2 feeling distinctly ill.

It got a bit better as I came to understand that what actually produced results and a great feeling of bodily harmony and well being was hard work, dedication and self respect.

Kick it hard Lily

The second highest career goalscoring record behind Pele is from a much lesser known player whose games were played over the years 1920 to 1951. Lily Parr's total of over 1000 goals is remarkable enough an acheivement but even more so given the turbulence of the times which covered the implications and complications of two world wars, a major economic depression between and the emotive political and social events for the acceptance of women in the male dominated world of just about everything.

The mass and necessary recruitment of women as a labour force to cover for the conscripted male workers into the first world war drew the attention of the Government to the wider health and welfare issues of women. A healthy and happy workforce were a productive and less troublesome and potentially militant group.

The Preston, Lancashire based manufacturers Dick, Kerr and Company had been established in 1900 specialising in the tram and light railway sector but switched to essential war work in 1915 making ammunition. The factory employed a predominantly female staff on the production lines and within the remit of keeping key workers fit and healthy a football team was formed taking the company name.

Rival industrial and manufacturing companies also former their own teams and around 150 were registered within what became a very competitive league structure. The Munitions Cup, played for in 1917, by the Munitionettes as a wider descriptive term for the participating ladies teams was watched by a crowd of 10,000 at the ground of the great Preston North End. The crowd attending raised £600 for wounded soldiers.

The ladies game was not confined to the war years and by the early 1920's it was well established and experiencing its halcyon days. The Dick, Kerr Ladies were prominent and played 60 competitive matches during the 1921 season in front of an aggregate attendance of 900,000. A crowd of 53,000 was present at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch the Dick, Kerr Ladies beat close rivals St Helens Ladies.

The success and genuine support for the ladies league caused grave concern amongst the crusty old Football League administrators and in a calculated but spiteful move they issued a ban on the use of any League grounds for the playing of ladies matches. In their expert evidence to support the ban various medical practitioners were produced to express concern over what dangerous impact playing football could have on fertility and femininity. The ban remained in place until 1971.

The Dick, Kerr Ladies continued to flourish and amongst their honours were multiple league titles, International victories including tours to France and the USA and reaching a pinnacle in 1937 becoming World Champions. Against the well entrenched establishment and remnants of the austerity of the Victorians which still dominated society and attitudes the team were the first in the womens game to wear shorts. Archive photographs of the team resemble a line up of dancing girls, nimble,graceful and lithe but wearing heavy leather football boots and with a bit of a sun tan. The team fell out with the bosses over some undefined 'tut-trouble at factory' and reformed as Preston Ladies until 1965.

The significance of the acheivements of the Dick, Kerr Ladies cannot be understated. They were brave pioneers at a time when women had no real voice in politics or society. They rose above the pettyand what would always be temporary concessions required by the circumstances of the first world war and continued to excel and attract a very good following and fan base through the heady days of the 1920's. The names of Lily Parr, Florrie Redford and Alice Kell amongst all of the players have tended to be forgotten apart from dedicated archivists who maintain an excellent web based resource. The stars of the team were inducted into the Football League Hall of Fame but as a gesture it was too late and a bit patronising.

Lily Parr was challenged by a male goalkeeper to try to score a spot-kick past him. He had observed her obvious footballing skill and ability, in particular her reputed very hard shot, but was under the impression that it only looked to be a hard kick in the company of other women team mates. Taking up the challenge Lily was seen to smile when the unfortunate chauvinistic keeper was taken off to hospital with a broken arm from the impact of her penalty kick.

Frenetic Alphabet

The world according to NATO is divided between those trained and able to easily use the phonetic alphabet and those who have no clue whatsover. I fall into the second grouping. This is quite embarassing given that I grew up as an avid watcher of war films and police dramas and should really have paid attention to the use of that form of communication. I should know by heart that Guy Gibson's Lancaster as shown in the Dambusters film had a number of AF-G and the last flying aircraft of that make that brings us running  to the sound of its four Rolls Royce engines as it passes over the house is HW-R. However, when expressed in the phonetic alphabet as Alpha Foxtrot Golf and Hotel Whiskey Romeo they could equally be mistaken for new car models by large german and italian manufacturers. I have actually just this very second realised that  the 1980's police show Juliet Bravo was a reference to the call sign , and not the actual name, of the lady police inspector it was about. How Tango Hotel India Charlie Kilo am I ?

