It was a different era.
We think today that we are in austerity measures but imagine how we would have coped in the immediate Post War period when rationing of staples and essentials persisted and was only ended in the early part of 1950.
The TV documentary, broadcast in more recent years, where a family volunteered to be subject to a wartime lifestyle in all its authenticity showed that the generation of the time was made of more sturdy stuff or was it just down to low expectations and modest, within means living?
It was then a minority who were fortunate enough or wealthy enough to own their own home outright with the main population residing in private rented or the growing council house sectors. My parents' first matrimonial home was occupied as local authority tenants.This was all that was available to them and within a sustainable and affordable budget.
It was a long term project and investment to save up a deposit for the outright purchase of a house, and very much determined by whether the local Bank Manager or Building Society Chief Executive either liked the look of you or was acquainted with your family, on or off the Golf course.
This contrasts sharply and soberly with the ability in the 2000's, in particular, to secure a mortgage to the extent of 120% of the purchase price with very little verification of ability to meet such a long term commitment. There were Media stories of fantastical income multipliers being used to magically summon up the full monies for a purchase and for loosely associated groups ,associates or casual acquaintances to pool their notional gross incomes if such an amalgamated co-operative was the only way to get a foot on the rapidly extending, beyond reach, property ladder.
An old school friend taking his first permanent job after University got together and formed a financial alliance with two fellow graduates. This allowed them to acquire a rather abused and sorry former council house in a reasonable district of Ashford, Kent. I remember him describing how the back door had the largest dog-flap ever that made a mockery of any other domestic security arrangements- unless of course the largest ever dog flap was a tight fit for the largest ever Doberman or Rottweiler.
My friend and his fellow owner occupier mortgagees were thrilled with their move on the market. The female and other male in his household got on with being grown ups with weekends spent travelling around and returning from the DIY Megastores and garden centres. The house slowly turned from derelict hovel to a comfortable home. One third ownership of any equity after the debt was a scary but altogether good feeling.
The almost 1970's TV sit com reality of the co-habitation went extremely well. That was until my friend and the lady of the house became a romantic item. Technical common law status came into play and the now 60% majority holding of any equity after the debt began to open up fissures in the relationship with the now sole male. There may have been an underlying and festering situation anyway given the mantra that three is always a crowd. The triumvirate fractured and it was agreed, without recourse to lawyers that the couple would buy out the share of the lone party. A Valuer was called in to advise and within a few weeks the deed was done and the transfer deed was signed and sealed.
Within a few short years even the new romantics foundered but by then the property market had accelerated so much that the initial investment was now very, very enhanced. With a reluctant but inevitable outcome both left with, for a broken heart and a boxful of sentimental mix-tapes , a nice pocketful of cash. This was the foundation for my friend to be able to afford that once thought out of reach house, a thatched former roadside coaching house in the evocatively named Nomansland in deepest rural Devon. Ah, such were the realities of ascending the property ladder.
The current situation could be no more different.The credit crisis of 2008 persists and mortgages are very hard to come by if you need to borrow more than 75% of the purchase price and impossible if there is any blemish on your credit score which is becoming as crucial to life as your blood group. It is now a fact that one in six of the UK households are in rented housing and owner occupation may become a trend of the past and not at all aspirational in any way.
Thursday 31 May 2012
Wednesday 30 May 2012
One Flue over the Cuckoos Nest
This is the story as it was told to me;
The house was of 1930's vintage.
A two storey bay to the front elevation, red oxide painted hung tiles at first floor level and with a white coarse pebbledash to the remainder under a Rosemary tiled roof. Thes traditional and character features had been visually appealing. The property had stood out from the tens and possibly low hundreds scrutinised in the property supplement.
In the process of prospective purchasing categories were set as "no-hoper", "not sure", "probable" and "worth a closer look". The house had easily qualified for the latter.
When viewed through the local Estate Agent it did not disappoint. A builder had acquired it from a relative only a few short months before and had fully renovated the interior in a tasteful neutral magnolia to accentuate the brand new beech worktop fitted kitchen, stylish white bathroom suite and a full wall to wall array of pine wardrobes to the main front bedroom. The only surviving authentic features were the internal doors, two thirds vertical fluted panelled in dipped and stripped pine and the living room fireplace. This comprised a slate bed mantelpiece and scrolled supports with veneered slate uprights around an open hearth.
The house, in refurbished show home format, had included a bowl of fragranced pine cones in the hearth itself.
The purchase progressed swiftly with no major hiccups or dramas. With keys in hand following legal completion of the transaction the proud new owner had the first proper snoop and look around. Some of the magnolia would have to go of course but otherwise it was perfect. A moving in date was set to coincide with the end of the tenancy on the current residence.
Meanwhile, the family attended and passed judgement. The mother filled up with tears at the sight of a fitted kitchen. Hers had and still consisted of a freestanding pantry cupboard and a belfast glazed sink. The father, expertly kicked the skirting boards and marvelled at the exactly snug mitred joints on the original internal doors- his own father had been a time served joiner and would , if he had been alive,have appreciated the craftsmanship. Youngest sister opened up all the wardrobe doors in the main bedroom and mentally filled them with her extensive designer accoutrements which was a sure thing as soon as she got a first job. Brother sulked in the garden with a cigarette- life was just not fair and favourite siblings always got everything they wanted. Uncle John, that essential part of any family, speculated that the living room hearth would be fantastic as an operational coal fire. He dashed off to fetch his sectional sweeping brushes which were carefully secreted in his lock-up just for this very eventuality.
On his return he stood in the street and perused the chimney stack. Two clay pots, open mouthed. These corresponded with the living room chimney breast and another in the dining room. The brother, reassured of his usefulness was manhandled onto the opposite pavement with instructions to holler when the brush end emerged triumphantly from , definitely, logically, surely, the front most pot.
Uncle John made a proper performance of presenting the lengths of rods and the dramatic but suspiciously clean brush end. He actually lived in a ground floor council flat with no fireplaces or flues. The sweep set had been an impulsive internet purchase, more for accumulating fees at weddings as a business venture than an actual practical application.
As though a genetic trait Uncle John eyed up the hearth to ceiling height in the living room. The brush head was screwed onto two rod lengths. Mother fussed around with the travel rug from the car draping it on the fireside carpet in anticipation of an avalanche of soot, bricks, dead birds and charred letters to Santa. With an artisitic fluorish Uncle John shoved the assemblage into the narrow opening above the hearth.
Through the window the brother scuffed the kerb and lit another cigarette whilst looking skyward. The head and first rod were out of sight but resistance was met surprisingly quickly. No matter how frequently and hard the retraction and insertion was repeated there was no vertical progress. Uncle John was frustrated. No one had thought to bring a kettle, tea bags, milk, sugar or, oh yes, cups and saucers so a brew was not on the menu. This only made matters worse.
The flue clogging properties of cheap Polish coal was a matter of discourse between the older members of those assembled, well those who could remember a British mining industry. Thing would never be the same when a nation lost the means to produce its own power. Mother kept quiet after transferring fathers utilities to Energy de France from British Gas.
The party migrated to the kerb. Two fireplaces, two pots. The menfolk instinctively scratched their scalps and balls. The women waited for some inspired words of wisdom.
Youngest sister meanwhile had continued to create her own Carrie Bradshaw dimension clothes storage facility in the fitted wardrobes of the front bedroom, directly above the living room activity. She insisted that those present come and appreciate her visionary thoughts. Seeking any excuse to escape the impasse over the sweeping Uncle John was the first to ascend the stairs followed by the rest of the real family. He was, after all, a self styled ladies man but not a poof for all that.
All stared at the expanse of open pine doors. There was certainly a vast square footage therein. A proper regular rectangle of storage space that could easily cope with the widest of retro 80's padded shoulder blouses and casual jackets.
Gradually the reality of the situation became apparent. There was no continuation of the chimney breast through the bedroom. Uncle John dashed off to fetch his ladders, another impulsive internet purchase for a ground floor flat dweller.
In the loft there was a sooty outline on the party wall where otherwise there would be a brick encased flue. The builder who had inherited the house had chopped out the bedroom chimney breast after having been impressed by a Phil and Kirsties gushing endorsement that extra storage would not only increase the value of the house but also secure a sale.
The mother was the first to giggle. The father soon joined in followed by the loyal but impressionable family members. Even Uncle John slapped his own bald pate in mock self ridicule. The brother, the hero of the hour returned from the local shop armed with cans of beer, shrink wrapped Cornish pasties, lots of packets of crisps and a rapidly thawing Vienetta.
The impromptu and happy picnic took place around a dusty bowl of pine cones, retrieved from the gas cupboard, which were ceremoniously placed in the gaping, useless hearth.
The house was of 1930's vintage.
A two storey bay to the front elevation, red oxide painted hung tiles at first floor level and with a white coarse pebbledash to the remainder under a Rosemary tiled roof. Thes traditional and character features had been visually appealing. The property had stood out from the tens and possibly low hundreds scrutinised in the property supplement.
In the process of prospective purchasing categories were set as "no-hoper", "not sure", "probable" and "worth a closer look". The house had easily qualified for the latter.
When viewed through the local Estate Agent it did not disappoint. A builder had acquired it from a relative only a few short months before and had fully renovated the interior in a tasteful neutral magnolia to accentuate the brand new beech worktop fitted kitchen, stylish white bathroom suite and a full wall to wall array of pine wardrobes to the main front bedroom. The only surviving authentic features were the internal doors, two thirds vertical fluted panelled in dipped and stripped pine and the living room fireplace. This comprised a slate bed mantelpiece and scrolled supports with veneered slate uprights around an open hearth.
The house, in refurbished show home format, had included a bowl of fragranced pine cones in the hearth itself.
The purchase progressed swiftly with no major hiccups or dramas. With keys in hand following legal completion of the transaction the proud new owner had the first proper snoop and look around. Some of the magnolia would have to go of course but otherwise it was perfect. A moving in date was set to coincide with the end of the tenancy on the current residence.
Meanwhile, the family attended and passed judgement. The mother filled up with tears at the sight of a fitted kitchen. Hers had and still consisted of a freestanding pantry cupboard and a belfast glazed sink. The father, expertly kicked the skirting boards and marvelled at the exactly snug mitred joints on the original internal doors- his own father had been a time served joiner and would , if he had been alive,have appreciated the craftsmanship. Youngest sister opened up all the wardrobe doors in the main bedroom and mentally filled them with her extensive designer accoutrements which was a sure thing as soon as she got a first job. Brother sulked in the garden with a cigarette- life was just not fair and favourite siblings always got everything they wanted. Uncle John, that essential part of any family, speculated that the living room hearth would be fantastic as an operational coal fire. He dashed off to fetch his sectional sweeping brushes which were carefully secreted in his lock-up just for this very eventuality.
On his return he stood in the street and perused the chimney stack. Two clay pots, open mouthed. These corresponded with the living room chimney breast and another in the dining room. The brother, reassured of his usefulness was manhandled onto the opposite pavement with instructions to holler when the brush end emerged triumphantly from , definitely, logically, surely, the front most pot.
Uncle John made a proper performance of presenting the lengths of rods and the dramatic but suspiciously clean brush end. He actually lived in a ground floor council flat with no fireplaces or flues. The sweep set had been an impulsive internet purchase, more for accumulating fees at weddings as a business venture than an actual practical application.
As though a genetic trait Uncle John eyed up the hearth to ceiling height in the living room. The brush head was screwed onto two rod lengths. Mother fussed around with the travel rug from the car draping it on the fireside carpet in anticipation of an avalanche of soot, bricks, dead birds and charred letters to Santa. With an artisitic fluorish Uncle John shoved the assemblage into the narrow opening above the hearth.
Through the window the brother scuffed the kerb and lit another cigarette whilst looking skyward. The head and first rod were out of sight but resistance was met surprisingly quickly. No matter how frequently and hard the retraction and insertion was repeated there was no vertical progress. Uncle John was frustrated. No one had thought to bring a kettle, tea bags, milk, sugar or, oh yes, cups and saucers so a brew was not on the menu. This only made matters worse.
The flue clogging properties of cheap Polish coal was a matter of discourse between the older members of those assembled, well those who could remember a British mining industry. Thing would never be the same when a nation lost the means to produce its own power. Mother kept quiet after transferring fathers utilities to Energy de France from British Gas.
The party migrated to the kerb. Two fireplaces, two pots. The menfolk instinctively scratched their scalps and balls. The women waited for some inspired words of wisdom.
Youngest sister meanwhile had continued to create her own Carrie Bradshaw dimension clothes storage facility in the fitted wardrobes of the front bedroom, directly above the living room activity. She insisted that those present come and appreciate her visionary thoughts. Seeking any excuse to escape the impasse over the sweeping Uncle John was the first to ascend the stairs followed by the rest of the real family. He was, after all, a self styled ladies man but not a poof for all that.
All stared at the expanse of open pine doors. There was certainly a vast square footage therein. A proper regular rectangle of storage space that could easily cope with the widest of retro 80's padded shoulder blouses and casual jackets.
Gradually the reality of the situation became apparent. There was no continuation of the chimney breast through the bedroom. Uncle John dashed off to fetch his ladders, another impulsive internet purchase for a ground floor flat dweller.
In the loft there was a sooty outline on the party wall where otherwise there would be a brick encased flue. The builder who had inherited the house had chopped out the bedroom chimney breast after having been impressed by a Phil and Kirsties gushing endorsement that extra storage would not only increase the value of the house but also secure a sale.
The mother was the first to giggle. The father soon joined in followed by the loyal but impressionable family members. Even Uncle John slapped his own bald pate in mock self ridicule. The brother, the hero of the hour returned from the local shop armed with cans of beer, shrink wrapped Cornish pasties, lots of packets of crisps and a rapidly thawing Vienetta.
The impromptu and happy picnic took place around a dusty bowl of pine cones, retrieved from the gas cupboard, which were ceremoniously placed in the gaping, useless hearth.
Tuesday 29 May 2012
Bogart and the fence
I was suffering in my work suit. I often wondered why I wore a two-piece given the scrapes and dirty corners I was exposed to daily. Still, it was my I.D, I was never challenged to verify who I was in my suit. If the criminal fraternity got down to BHS and kitted themselves out in a pin stripe number it would be a matter of grave concern for the authorities. Height of summer in the city was unpleasant. Downright nasty for the rest of the year. I felt uncomfortable in my off the peg shirt. It's mass production in some sweat shop had scrimped on the length of shirt tails so that any vertical movement, a stretch up, lean down or slight rotation such as that from abusing a bus driver, taking a magazine off the top shelf or reaching over the Starbucks counter for extra sugar caused my midriff to be exposed. Not as toned as it could be or svelt smooth either. My feet ached in my tight brogues. They were cheap from the shoe clearance place, seconds probably and also half a size too small for me, an explanation for their reasonable price. My overall demeanour was hot and sweaty. My belt was straining from too many lattes and biscottis from too many surrenders to snacking.