Anyway, the very dated and lets face it rather elitist and sexist terms used are well overdue for a rethink especially if it to be adopted on a wider basis which is essential as spelling and comprehension standards are at their worst ever levels since the wore. The relevance of some form of phonetic alphabet is still very applicable today. This was emphasised to me only recently when I had to spell out my surname and other information to a UK based banking call centre. I panicked faced with my ignorance of the real system and ended up with a rather expansive and somewhat racy equivalent of my own. This did not help my quest to set up a standing order but did seem to amuse the customer sales advisor desperately in need of a laugh in the obvious absence of a window overlooking the better parts of Gateshead.

I have out of concern for the ongoing relevance of this form of communication devised my own. I have drawn on popular culture, slang, consumer goods and foodstuffs. I provide these with some reasoning for those still a bit dubious about the whole thing.

Alpha is a bit male orientated and therefore politically and sexually incorrect. I think ANDROID is suitable.
Bravo sounds like competition and a winner which excludes those less able. BOOB JOB
Charlie is disrespectful to our future monarch implying idiocy. COOL is more acceptable
Delta implies a large river area which can be upsetting for those in drought areas. DUDE is inoffensive
Echo. What is that, What is that, that, that, that. EMO is a nice calm word.
Foxtrot. Too BBC and middle class for my taste. Discriminates against non-dancers. FIREWALL
Golf. Discredited after the Tiger Woods incidents. GO COMPARE
Hotel. There are other forms of accommodation of equal calibre available. HARRY POTTER.
India. Just because they are an emerging nation should not entitle them to a free advert. i-PAD
Juliet. Very tragic young lady. JIFFY BAG
Kilo. Too metric. KYLIE MINOGUE
Lima. A bit Peruvian and actually not in the NATO organisation. LUSH
Mike. No longer a very popular name. The youngest Mike I know is 49 years old. MOTOROLA
November. Extremely monthist and actually one of the least favourite in the calendar. NERD
Oscar. Law suit pending from BAFTA against unfair monopoly. OPRAH
Papa. Does not take into account modern family and lifestyle arrangements. PRIMARK
Quebec. Potentially separatist and a bit frenchified. QUORN
Romeo. At least one of the Beckham children. RICHARD MADELEY
Sierra. Very poorly made Ford motor vehicle. SMART PHONE
Tango. More swanky dance moves or fruity soft carbonated drink. TATTOO
Uniform. Militaristic. UMBRELLA, BRELLA, BRELLA
Victor. Another reference to unfashionable competition. VAMPIRE
Whiskey. Discriminates against Scottish produced malt based alcoholic drink. WHEELIE BIN
X-ray. Always a bit of a cop-out this one. Bring in that rubbish Coldplay. XYLO-MYLO
Yankee. Very inflammatory to the most of the world nations epecially those with oil and a dictator. YAHOO
Zulu. Reparations for Rourkes Drift still outstanding. ZUCKERBERG

I have put in some trade names and those of individuals mindful of sponsorship and commercialisation which is inevitable for the success of any fledgling and pioneering venture.

I sign off in what I call my Frenetic Alphabet, PRIMARK EMO TATTOO EMO RICHARD MADELEY

History of a family in 6 objects. Part 4

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 4- Greek Art

The current austerity measures being endured by the Greek nation are so far detached from our perception of their lifestyle that the impact is very difficult to appreciate. Most Brits, having experienced a summer holiday in Greece, will certainly upon returning to our cold and drudgingly boring shores, not be able to resist a daydream for a moment on the romantic aspects of selling up everything here and starting up a Taverna or Restaurant in the wonderfully warm climate and fantastic scenery of that country. In reality, the only business opportunities may be in the Greek equivalent of Scunthorpe or running a mini-mart, heaven forbid, only frequented by pink skinned English tourists looking to buy McCain oven chips and frozen Goodfellas pizza.

As a family our first foreign holiday involving air travel was to the Ionian Island of Keffalonia. We joked about the name of the place. Why do second hand car salesman like the island?  Because it has only had one careful owner. Boom boom. We were complete novices when it came to foreign travel . The package trip was through one of the main companies and I think we were quite shocked at the cattle market type approach from being herded into the queues at the airport, coralled on the plane, force fed from a trough type tray and then released, eyes blinking to become accustomed to the glaring sun and initially startling heat at our destination. We had dressed for the whole journey in what we thought was sensible attire to cope with the dual climate of Manchester and Greece. We had misjudged the whole thing and amongst a plane load of replica football shirted passengers we must have looked like we had got lost on the way to a garden party. The first few hours on Greek soil were a complete blur. We had lost all sense of time after a very early arrival for our flight and some prior days of excitement interrupted sleep. It was about early afternoon as we boarded the coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The road journey gave a brief glimpse of the island but only about ten feet ether side because of the very narrow lanes and either a precipitious drop to the sea below or a towering rocky cliff above. As our fellow travellers were dropped off in what appeared to be barren locations apart from a gate and steep footpath to whatever they had booked to stay in we became increasingly anxious about where we would be deposited. The brochure photo of our self catering apartment was very vague and blurry, a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage with a lawn in front. The actual place was in fact a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage. There were three rooms for the five of us, one being the living area doubling up as a twin room plus Z bed for the children. The kitchen was a small galley. The shower room had a dry toilet. This was bemusing and quite frightening for an English family who were experts in flushing lavatories on any excuse or whim. Exhausted as we were I volunteered to go out to find food. I had no map, a distorted sense of direction in a foreign place, no comprehension of the Greek language and unsuitable footwear for the scorching road surface. I was not even sure where things like towns and shops were. After a slog up the hill behind the apartment and down the other side I could not see any signs of civilisation. There were roadside shrines every few metres but I was not sure if these were for lost tourists or deceased locals. At last I reached Argostoli, the main town on the island. The first shop that looked like a general store loomed up like a mirage to my parched, dehydrated but curiously sweaty form. I played safe on the purchases in the absence of McCain oven chips or Goodfellas pizza. The freshly minted Euro note I handed over to the proprietor brought him out in spasms of anxiety. It must have been a huge denomination and after some mutual progress through my perspiration soaked money belt he took a selection of lower numbered notes and seemed very happy. I was now faced with the return walk, considerably more drained than when I had set out and now with two plastic bags of bulky carbohydrates,sweets and other consumables. I must have looked quite a sight as I struggled back to the hillside road. After some miles I was aware of a car moving slowly up behind me as though stalking my every move. I hoped that I was not going to have a shrine dedicated in my memory from a drive-by incident. As the car pulled alongside an English voice offered me a lift. The driver was staying in the same apartment building, had seen us arrive on the coach and thankfully had recognised me. That was not the best of starts to the Greek holiday. It did get considerably better and we fell one hundred percent for the climate and relaxed lifestyle. Vacations in the British Isles had always been a matter of cramming as much in to every hour as possible. The Greek equivalent was to do a bit in the cool of the morning, keep out of the sun for much of the day or immersed in a swimming pool, avoid being seen amongst the shops when closed for the protracted lunchtime of the locals and then emerge for a full 8 hours of casual activity from about 5pm. Towards the end of our 2 weeks it was that time to buy souvenirs for family at home and as a good memento of our stay. In the clock tower gallery of Argostoli we had seen a painting of a sad youth in bright colours on what looked like the lid of a crate of citrus fruit. Three short lengths of wood with twin cross bracings at the back. The colours were vivid and the young subject was wistful and enigmatic with pronounced cheek bones, dark hazel brown eyes and cloaked in a bright red robe. Upon expressing an interest in the painting we were introduced to the artist. She explained that the character was Telemachus, the son of Odysseus who originated from the island of Ithaca which was only a short boat ride from the north east shore of Keffalonia. The young warrior had set out to look for his father who had been missing for 20 years. Apparently, something had kicked off involving his mother and his dad's attendance was required to deter the unwelcome attentions of some potential usurpers to his position as head of the dynasty. Telemachus and his errant father returned to wreak a horrible fate on the pretenders and the rest is set in legend. The background to the painting sealed our intention to buy it and what would have been our Duty Free budget was blown on five bits of overpainted wood. The picture retains its vivacity and dynamism  even today after many years of being displayed at the foot of our stairs. As holiday souvenirs go it knocks a stuffed donkey into a cocked sombrero.

How I met your Mother......

When a relationship gets serious the prospect of meeting folk who look likely to be future in-laws can be quite a milestone and immensely daunting.

My first ever introduction to and meeting with Allison's mother, Maureen was quite unusual.

She was crossing a deep trench on a plank at the back of her house.

It has always been a favourite double-entendre in the family that the first thing that Allison showed me on visiting her parents' home was her Father, George's ,back passage. It was a narrow, dark brick vaulted arrangement with lengthy ladders tidily stowed above head height behind secure outer and inner timber doors . What amazed me even more was that it was shared with the immediate neighbours with a reasonable right of way and use through it. That just about exhausts that line of humour.