I remained, however, determined to keep my necktie in place, a solid knot against my hot collar. Many colleagues and street acquaintances had succumbed to loosening their ties to half mast or dispensing with them altogether in an all too casual look for my liking. In a few minutes of staring vacantly into the oscillating fan on my desk, a freebie and sweetener from an office supplies rep I felt a bit cooler and more composed. I could take off my wool mix winter jacket now that my sweat patches had faded to just damp. There is no more a social pariah than someone with sweaty 'pits.
The phone rang, a female voice, husky from too many high tar non filters. "Mr Thomson- I need your services" she said eagerly.
Within an hour I was on the road in response to the call. The city and its deeply engrained grime fell away as I got to the eastern suburbs. The traffic was crawling, like my skin. A heat haze shimmered over the red tarmac of the bus lane. Bicycle tyres squelched and ripped through the softening tarmac. Car windows, wound down, gave a straw poll of what music was "in". Thumpy bass, twangy depressing country and western, Engelburt. Male drivers were being distracted from their sight of the road ahead road by female pedestrians exceeding a reasonable ratio of bare flesh to clothing. At least two shunts could be attributed to a girl at a bus stop in a halter top. The pubs along the high road were heaving out onto the forecourts. I envied the participants in casual chit-chat and high spirits but had to speculate on what job they held down to allow them this recreation. The gates, as I passed the city park were crowded with young mothers and infants at the ice cream van. As an indictment of lifestyles there was a bigger queue at the mobile burger van.
I reached the address provided by my caller. The car straddled the pavement and double yellows. There was just enough room for two saloon cars to pass at speed but the frequent coming together in opposite directions of buses to town and juggernauts from the docks caused a few snarl-ups.
The damsel in distress was standing on her doorstep before I had reached the wrought iron footgate. Her voice was 60 years or so younger than her physical appearance. Slight and grey looking but with a quiet determination lurking beneath. As we went indoors she glanced around nervously. The net curtain of two bungalows opposite floated down to their normal position but not from any breeze on a stifling becalmed day.
She briefed me on the problem which warranted my expertise. Her neighbour was slowly but surely stealing her land. It had started on her return from a holiday a few years before. Her south boundary, as straight as a centre court tramline was now bulbous. A large section, previously in her ownership was now fenced in and had been claimed by the neighbour. She had, she said, been prepared to be reasonable but her polite approach ,giving the benefit of any doubt ,had only been seen as a weakness by the neighbour. He was now more determined to grow his plot at her expense. He was now looking to annexe the driveway. They had faced up over the fence and played involuntary footsie under it. Fingers had been pointed and stabbed agressively in the air. Hurtful things, of no relevance to the boundary dispute had been thrown around like a seeded dandelion head. It was a job for the lawyers evidently. The respective legal representatives were reluctant to take the case but the prospect of good fees made it tolerable and profitable.
No reasonable or amicable compromise was possible. The fledgling lawyers had seen the depiction of an intervention on a Channel 4 comedy show and thought about it to resolve this issue. A single joint expert would be appointed. Where they had sourced him from I could not begin to speculate.A classified ad in a fantasy magazine perhaps. He arrived with a bag of tricks. Laser-satellite-total station- technology or something using that combination of words. The boundary was measured, then deconstructed and re-engineered. Science ruled the day. Unfortunately, the crew of the Enterprise as I labelled them, had forgotton their primary tools of common sense, observation and interpretation of facts. Reality on stun.
The conclusion, some 100 pages on from the title page, was akin to re-writing the Bible as he saw it.The boundary by their reckoning, ceterus parabus, was a little to the south of the existing. This would mean a very happy and unbearably justified neighbour and a driveway of now no practical use to my client. It was illogical.
I pored over the bundle of documents in her possession while she poured me a cuppa. The file was meticulously ordered, logical and to anyone with an ounce of common sense, self explanatory in defining the boundary of some 50 years standing. Title Plans, correspondence, affidavits from previous owner occupiers all told the truth. I took the papers away and by 1am I had confirmed my view. It was too late to call her up so I just basked in imagining her happy and reassured that she was not going doo-lally.
I would be firm and resolute in my reporting. After all, I always liked to champion the down trodden and the underdog and in this case someone had definitley crossed a line.
I remained, however, determined to keep my necktie in place, a solid knot against my hot collar. Many colleagues and street acquaintances had succumbed to loosening their ties to half mast or dispensing with them altogether in an all too casual look for my liking. In a few minutes of staring vacantly into the oscillating fan on my desk, a freebie and sweetener from an office supplies rep I felt a bit cooler and more composed. I could take off my wool mix winter jacket now that my sweat patches had faded to just damp. There is no more a social pariah than someone with sweaty 'pits.
The phone rang, a female voice, husky from too many high tar non filters. "Mr Thomson- I need your services" she said eagerly.
Within an hour I was on the road in response to the call. The city and its deeply engrained grime fell away as I got to the eastern suburbs. The traffic was crawling, like my skin. A heat haze shimmered over the red tarmac of the bus lane. Bicycle tyres squelched and ripped through the softening tarmac. Car windows, wound down, gave a straw poll of what music was "in". Thumpy bass, twangy depressing country and western, Engelburt. Male drivers were being distracted from their sight of the road ahead road by female pedestrians exceeding a reasonable ratio of bare flesh to clothing. At least two shunts could be attributed to a girl at a bus stop in a halter top. The pubs along the high road were heaving out onto the forecourts. I envied the participants in casual chit-chat and high spirits but had to speculate on what job they held down to allow them this recreation. The gates, as I passed the city park were crowded with young mothers and infants at the ice cream van. As an indictment of lifestyles there was a bigger queue at the mobile burger van.
I reached the address provided by my caller. The car straddled the pavement and double yellows. There was just enough room for two saloon cars to pass at speed but the frequent coming together in opposite directions of buses to town and juggernauts from the docks caused a few snarl-ups.
The damsel in distress was standing on her doorstep before I had reached the wrought iron footgate. Her voice was 60 years or so younger than her physical appearance. Slight and grey looking but with a quiet determination lurking beneath. As we went indoors she glanced around nervously. The net curtain of two bungalows opposite floated down to their normal position but not from any breeze on a stifling becalmed day.
She briefed me on the problem which warranted my expertise. Her neighbour was slowly but surely stealing her land. It had started on her return from a holiday a few years before. Her south boundary, as straight as a centre court tramline was now bulbous. A large section, previously in her ownership was now fenced in and had been claimed by the neighbour. She had, she said, been prepared to be reasonable but her polite approach ,giving the benefit of any doubt ,had only been seen as a weakness by the neighbour. He was now more determined to grow his plot at her expense. He was now looking to annexe the driveway. They had faced up over the fence and played involuntary footsie under it. Fingers had been pointed and stabbed agressively in the air. Hurtful things, of no relevance to the boundary dispute had been thrown around like a seeded dandelion head. It was a job for the lawyers evidently. The respective legal representatives were reluctant to take the case but the prospect of good fees made it tolerable and profitable.
No reasonable or amicable compromise was possible. The fledgling lawyers had seen the depiction of an intervention on a Channel 4 comedy show and thought about it to resolve this issue. A single joint expert would be appointed. Where they had sourced him from I could not begin to speculate.A classified ad in a fantasy magazine perhaps. He arrived with a bag of tricks. Laser-satellite-total station- technology or something using that combination of words. The boundary was measured, then deconstructed and re-engineered. Science ruled the day. Unfortunately, the crew of the Enterprise as I labelled them, had forgotton their primary tools of common sense, observation and interpretation of facts. Reality on stun.
The conclusion, some 100 pages on from the title page, was akin to re-writing the Bible as he saw it.The boundary by their reckoning, ceterus parabus, was a little to the south of the existing. This would mean a very happy and unbearably justified neighbour and a driveway of now no practical use to my client. It was illogical.
I pored over the bundle of documents in her possession while she poured me a cuppa. The file was meticulously ordered, logical and to anyone with an ounce of common sense, self explanatory in defining the boundary of some 50 years standing. Title Plans, correspondence, affidavits from previous owner occupiers all told the truth. I took the papers away and by 1am I had confirmed my view. It was too late to call her up so I just basked in imagining her happy and reassured that she was not going doo-lally.
I would be firm and resolute in my reporting. After all, I always liked to champion the down trodden and the underdog and in this case someone had definitley crossed a line.
Monday 28 May 2012
Pumped up Plumped out
You never forget the exhilarating feeling of riding your bike for the very first time without stabilisers or your dad holding on to the seatpost whilst running, croutched and short breathed alongside. It is a leap of faith.
The sheer joy in breaking loose is tempered by the realisation that everything is now in your own control. Usually accompanied by a nervous laughing and a few wiggles and weaves there is a true sense of freedom that may not be experienced again until that moment in your future, too far ahead to contemplate or comprehend at the age of 6, when you take your first solo drive in a car.
What starts the love affair with cycling?
My first wheeled endeavours were on a small red metal framed tricycle. A hand me down or second hand thing, a bit like a hobby horse and easier to scoot along rather than stretch tiny undeveloped legs onto the direct drive pedals on the small front wheel. This form of transport and shuffling around, mostly indoors sufficed but it was not long before I graduated to the family learner bike. This is still in the shed at the old family home and not bad for its half century or more.
A chunky white walled tyred bike, cream and light blue frame, stainless steel or real chrome trim and proper lever brakes for small hands to grip and squeeze in alternate euphoria and terror, dependant on the gradient or quality of the surface being ridden on. The rear axle was the clamping position for the faithful stabilisers. They were intended to be set at slightly different levels to simulate the theoretical process of riding which involved acheiving that fine definition of balance between good straight line forward movement and a disastrous over toppling and all the gravel and skin mixing that prevailed.
I would dismiss those in my bike peer group whose fathers set the stabilisers dead level. The chunky tyres were regularly in need of pumping up and as the inner tubes had car-type valves this had to be done with the fierce spring loaded footpump which was stored in the boot of the Morris Minor. There were regular sobering stories in the newspapers about small boys being killed or injured through connecting their low pressure bike tyres to the air line at the local garage. I could not see the attraction of a mechanical inflation when many hours could be spent jogging on the manual pump albeit with very little to show for it.
The small bike was strong enough to resist the rough play of children and resilient enough to be left out in the garden overnight and in all weathers. I soon outgrew it and it passed over to the next child of suitable age.
At Junior School I had a second hand Raleigh bike. Almost full sized wheels, cross bar and the most uncomfortable saddle you could imagine, sweaty plastic and with protruding springs and rivets. I took my cycling proficiency test on that bike. That was in the days when a policeman supervised in lessons and at the time of the actual test. He ridiculed my old bike and in particular the metal rod operated brakes. I did have the last laugh when he tested the brakes by running along and then pulling hard on the front and rear levers. He was not expecting anything to happen between the brake blocks and wheel rims so when they performed brilliantly in stopping the bike dead he was taken by surprise. The sight of his helmet flying off and rolling away across the playground was well received by all in the playground bar one. That bike did have a bit of an annoying characteristic. Sometimes the pedals would just spin around with the chain coursing wildly around the rear axle and hub with no engaging or prospect of forward motion. This invariably happened when a quick getaway was necessary to avoid the big, mean kids at the local shops or when there was a challenge for a mad race from a friend. Of course, traffic was slower and of much lower volumes than today and even a frantic head down peddaling on the main road through the town did not throw up too many hazards.
My next bike was a Raleigh Wayfarer. Second hand again and blue. I needed it to get to secondary school so it was fitted with an aluminium rack over the back mudguard and a saddlebag. Now a matter of much cringing embarassment I stuck a bright orange rectangular sticker on the back of the vinyl clad saddlebag which said 'Short Vehicle'. The bike was also for my early morning paper round but the regular riding along with one foot on the cranks caused them to bend and eventually shear off.
There were plenty of bikes in the house, at one time upwards of 30 of all sizes and styles. My first brand new bike was purchased at the age of 17. I had spent a summer working on a farm and for £130 I could afford a Carlton Pro-Am Racing bike. It was a beauty. Ice white frame, drop bars, aluminium wheels, 12 gears, lightweight tubing. It was not a machine on which you could be casually dressed or use just to go down to the shops. I had to get the gear and the rest of my wages went on woolly racing shorts with a team logo and a flashy Peugeot jersey in the classic black and white chest band style of the late 1970's. I also bought a track pump to get to the 100 psi pressure needed for the narrow racing profile tyres.
I dutifully and enthusiastically pumped up all the tyres on the bikes in the house to their indicated pressure or what, based on my new bike, I felt appropriate through guessing.
During the night the family were rudely awoken by a series of explosions from the bicycles in the hallway as the inner tubes finally burst under the duress of the forced air.
The Carlton was, with some change of components, a starter bike for competitive racing and in the following years I took part in many road races and time trials with minimal success but a lot of enjoyment. My grandfather left me some money in his will and I used it to have a custom made bike built with the best components I could stretch to. Loretta Langdale is still with me and I have tried to keep her looking up to date with a change of parts and upgraded paintwork.
It is unfortunate that pressure of work and just being a proper grown up throws up many hindrances to just going out on the bike but the better weather is here, my lycra racing gear might still fit and I can feel again that exhilaration of being on two wheels.
The sheer joy in breaking loose is tempered by the realisation that everything is now in your own control. Usually accompanied by a nervous laughing and a few wiggles and weaves there is a true sense of freedom that may not be experienced again until that moment in your future, too far ahead to contemplate or comprehend at the age of 6, when you take your first solo drive in a car.
What starts the love affair with cycling?
My first wheeled endeavours were on a small red metal framed tricycle. A hand me down or second hand thing, a bit like a hobby horse and easier to scoot along rather than stretch tiny undeveloped legs onto the direct drive pedals on the small front wheel. This form of transport and shuffling around, mostly indoors sufficed but it was not long before I graduated to the family learner bike. This is still in the shed at the old family home and not bad for its half century or more.
A chunky white walled tyred bike, cream and light blue frame, stainless steel or real chrome trim and proper lever brakes for small hands to grip and squeeze in alternate euphoria and terror, dependant on the gradient or quality of the surface being ridden on. The rear axle was the clamping position for the faithful stabilisers. They were intended to be set at slightly different levels to simulate the theoretical process of riding which involved acheiving that fine definition of balance between good straight line forward movement and a disastrous over toppling and all the gravel and skin mixing that prevailed.
I would dismiss those in my bike peer group whose fathers set the stabilisers dead level. The chunky tyres were regularly in need of pumping up and as the inner tubes had car-type valves this had to be done with the fierce spring loaded footpump which was stored in the boot of the Morris Minor. There were regular sobering stories in the newspapers about small boys being killed or injured through connecting their low pressure bike tyres to the air line at the local garage. I could not see the attraction of a mechanical inflation when many hours could be spent jogging on the manual pump albeit with very little to show for it.
The small bike was strong enough to resist the rough play of children and resilient enough to be left out in the garden overnight and in all weathers. I soon outgrew it and it passed over to the next child of suitable age.
At Junior School I had a second hand Raleigh bike. Almost full sized wheels, cross bar and the most uncomfortable saddle you could imagine, sweaty plastic and with protruding springs and rivets. I took my cycling proficiency test on that bike. That was in the days when a policeman supervised in lessons and at the time of the actual test. He ridiculed my old bike and in particular the metal rod operated brakes. I did have the last laugh when he tested the brakes by running along and then pulling hard on the front and rear levers. He was not expecting anything to happen between the brake blocks and wheel rims so when they performed brilliantly in stopping the bike dead he was taken by surprise. The sight of his helmet flying off and rolling away across the playground was well received by all in the playground bar one. That bike did have a bit of an annoying characteristic. Sometimes the pedals would just spin around with the chain coursing wildly around the rear axle and hub with no engaging or prospect of forward motion. This invariably happened when a quick getaway was necessary to avoid the big, mean kids at the local shops or when there was a challenge for a mad race from a friend. Of course, traffic was slower and of much lower volumes than today and even a frantic head down peddaling on the main road through the town did not throw up too many hazards.
My next bike was a Raleigh Wayfarer. Second hand again and blue. I needed it to get to secondary school so it was fitted with an aluminium rack over the back mudguard and a saddlebag. Now a matter of much cringing embarassment I stuck a bright orange rectangular sticker on the back of the vinyl clad saddlebag which said 'Short Vehicle'. The bike was also for my early morning paper round but the regular riding along with one foot on the cranks caused them to bend and eventually shear off.
There were plenty of bikes in the house, at one time upwards of 30 of all sizes and styles. My first brand new bike was purchased at the age of 17. I had spent a summer working on a farm and for £130 I could afford a Carlton Pro-Am Racing bike. It was a beauty. Ice white frame, drop bars, aluminium wheels, 12 gears, lightweight tubing. It was not a machine on which you could be casually dressed or use just to go down to the shops. I had to get the gear and the rest of my wages went on woolly racing shorts with a team logo and a flashy Peugeot jersey in the classic black and white chest band style of the late 1970's. I also bought a track pump to get to the 100 psi pressure needed for the narrow racing profile tyres.
I dutifully and enthusiastically pumped up all the tyres on the bikes in the house to their indicated pressure or what, based on my new bike, I felt appropriate through guessing.
During the night the family were rudely awoken by a series of explosions from the bicycles in the hallway as the inner tubes finally burst under the duress of the forced air.
The Carlton was, with some change of components, a starter bike for competitive racing and in the following years I took part in many road races and time trials with minimal success but a lot of enjoyment. My grandfather left me some money in his will and I used it to have a custom made bike built with the best components I could stretch to. Loretta Langdale is still with me and I have tried to keep her looking up to date with a change of parts and upgraded paintwork.
It is unfortunate that pressure of work and just being a proper grown up throws up many hindrances to just going out on the bike but the better weather is here, my lycra racing gear might still fit and I can feel again that exhilaration of being on two wheels.
Sunday 27 May 2012
Shell Shock
In the boot of every car ever owned by the Thomson family you will find one or more of the following things. i) An old pair of mans pants- used but not too badly worn. ii) A bar of Kendal Mint Cake- well beyond the sell by date even for the last century. iii) A snow shovel- no sign of apparent use . iv) One drivers glove- the whereaboutsof the other being unknown v) Full set of replacement auto-bulbs vi) a lot of loose sea shells.
There is a certain prudency in the ready availability of items i) through to v).
Mans pants are durable and sturdy enough in the main part for longevity of service, even after a good few years actual use, as an oil dipstick cleaning cloth, general inside of windscreen cleaner and for that moment when a quick swipe and wipe are just what is needed to alleviate the stress of maintaining a motor car.
In case of a rapid depletion of blood sugar levels the energy rich and sharply peppermint boost that comes from a bar of Kendal Mint Cake is just the tonic to get you home. As a normal purchase for consumption without any duress or mitigating cirumstances the bar is wholly unsatisfying. It causes a sugar-rush induced headache and, for those of a maturer age, a distinct ache amongst teeth enamel and fillings. However, under threat of being stranded in the usual amount of British winter or spring snowfall, or a vehicular breakdown mint cake comes into its own. Father always made sure there was some in the car at all times but not for eating.
The snow shovel may as well have been strapped to the mint cake such was the improbability of use of both.
A single drivers glove does not represent a disaster in either practical applications or fashion. It can still be useful when turning the starter handle of a Morris Minor or manhandling the products of travel sick youngsters from car to hedgerow.
The small plastic box, gawdy coloured for quick identification to the lower part and with a clear perspex hinged lid, containing a full set of bulbs for headlights, side lights, indicators and brake lights may have been provided with the car when brand new. My father was a great fan of VW's and such was their reliability of engine and frugality of other components that it was not at all surprising to find such a supply of bulbs still with the manufacturers or suppliers seal intact. That brings me to the loose sea shells.
Most of my childhood recollections of the long, always hot and sunny summer holidays and particularly the main fortnight family getaway was of beside the sea. I can remember most of the seaside towns and beaches or am reminded of others by a quick look through the array of photo albums if visiting mother. I think my near-drowning off a slippery slip way at about 4 years old was on the Isle of Wight. Up to the age of 10 I recall the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts, various stays in static caravans between the New Forest and the sea, a boarding house near Torquay. From age 10 we lived quite near the Lincolnshire coast with frequent trips to Cleethorpes, Skegness, Mablethorpe and Sutton on Sea. Further afield we camped on a clifftop on the west coast of Scotland and a short walk to the great beaches of Northumberland.
In all of these places I would make sure that I would return home with, ideally a bucket full of sea-shells or failing that some Tupperware container, plastic sandwich bag or as a last resort my own pockets. One child so depopulating a beach and rock pools of shells would not be seen as a threat to the environment. However, my siblings always did the same and so for each main holiday or day trip to the seaside our family alone could return with a good few pounds weight of shell booty.
It is not surprising that stray shells found their way into the far recesses of the car as they would be rattling and rolling about amongst the receptacles of, by the latter part of the day, a very sleepy set of children. The post-trip period would involve a tally of the assembled shells. Standard scallops, elongated razors, Mr Whippy cornet types, small winkles, mussel and conch- the latter was not at all native to Britain and would usually be a purchase from a sea front gift shop.
The novelty soon wore off and the shells, now a bit smelly from not being rinsed out, would be confined to a drawer or placed in the garden. Crafts did present an opportunity to use the shells to adorn plant pots and other vessels that had dared to be left out by parents. A decorated terracotta flower pot was always well received by grandparents or elderly relatives. The adhesion process was fun but very messy.
I seem to remember coating an otherwise perfectly good pot in thick gloopy plaster of paris or similar before pressing in a selection of sea shells. The finishing touch was a coat of varnish. The resulting gift was both useful and quite hazardous in terms of sharp edges. If there was still a good number of shells and cementatious type substance left over then it was fair game to try to carry on the craft session covering anything not bolted down.
An item of great fascination to us children was a shell covered fire screen that one of our grandparents had made some years before. It was extremely heavy under the weight of the decorations and strained to stand upright in the hearth on its fashioned wooden feet. The varnish veneer had an age-worn hue and the shells were arranged by different type and expertly, in our considered opinion, by graduaded size.
I was reminded of the artistry of the screen only last week when it was displayed and sold at a car boot sale. It was immediately the subject of intense interest by a man in his 70's. He stood close scrutinising the workmanship. He lifted it up as though, like cash for gold, its worth was weight based. His wizened workmans hands caressed the now age bronzed mother of pearl. Eagerly he asked how much it was. I had no idea of monetary worth as opposed to the priceless nostalgic value. He offered £10 which for an early starting North Hull sale was unheard of in generosity. I was shocked enough to accept.
I apologised that a single shell was missing as I had knocked it off in a temper tantrum some 40 plus years earlier. He reassured me that I was not to worry as he had the exact perfect shell at home to restore it to its prime. Perhaps he had bought a car from our family in the last 50 years.
There is a certain prudency in the ready availability of items i) through to v).
Mans pants are durable and sturdy enough in the main part for longevity of service, even after a good few years actual use, as an oil dipstick cleaning cloth, general inside of windscreen cleaner and for that moment when a quick swipe and wipe are just what is needed to alleviate the stress of maintaining a motor car.
In case of a rapid depletion of blood sugar levels the energy rich and sharply peppermint boost that comes from a bar of Kendal Mint Cake is just the tonic to get you home. As a normal purchase for consumption without any duress or mitigating cirumstances the bar is wholly unsatisfying. It causes a sugar-rush induced headache and, for those of a maturer age, a distinct ache amongst teeth enamel and fillings. However, under threat of being stranded in the usual amount of British winter or spring snowfall, or a vehicular breakdown mint cake comes into its own. Father always made sure there was some in the car at all times but not for eating.
The snow shovel may as well have been strapped to the mint cake such was the improbability of use of both.
A single drivers glove does not represent a disaster in either practical applications or fashion. It can still be useful when turning the starter handle of a Morris Minor or manhandling the products of travel sick youngsters from car to hedgerow.
The small plastic box, gawdy coloured for quick identification to the lower part and with a clear perspex hinged lid, containing a full set of bulbs for headlights, side lights, indicators and brake lights may have been provided with the car when brand new. My father was a great fan of VW's and such was their reliability of engine and frugality of other components that it was not at all surprising to find such a supply of bulbs still with the manufacturers or suppliers seal intact. That brings me to the loose sea shells.
Most of my childhood recollections of the long, always hot and sunny summer holidays and particularly the main fortnight family getaway was of beside the sea. I can remember most of the seaside towns and beaches or am reminded of others by a quick look through the array of photo albums if visiting mother. I think my near-drowning off a slippery slip way at about 4 years old was on the Isle of Wight. Up to the age of 10 I recall the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts, various stays in static caravans between the New Forest and the sea, a boarding house near Torquay. From age 10 we lived quite near the Lincolnshire coast with frequent trips to Cleethorpes, Skegness, Mablethorpe and Sutton on Sea. Further afield we camped on a clifftop on the west coast of Scotland and a short walk to the great beaches of Northumberland.
In all of these places I would make sure that I would return home with, ideally a bucket full of sea-shells or failing that some Tupperware container, plastic sandwich bag or as a last resort my own pockets. One child so depopulating a beach and rock pools of shells would not be seen as a threat to the environment. However, my siblings always did the same and so for each main holiday or day trip to the seaside our family alone could return with a good few pounds weight of shell booty.
It is not surprising that stray shells found their way into the far recesses of the car as they would be rattling and rolling about amongst the receptacles of, by the latter part of the day, a very sleepy set of children. The post-trip period would involve a tally of the assembled shells. Standard scallops, elongated razors, Mr Whippy cornet types, small winkles, mussel and conch- the latter was not at all native to Britain and would usually be a purchase from a sea front gift shop.
The novelty soon wore off and the shells, now a bit smelly from not being rinsed out, would be confined to a drawer or placed in the garden. Crafts did present an opportunity to use the shells to adorn plant pots and other vessels that had dared to be left out by parents. A decorated terracotta flower pot was always well received by grandparents or elderly relatives. The adhesion process was fun but very messy.
I seem to remember coating an otherwise perfectly good pot in thick gloopy plaster of paris or similar before pressing in a selection of sea shells. The finishing touch was a coat of varnish. The resulting gift was both useful and quite hazardous in terms of sharp edges. If there was still a good number of shells and cementatious type substance left over then it was fair game to try to carry on the craft session covering anything not bolted down.
An item of great fascination to us children was a shell covered fire screen that one of our grandparents had made some years before. It was extremely heavy under the weight of the decorations and strained to stand upright in the hearth on its fashioned wooden feet. The varnish veneer had an age-worn hue and the shells were arranged by different type and expertly, in our considered opinion, by graduaded size.
I was reminded of the artistry of the screen only last week when it was displayed and sold at a car boot sale. It was immediately the subject of intense interest by a man in his 70's. He stood close scrutinising the workmanship. He lifted it up as though, like cash for gold, its worth was weight based. His wizened workmans hands caressed the now age bronzed mother of pearl. Eagerly he asked how much it was. I had no idea of monetary worth as opposed to the priceless nostalgic value. He offered £10 which for an early starting North Hull sale was unheard of in generosity. I was shocked enough to accept.
I apologised that a single shell was missing as I had knocked it off in a temper tantrum some 40 plus years earlier. He reassured me that I was not to worry as he had the exact perfect shell at home to restore it to its prime. Perhaps he had bought a car from our family in the last 50 years.
Saturday 26 May 2012
Double Dutch
The waiting and sheer anticipation can be most frustrating.
No matter how much the clock is watched it will not move a nano-second faster. I find it both facscinating and exasperating that the more enjoyable the task or experience the quicker time seems to fly and conversely the more unpleasant, then how the hours and minutes drag on by.
This must just be a deep rooted physiological and mental mechanism of the human brain to help us cope with the highs and lows of modern life and experiences.
In moments of extreme trauma and stress the brain can perform miracles motivating what can be an injured, a flagging and frail form to acheive great heroics or feats of endurance or equally just shut down, both serving as a failsafe setting against potential significant harm or longer term damage.
One manifestation of the intricacies of the brain is the phenomena of Foreign Accent Syndrome. This is where an injury, allergic reaction or even a severe migraine has left the sufferer with a distinct change in their linguistic accent which appears to be irreversible.