As Allison led me into the walled yard beyond the passage I was faced with that deep trench. Being nervous I speculated to myself that it was perhaps one of a number of things;

1) An obstacle course to assess if I was good material for a son-in-law. A Brown family Krypton Factor.
2) An open grave as Maureen and George were very protective about their daughter.
3) A precaution against flooding in the pre-tidal barrier days
4) A Moat

As I approached the excavations Maureen came out from the back door and deftly negotiated a series of plank bridges over the trench  to greet me. In a complete invasion of personal space and etiquette, for a first meeting, she grabbed me firmly by both cheeks (facial) pinching a good deal of puppy fat jowl between thumb and index finger. I cannot recall if she gave me a kiss because the constriction on my breathing from that particular style of welcome was making me feel a bit dizzy and I could have been a million miles away. I feared that this was the first stage of getting me into that large hole in the ground.

As my facial muscles regained their handsome, youthful composure Maureen looked at Allison and exclaimed that I looked just like Howard Keel.  For a brief moment I had a picture in my mind's eye of the giant steel toothed assasin out of the Bond movies and felt that was a bit rude to draw attention to matters of an unfortunate bodily nature so early in the proceedings. The resemblance was because I was wearing a checked lumberjack shirt like one of the male cast of 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' which it turned out was one of the best known performances of that particular American actor and singer. I was a bit disappointed as I fancied myself as having a resemblance to Robin Williams or Harry Enfield. Thank goodness, Maureen was talking about my clothes rather than my physical attributes as in that particular year Mr Keel was approaching 70 years old.

I think that we were both pretty nervous at the first meeting but we did hit it off immediately as though we had known each other for many years. Maureen explained that the trench was part of the foundations for her new kitchen and bathroom extension which I found reassuring, after my initial mental wanderings ,and could relax.

Within a couple of minutes I had been assimilated into the family marking the ceremony with a lovely cup of tea, the very first one in a series of, to date, many thousands. I had also experienced my very first moment of genuine warmth and unconditional love from Maureen that is very much a part of her whole being and is so cherished by those who are privileged to know her.

Cheer Up Peter

After our Mother and Father and the Police we only really respected and obeyed one other thing when we were growing up: Blue Peter.

That is the  BBC TV childrens programme and not the man who lived near the CO-OP and was regularly seen out on the street with his trousers loosely tied around his waist with string with little restraining and concealing success.

We lived in great anticipation and excitement around Christmas time for news of what that years Blue Peter Appeal was to be. Whatever was required of us we would throw ourselves into the spirit of the thing with all our youthful enthusiasm and charitable sympathy. In successive years we went full on in the collection of silver foil and used stamps requesting such things be saved by Grandparents, friends and neighbours. As the Appeal progressed it was always very thrilling to see the progression of bulbs being lit up on the whatever appropriately shaped accumulator and with much speculation amongst us kids as to whether the target would be met in time for the needy recipients to get that fresh water well, those mosquito nets or innoculations against tropical illnesses before we ripped open our own Christmas presents.

Of course, blind obedience to Blue Peter could have a disastrous effect on the sensitivity of young children. We all cried when Petra, the Blue Peter dog died. That Peter Purves , one of the long-serving presenters was very openly upset on TV when breaking the news. We all felt violated and somehow guilty when someone broke in and vandalised the Blue Peter garden. Percy Thrower, the gardener was very openly upset on TV when breaking that news. I was devastated when my favourite TV pet, Shep also died and John Noakes was equally openly upset on TV. To the outsider Blue Peter may have appeared to be preparing youngsters for coping with death, it was in some real, practical and sympathetic way but there was also so much more.

We did attempt some of the home made toys and projects and that really started my life long love affair with papier mache. What a wondrous material and concept. The raw materials were easy to come by. I usually stole my Father's newpaper even before he had got an opportunity to read it, or alternatively, carefully and selectively removed the pages I felt he might not be interested in before returning the much depleted broadsheet to his favourite chair. Mother would wonder about a chronic shortage of flour from her baking cupboard even though she had only just purchased a packet of best McDougalls Plain. Reducing the newsprint to thin strips made inappropriate use of Mothers pinking shears and as for the mixing process of the flour and water, many an almighty quagmire mess was made between the kitchen and the table in the playroom. From a modest beginners level of coating a balloon to create a hollow balloon shape I progressed to quite ambitious and extensive battlefield dioramas complete with that funny dry green mock grass stuff purchased from under the counter at the local craft or model shop. I am sorry to see that Papier Mache work is struggling to maintain its position amongst popular hobby activities. I blame the pressure to recycle which may also have sounded the death knell for the often ambitious home made projects on the programme.