One of the first of an extremely low incidence of such cases was recorded in Norway in 1941. A civilian woman was injured by shrapnel in an air raid and upon recovering consciousness began to converse with a German accent. Given the occupation of her country at the time this unfortunate side effect led to her being shunned by her friends and acquaintances.
A lady in her fifties in the United States spoke with a precise English accent after a stroke even though she had no associations or ancestral links which could otherwise have been considered as a subconscious influence on her condition.
An adverse reaction to an Iodine tracer in connection with a chest scan resulted in another American lady speaking with a distinctive Russian or Eastern European accent. This did moderate with her slow recovery but returned after a relapse. The variation in her condition presented the University of Texas with a unique research project and they were able to capture on tape the various phases of her voice migration through those dialects.
A lady from the north east of England began to speak in what was described as a mixture of dialects from Jamaican through to French Canadian and even heard as Italian or Slovak after a stroke. She did the rounds of the media including that essential interview with Richard and Judy on daytime TV.
One of the most recent of the very rare cases of Foreign Accent Syndrome was also in the UK with a lady from Devon recovering from a migraine and finding that she had developed a distinctly Chinese accent.
The condition is most distressing and debilitating. The impact on the life of an individual is not just on medical and broader wellbeing grounds but in how their family, friends and acquaintances are able to, themselves, cope with the trnasformational change in their spoken voice.
The case histories do indicate a degree of prejudice emerging with the new found accents and dialects but present the Scientific, Medical and Sociological world with a unique opportunity to observe and comprehend a small aspect of the mysteries of the human brain.
No matter how much the clock is watched it will not move a nano-second faster. I find it both facscinating and exasperating that the more enjoyable the task or experience the quicker time seems to fly and conversely the more unpleasant, then how the hours and minutes drag on by.
This must just be a deep rooted physiological and mental mechanism of the human brain to help us cope with the highs and lows of modern life and experiences.
In moments of extreme trauma and stress the brain can perform miracles motivating what can be an injured, a flagging and frail form to acheive great heroics or feats of endurance or equally just shut down, both serving as a failsafe setting against potential significant harm or longer term damage.
One manifestation of the intricacies of the brain is the phenomena of Foreign Accent Syndrome. This is where an injury, allergic reaction or even a severe migraine has left the sufferer with a distinct change in their linguistic accent which appears to be irreversible.
One of the first of an extremely low incidence of such cases was recorded in Norway in 1941. A civilian woman was injured by shrapnel in an air raid and upon recovering consciousness began to converse with a German accent. Given the occupation of her country at the time this unfortunate side effect led to her being shunned by her friends and acquaintances.
A lady in her fifties in the United States spoke with a precise English accent after a stroke even though she had no associations or ancestral links which could otherwise have been considered as a subconscious influence on her condition.
An adverse reaction to an Iodine tracer in connection with a chest scan resulted in another American lady speaking with a distinctive Russian or Eastern European accent. This did moderate with her slow recovery but returned after a relapse. The variation in her condition presented the University of Texas with a unique research project and they were able to capture on tape the various phases of her voice migration through those dialects.
A lady from the north east of England began to speak in what was described as a mixture of dialects from Jamaican through to French Canadian and even heard as Italian or Slovak after a stroke. She did the rounds of the media including that essential interview with Richard and Judy on daytime TV.
One of the most recent of the very rare cases of Foreign Accent Syndrome was also in the UK with a lady from Devon recovering from a migraine and finding that she had developed a distinctly Chinese accent.
The condition is most distressing and debilitating. The impact on the life of an individual is not just on medical and broader wellbeing grounds but in how their family, friends and acquaintances are able to, themselves, cope with the trnasformational change in their spoken voice.
The case histories do indicate a degree of prejudice emerging with the new found accents and dialects but present the Scientific, Medical and Sociological world with a unique opportunity to observe and comprehend a small aspect of the mysteries of the human brain.
Friday 25 May 2012
Vampire Diaries
My back garden runs for some 100 feet from the french doors of the sitting room.
When we first moved in, now ubelievably, 17 years ago it was quite productive and ordered. The previous owner, an ex RAF man had it set out a bit like an airfield. From the house you stepped down onto a hardstanding apron, not unlike that found under the landing gear of a parked plane. The lawn was long, flat and nicely trimmed with a paver strip and, if squinted at, it did resemble a runway. Even the garage was a bit Ministry of Defence, particularly in its allegiance to that wonder material of asbestos cement sheeting which now instills alternate bouts of panic and indifference on the public at large. The summerhouse would easily double up as the control tower or operations centre and the greenhouse, well, it was just a greenhouse and the analogy stops at that.
I have, in the course of my work, made an informal study of what people have established or keep in their back gardens. If it is indeed true that an Englishmans' Home is his castle, then the front garden would be the moat and outer defences and the back garden would be an inner sanctum for peaceful contemplation and tranquility.
Continuing the RAF theme I was amazed to find, in a back garden in a nearby town, the fuselage of a De Haviland Vampire jet. The name may not be widely recognised but the design with its distinctive twin boom would be remembered from childhood trips to airshows, I Spy spotting books and grainy black and white celebratory TV programmes on British achievements with early forms of jet propulsion. T
The prototypes were actually commissioned in the early years of the second world war but were slow to progress because of other priority projects in conventional fighetr and bomber aircraft by De Haviland and the sister product of the Meteor jet. It was eventually brought into service in 1946 and over 3000 aircraft were built.
As with most national treasures and once great things the plane in question found its way onto E-Bay.
The houseowner with the aircraft in his garden was most proud of his acquisition, having been a plane spotter in his youth and on the basis of rarity and novelty value now. His excitement over knowing where, possibly, to get hold of the twin fuselage and tail was unrestrained. What next ? The engine and armaments?
The fuselage was surprisingly intact and quite well preserved indicating a cossetted indoor life and not one under a pile of scrap, out in a field or amongst farm animals. The distinctive roundel in red, white and blue was discernible along with the RAF practice of giving everything a label, carefully painted via a stencil as though an aide memoir to 'The idiots guide to on how to fly'.
Under the smoked glass bubble canopy of the cockpit was the ejector seat, hopefully disconnected from a propulsive charge to prevent nasty surprises, and the full array of instruments and controls.
I could imagine my host sneaking out under cover of darkness to assume the role of pilot with accompanying noises and a lot of saliva spray on the head-up display.
The logistics of delivering the partial plane to the back garden had involved a disproportionate cost to the actual E Bay bid price. The conditions of sale in stating - buyer to collect and transport- may have looked innocent enough and not unduly worrying as an add on cost but when researched to the extent of hiring a low loader with crane, building a crate around the remains of the crate and then creating a major traffic incident over a Bank Holiday weekend I am not surprised that every house in the UK does not have the same ornamental item.
The house, detached, on a normal residential street, had about a metre clearance each side. The fuselage required the services of another crane to lift it over the roof and lower it carefully into the back garden. In the absence of two thirds of the landing gear, only a tail mounted wheel existed in the absence of the otherwise wing mounted stabiliser wheels, a cradle had to be fashioned out of scaffolding trestles on a firm paver base to support the bulbous body. The resting place had to be as perfectly permanent as possible because of the prohibitive costs involved in any subsequent change of mind. I was not sure what the neighbours thought about it. The Council had not thought it necessary to take any enforcement action. Perhaps aircraft in back gardens were a grey area in Planning and Environmental Health.
I did stand and marvel at this wonderful Boys Toy. I doubted if I could persuade my wife to let me have one.
The owner did admit to me that his impulsive purchase had caused some friction in his relationship with his partner but this he had skillfully mitigated by allowing her to use the cockpit as an impromptu hot house in which she could cultivate her own collection of household herbs , exotic (for East Yorkshire) chilli peppers and courgettes for which she was well known in gardening circles.
When we first moved in, now ubelievably, 17 years ago it was quite productive and ordered. The previous owner, an ex RAF man had it set out a bit like an airfield. From the house you stepped down onto a hardstanding apron, not unlike that found under the landing gear of a parked plane. The lawn was long, flat and nicely trimmed with a paver strip and, if squinted at, it did resemble a runway. Even the garage was a bit Ministry of Defence, particularly in its allegiance to that wonder material of asbestos cement sheeting which now instills alternate bouts of panic and indifference on the public at large. The summerhouse would easily double up as the control tower or operations centre and the greenhouse, well, it was just a greenhouse and the analogy stops at that.
I have, in the course of my work, made an informal study of what people have established or keep in their back gardens. If it is indeed true that an Englishmans' Home is his castle, then the front garden would be the moat and outer defences and the back garden would be an inner sanctum for peaceful contemplation and tranquility.
Continuing the RAF theme I was amazed to find, in a back garden in a nearby town, the fuselage of a De Haviland Vampire jet. The name may not be widely recognised but the design with its distinctive twin boom would be remembered from childhood trips to airshows, I Spy spotting books and grainy black and white celebratory TV programmes on British achievements with early forms of jet propulsion. T
The prototypes were actually commissioned in the early years of the second world war but were slow to progress because of other priority projects in conventional fighetr and bomber aircraft by De Haviland and the sister product of the Meteor jet. It was eventually brought into service in 1946 and over 3000 aircraft were built.
As with most national treasures and once great things the plane in question found its way onto E-Bay.
The houseowner with the aircraft in his garden was most proud of his acquisition, having been a plane spotter in his youth and on the basis of rarity and novelty value now. His excitement over knowing where, possibly, to get hold of the twin fuselage and tail was unrestrained. What next ? The engine and armaments?
The fuselage was surprisingly intact and quite well preserved indicating a cossetted indoor life and not one under a pile of scrap, out in a field or amongst farm animals. The distinctive roundel in red, white and blue was discernible along with the RAF practice of giving everything a label, carefully painted via a stencil as though an aide memoir to 'The idiots guide to on how to fly'.
Under the smoked glass bubble canopy of the cockpit was the ejector seat, hopefully disconnected from a propulsive charge to prevent nasty surprises, and the full array of instruments and controls.
I could imagine my host sneaking out under cover of darkness to assume the role of pilot with accompanying noises and a lot of saliva spray on the head-up display.
The logistics of delivering the partial plane to the back garden had involved a disproportionate cost to the actual E Bay bid price. The conditions of sale in stating - buyer to collect and transport- may have looked innocent enough and not unduly worrying as an add on cost but when researched to the extent of hiring a low loader with crane, building a crate around the remains of the crate and then creating a major traffic incident over a Bank Holiday weekend I am not surprised that every house in the UK does not have the same ornamental item.
The house, detached, on a normal residential street, had about a metre clearance each side. The fuselage required the services of another crane to lift it over the roof and lower it carefully into the back garden. In the absence of two thirds of the landing gear, only a tail mounted wheel existed in the absence of the otherwise wing mounted stabiliser wheels, a cradle had to be fashioned out of scaffolding trestles on a firm paver base to support the bulbous body. The resting place had to be as perfectly permanent as possible because of the prohibitive costs involved in any subsequent change of mind. I was not sure what the neighbours thought about it. The Council had not thought it necessary to take any enforcement action. Perhaps aircraft in back gardens were a grey area in Planning and Environmental Health.
I did stand and marvel at this wonderful Boys Toy. I doubted if I could persuade my wife to let me have one.
The owner did admit to me that his impulsive purchase had caused some friction in his relationship with his partner but this he had skillfully mitigated by allowing her to use the cockpit as an impromptu hot house in which she could cultivate her own collection of household herbs , exotic (for East Yorkshire) chilli peppers and courgettes for which she was well known in gardening circles.
Thursday 24 May 2012
Flight Delays
As I descended the stairs, first thing in the morning, there was a strange almost electronic and synthesised sound ringing in my ears.
It was very brief and at first I thought it was from a particular tread under foot. Considering my body mass and the age of the staircase timbers it could have been one of those unnatural sounds of resistance between wood and old nails, like a twanging.
The house was built in the 1920's at a time of scarcity of good building wood following the massive drain of the 1914-18 war. I likened some of the floorboards, when first revealed under layers of carpet and canvas to be remnants of munitions boxes. I would not have been surprised to see the Crown mark or an arrow with WD for war department.
The brevity of the moment did not cause me to linger and speculate for more than was necessary particularly with the prospect of a first cup of tea for the day.
A little later , having returned upstairs for a moment to rouse The Boy, I was in roughly the same spot on the stairs when the noise zoned in on me again. Once could be just an anomaly but twice and in the same position was establishing a trend. The resonance made it difficult to directionally locate the sound. It could as easily be under the stairs as in the stairs or even outside in the road.
In the past I had been startled by a similarly freakish noise from the loft space. The chain of events that led to the outburst of mechanical sound was evidently complicated in that instance. I suspect that a light wind, generated by the coming together of a weather front in the Ural Mountains of Russia had built up momentum as it flowed westwards over Europe and the North Sea. Hitting the landmass of East Yorkshire the now stronger breeze will have been funnelled through the streets of Hull and out into the suburbs. The bulb of wind pressure, in due course, striking my semi detached house, will have caused a stirring under the roof slates, the wobbling of a precariously stacked pile of loft relegated toys and in the avalanche of Barbies, Action Man and Star Wars Figures a button on the front of the Buzz Lightyear character was activated with an outburst of to infinity and beyond causing panic amongst the children as though being invaded by aliens.
There were to my knowledge similar electronic games and figures in the gas cupboard under the stairs with potential for an anauthorised transmission of a pre-recorded message. Possibly an explanation of the strange noise.
I had a quick look in the storm porch, more out of frustration than a committed search. I always closed up the outer door before going to bed and was confident that this remained locked and secure.
I could see nothing.
The computer in the back room was switched off and was therefore eliminated as a source. I had not turned on and tuned in the digital radio in the kitchen. Early morning broadcasts on BBC 4-Extra can include the sound affect filled Goon Show but not today. On completing a cycle the dishwasher does emit a high pitched beeping but my tantalising noise was very different. My enthusiastic DIY motivated neighbour was not yet awake and firing up his tools. It was a thursday and the bin men were not scheduled for another 24 hours. The mobile streetsweeping vehicle had been a victim of the stringent budget cuts of the local authority and had not been seen for some weeks. The Boy was not yet sufficiently motivated to twang his electric guitar.
After a few minutes of silence it could be heard again. It must be coming from the porch. The acoustics and transmission of sound must be from the porch. I carefully looked again.
Nothing under the small table and plant pot. The hanging basket, not yet filled with seasonal plants was empty. Then, a small movement caught my eye.