My own children, although well balanced and in no way slaves to materialism will not have happily received a Thunderbirds Tracy Island made, albeit lovingly, out of a cornflakes box, numerous toilet roll holders held together by Copydex and water paints even if I protested strongly that I had infact made a saving of about £30 on the actual factory produced model.

My own children did, with my encouragement take part in the Blue Peter competition to grow the largest sunflower. We carefully pricked out some seeds into plant pots which with regular tending sprouted small green shoots after a couple of weeks on the kitchen window cill. When lashed to a lolly stick these were put out in the sunniest spot in the back garden. On an almost daily basis we monitored the very rapid growth of the three strongest stems before having to upgrade the support of the lolly stick to a chopstick, then a straightened out coat hanger before having to buy, from B&Q some traditional bamboo canes. These were some 6 feet long and the top heavy plants were tied at regular gaps with cotton and then a stronger twine and wire. Updates on the programme from competitors around the country gave us great encouragement in that our nurtured flowers were seemingly on a freakish spurt and I suspect that for a few days we were in the lead. Soon the canes were overwhelmed by the sunflowers and secondary support in the form of a physical attachment to the summerhouse was necessary.

I felt that the children were losing interest in the project. As though sensing this I found, one sunny morning, that our monster plants had collapsed in on themselves with no hope of surgery or transplantation. We stood around one last time and took a rough measurement for our own personal record. When the height of the winning plant was announced on Blue Peter some weeks later we laughed out loud- it was a mere meadow daisy by comparison to our ill fated ones.

In true Blue Peter style I was seen by the children to be very upset but thanks to the healthy attitude to death and tragedy promoted by the programme I do not think that they have fared at all badly from the whole experience.

Follower of Fashion

I have been wearing my brother in laws clothes for the past 10 years or perhaps a bit longer than that. He does know about it.

It is not the case that his sister, my wife, has been through his wardrobe on my behalf on a charitable pity mission nor his own wife has deemed his fashion sense drab and boring and secretly parcelled up and despatched the items to me.

It is because Carl has always been a discerning  follower of fashion. He has an excellent taste and sense of style, and this demands a regular review of the contents of his cupboards in order to filter out what is 'so yesterday' to make way for what is 'so now'. The items of clothing are much too good to go to the fund raising drives of the needy shop-front concerns, into the plastic collection bags for a friday morning drive-by pick up, a church bazaar table top sale, in a rummage bargain pile at a car-boot sale or bid for on the internet. The labels have too much street cred and kudos to be appreciated by just ordinary folk. The sort of names that if seen stencilled onto the display window of a better class of menswear shop have an immediate association with being bespoke and sought after even if the names and brands mean nothing and could not otherwise be differentiated  in the street from the output of C&A, British Home Stores, Greenwoods and George at Asda.

I on the other hand am a deserving case, a victim of a fashion black hole if ever there was one. My idea of ideal day-wear is my business suit which, as a consequence of exposure to heavy duty dirt, grime and over-friendly dogs ,soon looks well past its best. Many miles in the car causes a shiny abrasion on the lapel and shoulder from the seat belt. There are embarrasing residues just on the inner thigh of the trousers, being an exact imprint of the blob of chocolate on the driver's seat where the finer slivers of a Yorkie Bar fall unnoticed during a snack on the road. The left leg has a faint odour of coffee where the cup holder in front of the dashboard has relinquished its grip on the takeaway paper cup on a fourth gear negotiation of a second gear corner. Other spots, stains and secretions would require a full forensic investigation to determine their origins. I have often felt that CSI stands for Chartered Surveyor Ineptitude.

After work hours, I may just put on my pyjamas but this can be embarassing if there are callers to the house. There are interesting reactions from door to door salespersons and Jehovah's Witnesses on being met by a 48 year old looking ready for bed at 6.30pm. A mixture of abject pity and outright envy. They should consider themselves fortunate as some evenings I just like to sit around in my pants.

A significant problem is that I am a full time dirt magnet. One minute I can look quite presentable and even groomed but the next I look as though I have emptied a full hoover dust bag over my head. Most of my better clothes have oil marks, ingrained dirt, paint runs, animal hairs, abraded turn-ups, ballpoint pen ink scribbles , bleach spots and stubborn residues that would cause Unilever to crash overnight if it were widely known that their cleansing products are powerless to help me remain fresh and untarnished for more than a few minutes.

Carls' hand-me-downs are therefore perfect for me. Second hand but definitely first rate. I am assisting his policy of keeping up with the latest fashions and he ensures that I am not scooped up by the authorities during any initiative to clampdown on scruffy and offensively attired vagrants wandering the streets in the hours of daylight.

...oh, and Stones

Anyone buying a house from our family will be mystifyed by the geological composition of the back garden.

In the distant future, Mayan predictions, global warming , ice age and the persistence of a civilisation permitting , any analysis of the rock fragments in the location formerly occupied by our back garden will cause confusion and excitement in equal measures. The variety of rocks, stones, pebbles and fossils in situ would appear to suggest a fantastical force of natural power that has traversed the world in both northern and southern hemispheres collecting up only aesthetically pleasing shapes of igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks before simultaneously depositing them in a specific spot where there is the same family name somewhere in the Deeds of ownership.

The process behind this strange phenomena is not glacial, tidal, volcanic or extra-terrestrial but because of the habit of a small boy, now a middle aged man, to find and bring home bits of geology from his travels, whether just down to the corner shop or the far ends of the planet.

The habit started very early, perhaps unwittingly from a pebble scooped up in a saggy nappy from a crawling and rolling adventure in the great outdoors. Then with the introduction of pockets in toddler clothes there were perfect receptacles to be filled indiscriminantly with pea gravel, aggregate and slate chippings. Learning to write was greatly assisted by the availability of natural chalk-stone, smooth and warm to the touch but readily sharpened by use on the pavement, garden and house walls. Some pieces were just too nice to use because of an interesting shape and texture and were the basis of the first collection. With chalk stones there always seemed to be the hard black fragments of flint close to hand. These were quite sharp and dangerous and if clashed together a shower of sparks and the smell of burning could be produced.

School projects on the history of the earth excited an interest in fossils. Just how many appendages were there to produce such a proliferation of devils toe-nails? The fossils displayed in gift shops were always so dramatic and perfect. It became a life's obsession to discover at least one of those plain lumpy rocks that, when smashed open revealed coloured crystals in concentric circles around a hollow core. Excavation of an old railway cutting had led to the discovery of a large fossilised shelled creature embedded in clay which was dragged home to take up pride of place in the growing collection.

Seaside holidays were a great source of collectable stones and pebbles. Flat, smooth examples would be sent skimming across the pools, shallows and over the incoming waves. Avid attention was necessary to count, record and loudly broadcast the number of clear skims before the pebble sank  from view or just dribbled along in rapid short hops. Beating the best by siblings had to be acheived before any thoughts or moves could be made about going home. Some skimming stones were just too good to be thrown and were thrust into sandy pockets, later to be heard tumbling around amongst the family wash on the monday following.

Scout camps in the English Lakes, Wales and Derbyshire swelled the collection. It was found that a cardigan tied around the waist with sleeves knotted at the cuff could act as a receptacle for almost an equivalent body weight of granite,silica and iron-pyrites colloquially known as fools gold. The fatigue of the young Boy Scout over the course of one expedition in the mountains of North Wales caused concern amongst the Group Leaders until the realisation of the sheer weight of rocks that he was transporting about his person. The return from camp posed a dilemna for the boys parents over whether to take the car or hitch up the trailer in anticipation of a new collection of rocks and stones.

In adult life there were no such restraints on the volume and mass of materials to be accumulated apart from airline baggage restrictions, customs regulations and where specific locations were designated World Heritage Sites or areas of protected natural environments. The rocks and pebbles soon overwhelmed shelves, cills, ledges and table-tops. In the course of a house move there were inevitable losses or reluctant abandonment to the garden and flower beds.

The current collection is largely to be found around a small fountain at the rear of the current family home. This includes smooth marble from the Greek Islands, pebbles from the Atlantic coast of Portugal, granite from Skye, Jet from Whitby, amber from Cornwall, opal from Australia and what has widely been supected as petrified sheep droppings from Northumberland sitting nicely amongst those ever present devils toenails.

In bright sunlight and under the rainbow arch of the fountain the arrangement of rocks, pebbles and stones resembles the planet earth as seen from outer space.