Stood on the black and white mosaic tile floor was the leaded and stained glass terrarium. 14 sided , resting on a level plane , flat topped and with one open panel through which to place the soil and small ornamental heathers and aromatics.
It was now the self imposed confinement cell for a chubby, fat and scruffy bird. The creature was downy and fluffy, so only very young and from its piercing and vibrating cries mightily distressed, hungry and wanting its mother. The accumulated droppings in the bottom of the geometric shape testified to an all night imprisonment.
The fat fledgling must have been in the porch when I locked up the night before but quite content to sit it out until roused by the otherwise happy and free dawn chorus in the garden. My presence in the porch, whilst intended to be non-threatening in my impression of tweeting and clucking was enough incentive for the bird to discover the sole open panel by which it had got itself into the present trouble.
I tried to put myself between the inner wall and the flapping fluff ball after swinging open the outer door. The theory was to coax and flush out the bird to the fresh air beyond. Confusion and a little panic set in. My profile, initially viewed through the terrarium will have been quite like that seen by a fly's eye and therefore not a little bit scary. The reluctance of the bird to escape was understandable. Free from the glass jail perhaps my appearance was still frightening, after all I was still in my nighttime attire of shorts and T shirt and I had not yet shaved.
It was stalemate so I retreated to behind the inner door, out of the line of sight. In a gay skipping action, a slower walk and a hop and jump the creature cleared the threshold and careered across the lawn and into the bushes just within my front garden wall. I did not see it after that but did check the new refuge on my way to work and it had evidently flown away in a shower of immature feathers and dried, formerly caked on droppings.
Things returned to normality in our household although I did shamlessly exploit the tale of the fat bird and all the accompanying double entendres.
It was very brief and at first I thought it was from a particular tread under foot. Considering my body mass and the age of the staircase timbers it could have been one of those unnatural sounds of resistance between wood and old nails, like a twanging.
The house was built in the 1920's at a time of scarcity of good building wood following the massive drain of the 1914-18 war. I likened some of the floorboards, when first revealed under layers of carpet and canvas to be remnants of munitions boxes. I would not have been surprised to see the Crown mark or an arrow with WD for war department.
The brevity of the moment did not cause me to linger and speculate for more than was necessary particularly with the prospect of a first cup of tea for the day.
A little later , having returned upstairs for a moment to rouse The Boy, I was in roughly the same spot on the stairs when the noise zoned in on me again. Once could be just an anomaly but twice and in the same position was establishing a trend. The resonance made it difficult to directionally locate the sound. It could as easily be under the stairs as in the stairs or even outside in the road.
In the past I had been startled by a similarly freakish noise from the loft space. The chain of events that led to the outburst of mechanical sound was evidently complicated in that instance. I suspect that a light wind, generated by the coming together of a weather front in the Ural Mountains of Russia had built up momentum as it flowed westwards over Europe and the North Sea. Hitting the landmass of East Yorkshire the now stronger breeze will have been funnelled through the streets of Hull and out into the suburbs. The bulb of wind pressure, in due course, striking my semi detached house, will have caused a stirring under the roof slates, the wobbling of a precariously stacked pile of loft relegated toys and in the avalanche of Barbies, Action Man and Star Wars Figures a button on the front of the Buzz Lightyear character was activated with an outburst of to infinity and beyond causing panic amongst the children as though being invaded by aliens.
There were to my knowledge similar electronic games and figures in the gas cupboard under the stairs with potential for an anauthorised transmission of a pre-recorded message. Possibly an explanation of the strange noise.
I had a quick look in the storm porch, more out of frustration than a committed search. I always closed up the outer door before going to bed and was confident that this remained locked and secure.
I could see nothing.
The computer in the back room was switched off and was therefore eliminated as a source. I had not turned on and tuned in the digital radio in the kitchen. Early morning broadcasts on BBC 4-Extra can include the sound affect filled Goon Show but not today. On completing a cycle the dishwasher does emit a high pitched beeping but my tantalising noise was very different. My enthusiastic DIY motivated neighbour was not yet awake and firing up his tools. It was a thursday and the bin men were not scheduled for another 24 hours. The mobile streetsweeping vehicle had been a victim of the stringent budget cuts of the local authority and had not been seen for some weeks. The Boy was not yet sufficiently motivated to twang his electric guitar.
After a few minutes of silence it could be heard again. It must be coming from the porch. The acoustics and transmission of sound must be from the porch. I carefully looked again.
Nothing under the small table and plant pot. The hanging basket, not yet filled with seasonal plants was empty. Then, a small movement caught my eye.
Stood on the black and white mosaic tile floor was the leaded and stained glass terrarium. 14 sided , resting on a level plane , flat topped and with one open panel through which to place the soil and small ornamental heathers and aromatics.
It was now the self imposed confinement cell for a chubby, fat and scruffy bird. The creature was downy and fluffy, so only very young and from its piercing and vibrating cries mightily distressed, hungry and wanting its mother. The accumulated droppings in the bottom of the geometric shape testified to an all night imprisonment.
The fat fledgling must have been in the porch when I locked up the night before but quite content to sit it out until roused by the otherwise happy and free dawn chorus in the garden. My presence in the porch, whilst intended to be non-threatening in my impression of tweeting and clucking was enough incentive for the bird to discover the sole open panel by which it had got itself into the present trouble.
I tried to put myself between the inner wall and the flapping fluff ball after swinging open the outer door. The theory was to coax and flush out the bird to the fresh air beyond. Confusion and a little panic set in. My profile, initially viewed through the terrarium will have been quite like that seen by a fly's eye and therefore not a little bit scary. The reluctance of the bird to escape was understandable. Free from the glass jail perhaps my appearance was still frightening, after all I was still in my nighttime attire of shorts and T shirt and I had not yet shaved.
It was stalemate so I retreated to behind the inner door, out of the line of sight. In a gay skipping action, a slower walk and a hop and jump the creature cleared the threshold and careered across the lawn and into the bushes just within my front garden wall. I did not see it after that but did check the new refuge on my way to work and it had evidently flown away in a shower of immature feathers and dried, formerly caked on droppings.
Things returned to normality in our household although I did shamlessly exploit the tale of the fat bird and all the accompanying double entendres.
Wednesday 23 May 2012
What lies beneath?
I was up in Bridlington today, one of those mornings where the journey from Hull was in bright spring sunshine and yet as soon as the road signs showed 1 mile to the town there was nothing to be seen because of a thick, damp and chilly sea-mist.
I can testify that under such localised weather conditions it is perfectly possible to visit the coastal resort, drive about on the promenade and northwards to the modern residential estates without getting any glimpse of the North Sea. Other senses are bombarded with the smell of the ocean and the sound of reeling gulls following the urban bin collectors but with complete deprivation of that wonderful sight of the sea that somehow strikes a deep sub-conscious chord amongst us as island dwellers.
The southwards view from about 2 miles out of Brid on the road towards Filey is usually a broad and sweeping panorama over the wide crescent bay and the fragile boulder clay cliffs.
Somewhere out under the bay is a famous wreck with periodic exploratory visits from oceanographers to seek it out. The arrival of such parties excites the interest of the Bridlington residents and provides a welcome boost to the tourist industry over and above the regular day trippers from the urban conurbations of West Yorkshire. Leeds on Sea it may be affectionately named.
Have they actually found it or is the final resting place of the Bonhomme Richard still a matter of much speculation and mystery? It is not just any old ship but a symbol of an emerging nation stirring up considerable trouble with its former Colonial Masters.
Its Captain, John Paul Jones, was arguably one of the first heroes of the Independent America. His appearance on the east coast of England and the wreaking of havoc in British Home waters really established his status when the conflict was otherwise out of sight on the far side of the Atlantic. There is considerable information known about JPJ. His Scottish origins explained his subsequent anti-British stance and allegiance to America. He also served in the Imperial Russian Navy and was honoured by the French for his exploits. The British, understandably regarded him as a pirate and mercenary.
He went to sea at the age of 13 as an apprentice from Whitehaven, Cumbria and served on merchant and slave ships until joining the American navy around 1775. There followed various campaigns against British shipping and also an assault on Whitehaven itself in 1778 which resulted in setting fire to a moored coal ship and shore based installations. The threat of attack in an early form of terrorism on behalf of the Revolution did cause considerable anxiety amongst the British as well as diverting significant resources of ships and men to counter the privateers.
JPJ took command of Bonhomme Richard in 1779. A rebuilt merchant vessel with 40 plus guns and a gift to America from a wealthy French sympathiser. He brought the ship around the top of Scotland with a small entourage of warships to create panic as far south as the Humber Estuary. The crucial battle took place just off the chalky projection of Flamborough Head which forms the northern sweep of Bridlington Bay on the 23rd of September in that year. The target for JPJ was a large merchant convoy but its escort comprising the powerful HMS Serapis and smaller Countess of Scarborough intercepted and the potential prize bounty was able to escape. Against a potent British force of superior guns and range JPJ sought to ram and lock Bonhomme Richard into Serapis so that his Marines and battling crew could fight hand to hand. In the confusion of a close quarters naval encounter friendly fire from JPJ's fleet contributed to the setting afire of the Bonhomme Richard and its eventual sinking. JPJ was able to commandeer HMS Serapis after its surrender and found temporary sanctuary in a sympathetic Holland.
The sea conditions off Bridlington served to conceal the location of the wreck, cloudy waters and thick mud enveloping what would have survived after the battle. A 2010 report into a possible discovery of the wreck was later retracted as being of another 18th century ship and not the Bonhomme. The search continues for one the most iconic vessels in history.
JPJ died in Paris in 1790. His remains were placed in what soon became a derelict city cemetery until recovered and exhumed in 1905. The body after a lengthy post mortem examination and identification from a bust was returned to the United States and in 1913 was laid to rest in a bronze and marble sarcophagus in the Naval Academy Chapel in Annapolis as befitting a hero of the American Revolutionary War.
I can testify that under such localised weather conditions it is perfectly possible to visit the coastal resort, drive about on the promenade and northwards to the modern residential estates without getting any glimpse of the North Sea. Other senses are bombarded with the smell of the ocean and the sound of reeling gulls following the urban bin collectors but with complete deprivation of that wonderful sight of the sea that somehow strikes a deep sub-conscious chord amongst us as island dwellers.
The southwards view from about 2 miles out of Brid on the road towards Filey is usually a broad and sweeping panorama over the wide crescent bay and the fragile boulder clay cliffs.
Somewhere out under the bay is a famous wreck with periodic exploratory visits from oceanographers to seek it out. The arrival of such parties excites the interest of the Bridlington residents and provides a welcome boost to the tourist industry over and above the regular day trippers from the urban conurbations of West Yorkshire. Leeds on Sea it may be affectionately named.
Have they actually found it or is the final resting place of the Bonhomme Richard still a matter of much speculation and mystery? It is not just any old ship but a symbol of an emerging nation stirring up considerable trouble with its former Colonial Masters.
Its Captain, John Paul Jones, was arguably one of the first heroes of the Independent America. His appearance on the east coast of England and the wreaking of havoc in British Home waters really established his status when the conflict was otherwise out of sight on the far side of the Atlantic. There is considerable information known about JPJ. His Scottish origins explained his subsequent anti-British stance and allegiance to America. He also served in the Imperial Russian Navy and was honoured by the French for his exploits. The British, understandably regarded him as a pirate and mercenary.
He went to sea at the age of 13 as an apprentice from Whitehaven, Cumbria and served on merchant and slave ships until joining the American navy around 1775. There followed various campaigns against British shipping and also an assault on Whitehaven itself in 1778 which resulted in setting fire to a moored coal ship and shore based installations. The threat of attack in an early form of terrorism on behalf of the Revolution did cause considerable anxiety amongst the British as well as diverting significant resources of ships and men to counter the privateers.
JPJ took command of Bonhomme Richard in 1779. A rebuilt merchant vessel with 40 plus guns and a gift to America from a wealthy French sympathiser. He brought the ship around the top of Scotland with a small entourage of warships to create panic as far south as the Humber Estuary. The crucial battle took place just off the chalky projection of Flamborough Head which forms the northern sweep of Bridlington Bay on the 23rd of September in that year. The target for JPJ was a large merchant convoy but its escort comprising the powerful HMS Serapis and smaller Countess of Scarborough intercepted and the potential prize bounty was able to escape. Against a potent British force of superior guns and range JPJ sought to ram and lock Bonhomme Richard into Serapis so that his Marines and battling crew could fight hand to hand. In the confusion of a close quarters naval encounter friendly fire from JPJ's fleet contributed to the setting afire of the Bonhomme Richard and its eventual sinking. JPJ was able to commandeer HMS Serapis after its surrender and found temporary sanctuary in a sympathetic Holland.
The sea conditions off Bridlington served to conceal the location of the wreck, cloudy waters and thick mud enveloping what would have survived after the battle. A 2010 report into a possible discovery of the wreck was later retracted as being of another 18th century ship and not the Bonhomme. The search continues for one the most iconic vessels in history.
JPJ died in Paris in 1790. His remains were placed in what soon became a derelict city cemetery until recovered and exhumed in 1905. The body after a lengthy post mortem examination and identification from a bust was returned to the United States and in 1913 was laid to rest in a bronze and marble sarcophagus in the Naval Academy Chapel in Annapolis as befitting a hero of the American Revolutionary War.
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Little Big Man
Tall people seem to get on well in life.
In history height was regarded to be a measure and indicator of power and dominance. With the exception of diminuitive Dictators most great world leaders have been of above average stature.
It may have been advantageous in Medieval times to breathe and exist above the mire and stench which will have lingered from open sewers, festering wounds and those not quite able to afford a posy handkerchief. With advanced height there also tends to be a lean physique and, with that ,better prospects of longevity, well at least more towards the age of 30 in those dark, dank ages. I can see, however some disadvantages of standing out in a clump of bandy legged colleagues in a battlefield scenario or up on the castle ramparts. A proper target, head and shoulders above the rest presented for the unwelcome attention of arrows, cross-bow bolts, trebuchet armaments and the rest that siege and warfare of that period could excel in projecting through the air.
Many such contemporary giants, although probably akin to average height in our modern day well nourished society, may have pondered on what their actual purpose in life was to be.
There is pressure equally on tall persons to live up to expectations. I was responsible for the training of a student who at a towering 6 feet 7 inches could just about fit in my first company car. He was quite broad generally and had to purchase his clothes from a specialist outfitter who only seemed to have access to garments fashioned out of antique tweed.
For a 20 year old of gigantic proportions this aged him by at least 50 years. The lad was very well spoken, actually quite painfully well spoken and this gave him a rather camp persona and it was only his sheer intimidating bulk that prevented him from getting beaten up regularly.
I can see that in his early years of standard height for respective age he may well have been bullied. Those exacting wedgies and other unpleasantries will have fretted increasingly over their own fate as they witnessed his rapid growth in his adolescent years. That is unless he was born oversized, in which case I have every sympathy for his poor mother who may have felt that she was carrying and giving birth to a horse.
Usually such characters would be first pick in a line up for rugby or football and a definite starter on every team sheet for basketball. However, he was by some freak of genetics absolutely no good at any sports, apart from shooting where he could easily see over the hedges and surprise small animals who felt safe and undetected from prying eyes or those intent on murdering them in the name of sport or a stew.
Being the son of a farmer he knew everything about the countryside and could not resist talking about it every time to the point of being an utter bore, especially to me being a townie through and through.
We did not hit it off too well on the first day of his secondment to me. I briefed him on a meeting with an important first time client whose business would be valuable to my employers , tactfully implying that although he could not avoid being seen he should not be heard.
This was completely negated by the client himself who, given a choice between a colussus in a tweed suit and a small and baggy suited man of average height, chose the former to gush forth in greetings and expressions of doing the best for all parties in any subsequent dealings. A modest, conscientious and considerate individual of any vertical elevation would, you would think and expect, correct the misunderstanding and deflect and diffuse any potential for embarassment immediately with a good humoured comment. Expect and think, yes but in reality Goliaths big brother assumed control of the situation, bullshitted his way through and left me in the role of a sumo wrestlers bucket boy.
I felt like I was about 1 foot tall, which stood next to the behemoth was an equivalent in scale to about an inch. The Client was none the wiser. This made what had taken place even more humiliating for me.
I thought of exacting a suitable revenge. This consisted of, when he was not looking, pushing the front passenger seat as far forward as possible and wedging it in place so as to prevent it from being moved. This, in my bitter thoughts had the desired effect of making him extremely uncomfortable, cramped, knees up around his ears and bulbous grossly proportioned nose pressed up against the inside of the windscreen.
He resembled a giant being taxied around in a pixie car. Result.
In history height was regarded to be a measure and indicator of power and dominance. With the exception of diminuitive Dictators most great world leaders have been of above average stature.
It may have been advantageous in Medieval times to breathe and exist above the mire and stench which will have lingered from open sewers, festering wounds and those not quite able to afford a posy handkerchief. With advanced height there also tends to be a lean physique and, with that ,better prospects of longevity, well at least more towards the age of 30 in those dark, dank ages. I can see, however some disadvantages of standing out in a clump of bandy legged colleagues in a battlefield scenario or up on the castle ramparts. A proper target, head and shoulders above the rest presented for the unwelcome attention of arrows, cross-bow bolts, trebuchet armaments and the rest that siege and warfare of that period could excel in projecting through the air.
Many such contemporary giants, although probably akin to average height in our modern day well nourished society, may have pondered on what their actual purpose in life was to be.
There is pressure equally on tall persons to live up to expectations. I was responsible for the training of a student who at a towering 6 feet 7 inches could just about fit in my first company car. He was quite broad generally and had to purchase his clothes from a specialist outfitter who only seemed to have access to garments fashioned out of antique tweed.
For a 20 year old of gigantic proportions this aged him by at least 50 years. The lad was very well spoken, actually quite painfully well spoken and this gave him a rather camp persona and it was only his sheer intimidating bulk that prevented him from getting beaten up regularly.
I can see that in his early years of standard height for respective age he may well have been bullied. Those exacting wedgies and other unpleasantries will have fretted increasingly over their own fate as they witnessed his rapid growth in his adolescent years. That is unless he was born oversized, in which case I have every sympathy for his poor mother who may have felt that she was carrying and giving birth to a horse.
Usually such characters would be first pick in a line up for rugby or football and a definite starter on every team sheet for basketball. However, he was by some freak of genetics absolutely no good at any sports, apart from shooting where he could easily see over the hedges and surprise small animals who felt safe and undetected from prying eyes or those intent on murdering them in the name of sport or a stew.
Being the son of a farmer he knew everything about the countryside and could not resist talking about it every time to the point of being an utter bore, especially to me being a townie through and through.
We did not hit it off too well on the first day of his secondment to me. I briefed him on a meeting with an important first time client whose business would be valuable to my employers , tactfully implying that although he could not avoid being seen he should not be heard.
This was completely negated by the client himself who, given a choice between a colussus in a tweed suit and a small and baggy suited man of average height, chose the former to gush forth in greetings and expressions of doing the best for all parties in any subsequent dealings. A modest, conscientious and considerate individual of any vertical elevation would, you would think and expect, correct the misunderstanding and deflect and diffuse any potential for embarassment immediately with a good humoured comment. Expect and think, yes but in reality Goliaths big brother assumed control of the situation, bullshitted his way through and left me in the role of a sumo wrestlers bucket boy.
I felt like I was about 1 foot tall, which stood next to the behemoth was an equivalent in scale to about an inch. The Client was none the wiser. This made what had taken place even more humiliating for me.
I thought of exacting a suitable revenge. This consisted of, when he was not looking, pushing the front passenger seat as far forward as possible and wedging it in place so as to prevent it from being moved. This, in my bitter thoughts had the desired effect of making him extremely uncomfortable, cramped, knees up around his ears and bulbous grossly proportioned nose pressed up against the inside of the windscreen.
He resembled a giant being taxied around in a pixie car. Result.
Monday 21 May 2012
Norse, Norse my kingdom for a Norse...
I do not mean to be a hypocondriac and indeed consider myself to have quite a robust and sturdy constitution.
This does not however prevent me from getting worried sometimes on health issues.
There are fairly frequent media campaigns on matters of concern in well being and in self diagnosis for various maladies and complaints. I was encouraged, and rightly so, by my family to attend a Well Man Clinic a few years ago which revealed that I was clinically obese but had acceptable cholesterol and a lung capacity that sent the small cardboard tube contraption right across the room much to the amazement of the Practice Nurse when I simply exhaled. I challenged the weight issue on the basis that I believe the statistics to be from either wartime data when the population at large were not that large or, if on a European model, those puny and undersized mediterranean types.
As I get older there are a few aches and pains which I have decided to listen to and try to understand rather than fight and get all upset and depressed. Knees and hips have travelled plenty of miles and are bound to be a bit worn and abraded on cartiledge, muscle and tendon.
I did fall asleep a couple of weeks ago in a 48 year old foetal position which caused my left foot to be deprived of any circulation. As I jumped up startled by a sound in the house but mainly to hide the fact that I was dozing unofficially the foot just folded up in a classic dead leg and I crashed to the floor. Over the next 24 hours toes went black and blue from a very unnatural curling over. I actually thought for a moment that I had broken the little digits as I am certainly not double jointed. The family heard my collapse but chose to ignore it, even though micro-fragments of ceiling plaster will have been released to cascade down on the avid TV watchers.
Us men of a certain age are also pamphleted on the merits of checking out our dangly downers for any abnormalities. I admit to doing this quite regularly, as is prudent, although the people on the top deck of the 66 Bus, when it passes my house, are obviously not up to date with the latest medical recommendations. More fool them is what I say.
Anyway, my current concern springs from a recent radio broadcast. What was mentioned did hit home.
I firmly believe that, on the balance of probabilities and given the hard facts, I am a Viking.
Consider the physical facts, oh ,and my surname Thomson is a bit Scandinavian.
I have green eyes. Not too rare but more commonly found accompanied by red hair. My Father was a ginger and it is thought that the colouration skips a generation. My eldest daughter has pledged to have any red headed offspring adopted if she has the misfortune of having one. The ginger congregation has done well to spread the myth that they are artistic and creative and that they are the new blonde. Very clever. Adversity as we all know does breed considerable ingenuity and guile. If I let myself go a bit of a weekend there can be seen a slight ginge tinge in my stubble and certainly in any unruly eyebrow or nasal hair that escapes scrutiny.
I also love all things Scandinavian.
I was only really at ease driving a Volvo.
I found Ikea initially fascinating and stylish but now rather bland and a bit yesterday. This is likely to be due to some dilution of the ethos of Ikea to meet the market demands of the rest of europe and not because of a lack of flair from the very talented designers.
TV dramas and especially crime thrillers grounded in Copenhagen, Malmo or Trondheim are of great interest to me and I revel in hearing the tone and flow of the native language whilst concentrating hard on the subtitles.
I am drawn to women of Scandinavian bone structure and my wife is a clear illustration of this strong genetic trait.
I like swedes. They are amongst my favourite vegetables, boiled and mashed with butter and pepper.
After they knocked England out of the European Championships I supported Denmark out of a strange feeling of brotherhood.
I like being on the water, especially stood at the prow of a boat. This could of course be confused with admiring the acting talents of that Di Caprio guy.
Pillaging, or as they have restyled-it, car booting is a particular favourite activity.
One of my favourite movies was The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas from 1958 although I was shocked by how rubbish it was when recently shown on TV. I had of course built it up to epic and classic status in my mind and was quite embarassed after watching it with my son. Lame or what?
So, the evidence is very strong to suggest that I am of Viking descent. This does explain certain events and emotions during my formative years such as liking pickled fish, snow, smokey atmospheres, trolls, Daim Bars and wearing sandals in winter.
I am reluctant to go for the test to determine within reasonable probability my genetic composition because I could not stand the disappointment that my name is not, according to one of those find your Viking name sites, Petr Sheeptipper.
This does not however prevent me from getting worried sometimes on health issues.
There are fairly frequent media campaigns on matters of concern in well being and in self diagnosis for various maladies and complaints. I was encouraged, and rightly so, by my family to attend a Well Man Clinic a few years ago which revealed that I was clinically obese but had acceptable cholesterol and a lung capacity that sent the small cardboard tube contraption right across the room much to the amazement of the Practice Nurse when I simply exhaled. I challenged the weight issue on the basis that I believe the statistics to be from either wartime data when the population at large were not that large or, if on a European model, those puny and undersized mediterranean types.
As I get older there are a few aches and pains which I have decided to listen to and try to understand rather than fight and get all upset and depressed. Knees and hips have travelled plenty of miles and are bound to be a bit worn and abraded on cartiledge, muscle and tendon.
I did fall asleep a couple of weeks ago in a 48 year old foetal position which caused my left foot to be deprived of any circulation. As I jumped up startled by a sound in the house but mainly to hide the fact that I was dozing unofficially the foot just folded up in a classic dead leg and I crashed to the floor. Over the next 24 hours toes went black and blue from a very unnatural curling over. I actually thought for a moment that I had broken the little digits as I am certainly not double jointed. The family heard my collapse but chose to ignore it, even though micro-fragments of ceiling plaster will have been released to cascade down on the avid TV watchers.
Us men of a certain age are also pamphleted on the merits of checking out our dangly downers for any abnormalities. I admit to doing this quite regularly, as is prudent, although the people on the top deck of the 66 Bus, when it passes my house, are obviously not up to date with the latest medical recommendations. More fool them is what I say.
Anyway, my current concern springs from a recent radio broadcast. What was mentioned did hit home.
I firmly believe that, on the balance of probabilities and given the hard facts, I am a Viking.
Consider the physical facts, oh ,and my surname Thomson is a bit Scandinavian.
I have green eyes. Not too rare but more commonly found accompanied by red hair. My Father was a ginger and it is thought that the colouration skips a generation. My eldest daughter has pledged to have any red headed offspring adopted if she has the misfortune of having one. The ginger congregation has done well to spread the myth that they are artistic and creative and that they are the new blonde. Very clever. Adversity as we all know does breed considerable ingenuity and guile. If I let myself go a bit of a weekend there can be seen a slight ginge tinge in my stubble and certainly in any unruly eyebrow or nasal hair that escapes scrutiny.
I also love all things Scandinavian.
I was only really at ease driving a Volvo.
I found Ikea initially fascinating and stylish but now rather bland and a bit yesterday. This is likely to be due to some dilution of the ethos of Ikea to meet the market demands of the rest of europe and not because of a lack of flair from the very talented designers.
TV dramas and especially crime thrillers grounded in Copenhagen, Malmo or Trondheim are of great interest to me and I revel in hearing the tone and flow of the native language whilst concentrating hard on the subtitles.
I am drawn to women of Scandinavian bone structure and my wife is a clear illustration of this strong genetic trait.
I like swedes. They are amongst my favourite vegetables, boiled and mashed with butter and pepper.
After they knocked England out of the European Championships I supported Denmark out of a strange feeling of brotherhood.
I like being on the water, especially stood at the prow of a boat. This could of course be confused with admiring the acting talents of that Di Caprio guy.
Pillaging, or as they have restyled-it, car booting is a particular favourite activity.
One of my favourite movies was The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas from 1958 although I was shocked by how rubbish it was when recently shown on TV. I had of course built it up to epic and classic status in my mind and was quite embarassed after watching it with my son. Lame or what?
So, the evidence is very strong to suggest that I am of Viking descent. This does explain certain events and emotions during my formative years such as liking pickled fish, snow, smokey atmospheres, trolls, Daim Bars and wearing sandals in winter.
I am reluctant to go for the test to determine within reasonable probability my genetic composition because I could not stand the disappointment that my name is not, according to one of those find your Viking name sites, Petr Sheeptipper.
Sunday 20 May 2012
A Day in May
May 20th is Fathers birthday.
A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.
This represents a great dilemna . In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.
His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years we would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's. I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal stock of Homebase and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive patio whch every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets. One year it was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the seconds you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.
Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of the DIY store. About 18 inches high in an authentic stone finish over the not so authentic plastic mould. I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved from the neighbours. The garden theme seemed to be a productive seam and this was followed in successive years with yet more hanging baskets, garden seating and the desperate last minute choice of a silver mirror ball that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as a hazard to high flying aircraft.
The best celebrations were those when we would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but a momentous and joyful time. An afternoon in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters. Things that seemed insurmountable obstacles to us were shown to be easily manageable after such a session.
For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.
2011 was a different birthday in that my own family attended a celebration over a chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added to the written record of past meals. The phone kept ringing with the singing of Happy Birthday to Donald from siblings spread over the UK and the US.
We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.
Today has been a strange day. The first May 20th without Father. He has certainly been with us as we have passed many moments with complete strangers. We have enjoyed talking about his cars and passions at the car boot sale as they have expressed admiration for the collection of components and tools that have now gone to be appreciated in the sheds, workshops, garages and gardens of enthusiasts.
A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.
This represents a great dilemna . In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.
His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years we would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's. I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal stock of Homebase and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive patio whch every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets. One year it was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the seconds you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.
Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of the DIY store. About 18 inches high in an authentic stone finish over the not so authentic plastic mould. I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved from the neighbours. The garden theme seemed to be a productive seam and this was followed in successive years with yet more hanging baskets, garden seating and the desperate last minute choice of a silver mirror ball that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as a hazard to high flying aircraft.
The best celebrations were those when we would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but a momentous and joyful time. An afternoon in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters. Things that seemed insurmountable obstacles to us were shown to be easily manageable after such a session.
For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.
2011 was a different birthday in that my own family attended a celebration over a chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added to the written record of past meals. The phone kept ringing with the singing of Happy Birthday to Donald from siblings spread over the UK and the US.
We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.
Today has been a strange day. The first May 20th without Father. He has certainly been with us as we have passed many moments with complete strangers. We have enjoyed talking about his cars and passions at the car boot sale as they have expressed admiration for the collection of components and tools that have now gone to be appreciated in the sheds, workshops, garages and gardens of enthusiasts.
Saturday 19 May 2012
Summer House
The summer house in our back garden is looking a bit sorry.
The 1930's reclaimed front door has rotted away at its critical strong points and the half glazed panel hangs precariously, threatening to decapitate any small child who, out of a good upbringing, attempts to make the place secure.
Across the threshold there can be heard a savage scraping as the door is wrestled open. The flooring, in a poor choice of material- chipboard - is swollen, distorted and with the small flakes which were compressed and glued trying hard to escape and go it alone. Where rain has seeped in under the door the boarding has collapsed revealing a network of ant-trails and small armoured clusters of wood lice.
The building is about 8 feet wide by 10 feet deep. It has a steeply sloping roof overdressed in mineral felt onto a good stout and weatherproof tongued and grooved underdrawing which represents the best and most durable element of the place. A rustic placque, a sliver of a tree bough is fixed over the door bearing the name Kelly's Cottage. This was from our first house purchase and in honour of that great Irish cyclist from the 70's and 80's.
The front of the summer house resembles a squat sentry box with side panes and a bright green paintwork finish. Both sides are one third in timber weatherboard and the remainder glazed with opening casements on stiff, runner type stays and catches. The back wall is solid wood planking.
When we first took it on there were clear indications of very regular and regimented use by the former owner. He retained his military title of Squadron Leader and in true RAF style everything through the house, garage and outbuildings was neatly arranged and labelled. Someone in his family had rashly purchased one of those Dymo label makers (Other brands are available) and most of his civilian retirement years had obviously kept that manufacturer in full production of the thin, sturdy tape strips. The non-glazed surfaces in the summer house served as the mounting for galvanised brackets into which the shaft of garden tools could be placed and slid down to be held in position by the 'T' shaped handles. The labelmaker had been at work to produce hoe, fork, spade, rake, trowel, shears, secateurs, aerator and edging tool. Above and within the framework of the eaves were alcoves and niche's still with the round, rusty rings from longstanding tins and receptacles indicated with labelling for nails, screws, washers and oddments.
We misused the summer house badly. We did not understand how to use it properly.
Wet garden chairs and childrens toys were roughly thrown in contributing to the slow inward decay. Bulky surplus furniture found its way into any free space and for many months the full capacity prevented the door from being closed.
This was an opportunity for wildlife to claim the dark places within. On walking up the garden path there was often the clatter and scramble of a neighbourhood cat vacating in haste after spending the night in the bottom of the old wardrobe amongst the decorating dust sheets.
One summer, in an inspired piece of parental job creation the children were encouraged on a labour only basis to renovate the summer house. This was only after a detailed inspection and close scrutiny for insects. Upon the all clear there was much activity of painting, sprucing up and sweeping followed by the major task of re-flooring. After a week of intermittent work the place looked smart and loved. I commandeered the building to host a barbecue with TV coverage of that years FA Cup Final much to the disgust of the children whose intense efforts, they were of the opinion, had entitled them to full ownership. They were deflated when I produced the Title Plan for the house in irrefutable proof that I was the freeholder. Fortunately for me Childline are not particularly knowledgeable on matters of Property Law, Possessory and Adverse Title.
In more recent years the deterioration of the summer house has been rapid. A time lapse sequence of filming will have shown a slow return to nature. At one stage we seriously considered demolishing and using the concreted base for a fanciful hot tub before realising that any steamy antics would be overlooked from the first floor windows of at least a dozen surrounding residences.
Currently the glorified shed is clogged with more furniture, a fearsome but disfunctional petrol powered lawn mower, the parasol and garden chairs which have seen perhaps 4 days use in a ten year period, some old plastic plant pots and a Tesco carrier bag of sprouting flower bulbs. I scurry past, turning my gaze away in shame on the occasion of a trip up the garden to the compost bin or to check that the Murphy Family have not encroached on the vague rear boundary.
Given, say a few hundred pounds and an infinite period of time I could really do justice to the summer house as it deserves. On reflection, for the same cash consideration I could easily get a very faithful replica made and confine the rest to a roaring, glorious funeral pyre which will be of excellent annoyance to the aformentioned Murphy's.
The 1930's reclaimed front door has rotted away at its critical strong points and the half glazed panel hangs precariously, threatening to decapitate any small child who, out of a good upbringing, attempts to make the place secure.
Across the threshold there can be heard a savage scraping as the door is wrestled open. The flooring, in a poor choice of material- chipboard - is swollen, distorted and with the small flakes which were compressed and glued trying hard to escape and go it alone. Where rain has seeped in under the door the boarding has collapsed revealing a network of ant-trails and small armoured clusters of wood lice.
The building is about 8 feet wide by 10 feet deep. It has a steeply sloping roof overdressed in mineral felt onto a good stout and weatherproof tongued and grooved underdrawing which represents the best and most durable element of the place. A rustic placque, a sliver of a tree bough is fixed over the door bearing the name Kelly's Cottage. This was from our first house purchase and in honour of that great Irish cyclist from the 70's and 80's.
The front of the summer house resembles a squat sentry box with side panes and a bright green paintwork finish. Both sides are one third in timber weatherboard and the remainder glazed with opening casements on stiff, runner type stays and catches. The back wall is solid wood planking.
When we first took it on there were clear indications of very regular and regimented use by the former owner. He retained his military title of Squadron Leader and in true RAF style everything through the house, garage and outbuildings was neatly arranged and labelled. Someone in his family had rashly purchased one of those Dymo label makers (Other brands are available) and most of his civilian retirement years had obviously kept that manufacturer in full production of the thin, sturdy tape strips. The non-glazed surfaces in the summer house served as the mounting for galvanised brackets into which the shaft of garden tools could be placed and slid down to be held in position by the 'T' shaped handles. The labelmaker had been at work to produce hoe, fork, spade, rake, trowel, shears, secateurs, aerator and edging tool. Above and within the framework of the eaves were alcoves and niche's still with the round, rusty rings from longstanding tins and receptacles indicated with labelling for nails, screws, washers and oddments.
We misused the summer house badly. We did not understand how to use it properly.
Wet garden chairs and childrens toys were roughly thrown in contributing to the slow inward decay. Bulky surplus furniture found its way into any free space and for many months the full capacity prevented the door from being closed.
This was an opportunity for wildlife to claim the dark places within. On walking up the garden path there was often the clatter and scramble of a neighbourhood cat vacating in haste after spending the night in the bottom of the old wardrobe amongst the decorating dust sheets.
One summer, in an inspired piece of parental job creation the children were encouraged on a labour only basis to renovate the summer house. This was only after a detailed inspection and close scrutiny for insects. Upon the all clear there was much activity of painting, sprucing up and sweeping followed by the major task of re-flooring. After a week of intermittent work the place looked smart and loved. I commandeered the building to host a barbecue with TV coverage of that years FA Cup Final much to the disgust of the children whose intense efforts, they were of the opinion, had entitled them to full ownership. They were deflated when I produced the Title Plan for the house in irrefutable proof that I was the freeholder. Fortunately for me Childline are not particularly knowledgeable on matters of Property Law, Possessory and Adverse Title.
In more recent years the deterioration of the summer house has been rapid. A time lapse sequence of filming will have shown a slow return to nature. At one stage we seriously considered demolishing and using the concreted base for a fanciful hot tub before realising that any steamy antics would be overlooked from the first floor windows of at least a dozen surrounding residences.
Currently the glorified shed is clogged with more furniture, a fearsome but disfunctional petrol powered lawn mower, the parasol and garden chairs which have seen perhaps 4 days use in a ten year period, some old plastic plant pots and a Tesco carrier bag of sprouting flower bulbs. I scurry past, turning my gaze away in shame on the occasion of a trip up the garden to the compost bin or to check that the Murphy Family have not encroached on the vague rear boundary.
Given, say a few hundred pounds and an infinite period of time I could really do justice to the summer house as it deserves. On reflection, for the same cash consideration I could easily get a very faithful replica made and confine the rest to a roaring, glorious funeral pyre which will be of excellent annoyance to the aformentioned Murphy's.
Friday 18 May 2012
For Fawkes Sake
I came out of a secondary education with some decent qualifications that allowed me to pursue the career in which I am now at my quarter century. It actually seems just like a journey of a few minutes duration.
In a quiet moment I may log onto the Old Boys website of the school and see what is going on or if any of my contemporaries have achieved notoriety, anything else or sadly have passed away prematurely. I am that sort of age group where a dodgy prostate or a fast motorbike can finish you off.
In rash moments I have also enroled myself via what was Friends Reunited into my appropriate age group for Cheltenham Girls College but I am saddened that compassion was not obviously taught at that illustrious establishment on the basis that no-one has enquired about who I am or how I am or has admitted that they do not remember me. My back story, if any interest had been shown was that I had undergone gender realignment and, no, it did not hurt at all. I will be writing an enraged letter to the Head Teacher at the college about the poor welfare arrangements for former pupils.
Trawling through my actual own school magazines during a clear-out I was reminded that I had followed in the long faded footsteps of quite a character by the name of Thomas Percy who had attended the same place of learning in the mid to late 16th Century.
By all accounts a tall, striking character with a bit of a reputation as a ladies man in his adult years and a born leader and motivator. I have in comparison about 20% of his traits I am ashamed to say but can still identify with his motivation and his later place in English history.
His background was certainly not without connections and patronage from the great Percy dynasty which ran from their ancestral home at Alnwick Castle to some considerable distance beyond including some representation in East Yorkshire and the City of full true name Kingstown Upon Hull.
He was born in 1560 which was a busy time in England contributing to a few chapters of the nations history. Little is actually known about his early years other than he went to what was Beverley Grammar School, the oldest state school in England having been founded in 700 AD.
Born a Protestant he became disenchanted with the faith and at some time in the late 1500's he converted to Catholicism and embraced the doctrine leaving behind the erstwhile antics of his youth. I like to think that the Grammar School, as with myself, gave him a strong knowledge base and he became good at matters of finance and property. This proved quite useful in the company of others including Christopher Wright, John Wright, Robert Catesby and their impressionable compatriot Guido.
He was adept at raising monies for a particular quest and also skilful at negotiating leases on London properties including the undercroft to the House of Lords. The group, which may have been successful if left under the more prominent marshalling of Thomas Percy failed when Guido, or under his anglicised name Guy Fawkes was discovered just at the point of lighting the fuse in protest against Parliament. In full flight from the fury of the authorities Thomas was hunted down and reputedly killed by the same musket ball as Robert Catesby. His body was later exhumed and displayed on a pike as a lesson to those intent on the same protest path. I got detention once for something quite similar.
His name remains fairly unknown amongst the conspirators in the regular telling of the tale of that 5th November but will always be mentioned with pride in the coming together of us Old Boys who never really did very much at all.
In a quiet moment I may log onto the Old Boys website of the school and see what is going on or if any of my contemporaries have achieved notoriety, anything else or sadly have passed away prematurely. I am that sort of age group where a dodgy prostate or a fast motorbike can finish you off.
In rash moments I have also enroled myself via what was Friends Reunited into my appropriate age group for Cheltenham Girls College but I am saddened that compassion was not obviously taught at that illustrious establishment on the basis that no-one has enquired about who I am or how I am or has admitted that they do not remember me. My back story, if any interest had been shown was that I had undergone gender realignment and, no, it did not hurt at all. I will be writing an enraged letter to the Head Teacher at the college about the poor welfare arrangements for former pupils.
Trawling through my actual own school magazines during a clear-out I was reminded that I had followed in the long faded footsteps of quite a character by the name of Thomas Percy who had attended the same place of learning in the mid to late 16th Century.
By all accounts a tall, striking character with a bit of a reputation as a ladies man in his adult years and a born leader and motivator. I have in comparison about 20% of his traits I am ashamed to say but can still identify with his motivation and his later place in English history.
His background was certainly not without connections and patronage from the great Percy dynasty which ran from their ancestral home at Alnwick Castle to some considerable distance beyond including some representation in East Yorkshire and the City of full true name Kingstown Upon Hull.
He was born in 1560 which was a busy time in England contributing to a few chapters of the nations history. Little is actually known about his early years other than he went to what was Beverley Grammar School, the oldest state school in England having been founded in 700 AD.
Born a Protestant he became disenchanted with the faith and at some time in the late 1500's he converted to Catholicism and embraced the doctrine leaving behind the erstwhile antics of his youth. I like to think that the Grammar School, as with myself, gave him a strong knowledge base and he became good at matters of finance and property. This proved quite useful in the company of others including Christopher Wright, John Wright, Robert Catesby and their impressionable compatriot Guido.
He was adept at raising monies for a particular quest and also skilful at negotiating leases on London properties including the undercroft to the House of Lords. The group, which may have been successful if left under the more prominent marshalling of Thomas Percy failed when Guido, or under his anglicised name Guy Fawkes was discovered just at the point of lighting the fuse in protest against Parliament. In full flight from the fury of the authorities Thomas was hunted down and reputedly killed by the same musket ball as Robert Catesby. His body was later exhumed and displayed on a pike as a lesson to those intent on the same protest path. I got detention once for something quite similar.
His name remains fairly unknown amongst the conspirators in the regular telling of the tale of that 5th November but will always be mentioned with pride in the coming together of us Old Boys who never really did very much at all.
Thursday 17 May 2012
Rolling in clover and manure
Is there a standard length for a chain by which a horse in tethered to a riverbank?
I have not been able to find a Traveller with whom to raise this query and anyway the information was only foremost in my mind yesterday afternoon when a walk along the flood defences of the River Hull, some 3 miles upstream from the Humber outlet brought me up against a succession of gypsy horses so secured by chain and hammered in spike to either the top of the levee , the angled slope or the lower bank.
They were quite a sorry sight in all. Perhaps now just a throwback to a once horse dominated lifestyle and only really kept as a material possession or just something to establish a position in the hierarchy of the Traveller World, a form of currency. There are still famous horse fairs in this country which are to my understanding well attended and with business conducted in the old fashioned way but more out of the back of a large and expensive 4 x 4 or pick up truck than a covered Romany carriage.
The reason for my concern down by the river was brought about by my own form of being tethered, in this instance to a large Doberman hound, fully grown, very strong, a bit mad and with no comprehension of commands in English.
The purists in dog obedience may argur that it is not so much the order given to a dog that brings about compliance but the tone in which it is given. Either way, I did not have any grasp of Rumanian and the dog certainly and for sure had no knowledge of English.
A few days earlier the Doberman, provided with an anglicised name of Tess ( a bit more Sanderson than of the d'Urbevilles in physique), had arrived in this country after a long journey from behind the old Iron Curtain as part of a consignment of dogs rescued from perilous conditions. In the well documented Chauchesku era it was the orphans and infirm children who justified a major humanitarian operation. As that country has settled into a more free market economy it now appears that the dog population is needy and warranting action.
A friend of the family had been moved almost to tears by the plight of the Rumanian intake and had volunteered some of her time to providing exercise and to promote confidence and a social grounding for a selection of pure and cross bred animals awaiting rehoming or fostering in the UK. The website for the rescue centre has a brief description and photograph for each of the canine arrivals. Some of the dogs are not what you would describe as cute but all are loving and just ache for a chance to be welcomed into a warm, dry and secure home.
Me and the Boy wanted to help out and so we rolled up at the centre yesterday afternoon to see what we could do. Two large dogs were allocated to us. My Doberman was roaming around the reception area and as I entered the lobby she carried out a mock charge, barking and salivating. I was too shocked to react, well run. Tess took this as a stand off, I was an equal and we immediately respected each others rights and space. I was understandably a bit nervous after a Black Labrador took a chunk out of my hand just before Christmas in an unprovoked incident at a rented house.
The Staff at the centre assured me that although no formal assessement had been carried out they did not think that Tess had any particular fears, oh, apart from bikes. This was left intentionally vague and did not specify drop handlebar, straight handlebar, road, mountain or hybrid types. It would be a case of just see what happened if that confrontation arose. The Boy was introduced to an even larger Old English Sheepdog, freshly clipped and frisky with it.
Our briefing was just that, brief. Keep them on the lead all the time, do not let small children stroke them, pick up their pooh in the bags provided. See you back in about an hour or ninety minutes. As an afterthought I was informed that Tess liked to get close. As we left the centre, deep in the heart of an industrial estate Tess demonstrated the close thing by approaching me from behind and pushing her long nose through under my groin. She would then reverse out and come to heel or just pass through my legs and wait for me to unravel the twisted leash. The Boy soon found out that his dog, Lucy, could not walk more than a few metres without doing a complete 360 degree turn. Perhaps a trait from some mistreatment or confinement in a cramped, uncomfortable place. Our route up to the lifting bridge and along the riverbank was, in a straight line about 3 miles but with the compulsive performing routines the actual distance covered would be considerably more than this. In the first hundred metres the two dogs rushed and scattered a bus queue with me and The Boy hanging on behind the muscle bound hounds.
We then encountered the gypsy horses. They were quite docile but not without a bit of twitching and potential for unpredictable behaviour. The small Shetland Ponies would also have a restricted outlook through their unruly teddy boy quiffs. The Sheepdog rolled in the first large pile of dung. The bank was muddy and altogether messy with horse manure, so that neither material stood out particularly as a warning.
The river wound through an industrial area, or rather the backside of an industrial area. I was actually suitably impressed about the level of activity at the chemical plant, paint factory , waste transfer depots and scrapyards which appeared to be contrary to the recessionary conditions in the rest of the economy.
In sporadic bursts of energy the two dogs would set off racing each other and dragging us behind. The Boy was becoming dizzy and disorientated by the antics of the Old English. The Doberman seemed to have an itchy muzzle as she would almost plough a furrow with it in the grass before getting up close and personal to me, again and again. The crotch of my trousers was as a consequence streaked with dog saliva and mucus.
By now the group of four of us looked quite uniformly hot, bothered and dishevelled, but only one was caked in horse shit. The river path seemed endless and with no break in the razor wire fencing around the industrial sites. At last we reached the back of the B&Q Warehouse with steps down past a dodgy looking pub announcing 'Open All day', but for whom in an area devoid of any houses or apparent patrons whatsoever?
We were on the return leg of the marathon trek. It was all pavement and the rush hour traffic was backed up so that we, on our aggregated 10 legs were moving quicker. We must have looked a bit of a sight to the drivers. A chubby man with a Doberman and a lanky Youth with a Sheepdog. Some must have come to the conclusion, albeit disgracefully judgemental that we were up to no good, layabouts, spongers and a little bit chavvy. We however were having a great experience. There were strong recollections of our two beloved family pets, Elsie and Toffy and how much a part they had played in our lives over some 18 years. It was with some sadness that we left our new friends at the rescue centre. I will have mixed feelings if they let us volunteer again next week and those two madcap hounds have gone on the next stage of their journey.
Bring on Igor the mongrel and the rest.
I have not been able to find a Traveller with whom to raise this query and anyway the information was only foremost in my mind yesterday afternoon when a walk along the flood defences of the River Hull, some 3 miles upstream from the Humber outlet brought me up against a succession of gypsy horses so secured by chain and hammered in spike to either the top of the levee , the angled slope or the lower bank.
They were quite a sorry sight in all. Perhaps now just a throwback to a once horse dominated lifestyle and only really kept as a material possession or just something to establish a position in the hierarchy of the Traveller World, a form of currency. There are still famous horse fairs in this country which are to my understanding well attended and with business conducted in the old fashioned way but more out of the back of a large and expensive 4 x 4 or pick up truck than a covered Romany carriage.
The reason for my concern down by the river was brought about by my own form of being tethered, in this instance to a large Doberman hound, fully grown, very strong, a bit mad and with no comprehension of commands in English.
The purists in dog obedience may argur that it is not so much the order given to a dog that brings about compliance but the tone in which it is given. Either way, I did not have any grasp of Rumanian and the dog certainly and for sure had no knowledge of English.
A few days earlier the Doberman, provided with an anglicised name of Tess ( a bit more Sanderson than of the d'Urbevilles in physique), had arrived in this country after a long journey from behind the old Iron Curtain as part of a consignment of dogs rescued from perilous conditions. In the well documented Chauchesku era it was the orphans and infirm children who justified a major humanitarian operation. As that country has settled into a more free market economy it now appears that the dog population is needy and warranting action.
A friend of the family had been moved almost to tears by the plight of the Rumanian intake and had volunteered some of her time to providing exercise and to promote confidence and a social grounding for a selection of pure and cross bred animals awaiting rehoming or fostering in the UK. The website for the rescue centre has a brief description and photograph for each of the canine arrivals. Some of the dogs are not what you would describe as cute but all are loving and just ache for a chance to be welcomed into a warm, dry and secure home.
Me and the Boy wanted to help out and so we rolled up at the centre yesterday afternoon to see what we could do. Two large dogs were allocated to us. My Doberman was roaming around the reception area and as I entered the lobby she carried out a mock charge, barking and salivating. I was too shocked to react, well run. Tess took this as a stand off, I was an equal and we immediately respected each others rights and space. I was understandably a bit nervous after a Black Labrador took a chunk out of my hand just before Christmas in an unprovoked incident at a rented house.
The Staff at the centre assured me that although no formal assessement had been carried out they did not think that Tess had any particular fears, oh, apart from bikes. This was left intentionally vague and did not specify drop handlebar, straight handlebar, road, mountain or hybrid types. It would be a case of just see what happened if that confrontation arose. The Boy was introduced to an even larger Old English Sheepdog, freshly clipped and frisky with it.
Our briefing was just that, brief. Keep them on the lead all the time, do not let small children stroke them, pick up their pooh in the bags provided. See you back in about an hour or ninety minutes. As an afterthought I was informed that Tess liked to get close. As we left the centre, deep in the heart of an industrial estate Tess demonstrated the close thing by approaching me from behind and pushing her long nose through under my groin. She would then reverse out and come to heel or just pass through my legs and wait for me to unravel the twisted leash. The Boy soon found out that his dog, Lucy, could not walk more than a few metres without doing a complete 360 degree turn. Perhaps a trait from some mistreatment or confinement in a cramped, uncomfortable place. Our route up to the lifting bridge and along the riverbank was, in a straight line about 3 miles but with the compulsive performing routines the actual distance covered would be considerably more than this. In the first hundred metres the two dogs rushed and scattered a bus queue with me and The Boy hanging on behind the muscle bound hounds.
We then encountered the gypsy horses. They were quite docile but not without a bit of twitching and potential for unpredictable behaviour. The small Shetland Ponies would also have a restricted outlook through their unruly teddy boy quiffs. The Sheepdog rolled in the first large pile of dung. The bank was muddy and altogether messy with horse manure, so that neither material stood out particularly as a warning.
The river wound through an industrial area, or rather the backside of an industrial area. I was actually suitably impressed about the level of activity at the chemical plant, paint factory , waste transfer depots and scrapyards which appeared to be contrary to the recessionary conditions in the rest of the economy.
In sporadic bursts of energy the two dogs would set off racing each other and dragging us behind. The Boy was becoming dizzy and disorientated by the antics of the Old English. The Doberman seemed to have an itchy muzzle as she would almost plough a furrow with it in the grass before getting up close and personal to me, again and again. The crotch of my trousers was as a consequence streaked with dog saliva and mucus.
By now the group of four of us looked quite uniformly hot, bothered and dishevelled, but only one was caked in horse shit. The river path seemed endless and with no break in the razor wire fencing around the industrial sites. At last we reached the back of the B&Q Warehouse with steps down past a dodgy looking pub announcing 'Open All day', but for whom in an area devoid of any houses or apparent patrons whatsoever?
We were on the return leg of the marathon trek. It was all pavement and the rush hour traffic was backed up so that we, on our aggregated 10 legs were moving quicker. We must have looked a bit of a sight to the drivers. A chubby man with a Doberman and a lanky Youth with a Sheepdog. Some must have come to the conclusion, albeit disgracefully judgemental that we were up to no good, layabouts, spongers and a little bit chavvy. We however were having a great experience. There were strong recollections of our two beloved family pets, Elsie and Toffy and how much a part they had played in our lives over some 18 years. It was with some sadness that we left our new friends at the rescue centre. I will have mixed feelings if they let us volunteer again next week and those two madcap hounds have gone on the next stage of their journey.
Bring on Igor the mongrel and the rest.
Wednesday 16 May 2012
Downfall
It was quite an event, even to command the attention of the known world , when a meteorite fell out of the night sky in 1795 in a remote field just outside the small village of Wold Newton, East Yorkshire.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
Tuesday 15 May 2012
Up another creek
A 23 foot long through lounge may have been top of the wish list for aspiring homeowners in the 1970's but for my Father it afforded an opportunity to build a canoe in the rear 11 feet whilst still retaining the front 12 feet, with settee, pouffe, coffee table and TV aerial socket for family use.
My Mother may have agreed to the idea prior to the commencement of the project but had she known that canoe launch day did not actually take place for another 2 years she may have had a different view.
The canoe was in kit form through Ottersports and arrived in a very large box like an oversized Airfix. The particular model was entirely in wood and must have been marine ply or laminated . The parts forming the hull had to be glued, taped and carefully pinned in position and some evenings and some weekends when not attending to family responsibilities my Father did a little bit more work on the single seater. On finer days the work took place on the patio with the superstructure, bows and cockpit taking shape al fresco. The lounge carpet held up well on inclement working days.
My parents, then in their early forties , had Keeping fit Commando Style on cassette and the same rear section of the lounge doubled up as a gym. This was apt as many of the exercises around the assembly line took on the apperance of training for an amphibious assault. Progress with the wooden torpedo was slow and my Mother took us kids off for a week after matrimonial relations became strained over the prolonged project. I often thought that the all-pervading smell of varnish in the later stages may have contributed to behaviour otherwise totally out of character for a loving couple.
It was a very proud day for my Father when the completed canoe was loaded onto the VW roofrack as part of the mass transit that was the Thomson's going on holiday- estate car, boat, caravan, 5 children, overflow tents and chemical toilet, in fact all the trappings. On it's maiden voyage what a machine the canoe was. The steeply raked hull made for a very fast speed through the Scottish Loch but on the downside this was accompanied by considerable instability. A bit like simulated white water but on a glassy smooth body of water. I seem to remember initial enthusiasm from us kids for a paddle but second requests were not forthcoming and we busied ourselves with looking for fish, bleached sheeps bones and following severed fishing lines to find abandoned spinners and lures stuck in the rocky floor of the shallows of the Loch.
I must have put 'Experienced with watersports' on my CV as I soon found myself being pushed headfirst into a fibre glass canoe at Scouts in order to resin together the moulded hull and deck. A very unpleasant task indeed and only bearable for a few minutes and probably outlawed now in all but the farthest east sweat-shops. Was it my experience or as I suspect that I was undersized for my age and ideally suited to the fume laden , runny eyes and wheezy chest operation in the narrow confines only intended for the canoeists legs.
A bit later on my Father acquired another canoe - an open deck Canadian version for expeditions up river but it was just too heavy to be even lifted near a roof rack and I am not sure now that it ever had a christening under our ownership.
I am still fascinated by all things canoe and recently marvelled at a metal hulled Grumman canoe on the canal at North Frodingham. A flat bottomed tourer in which the elderly owner regularly took his grandchildren and dogs up river for hours on end with no jeopardy or instability even with an unruly and inquisitive crew.
I have some intentions to one day canoe the full navigable length of the River Hull from the Tidal Barrier to its deep set source in the hinterland. My wife has expressed some concerns but it's not as if I'm going to disappear off the coast of Hartlepool and turn up in Panama.
There is to my knowledge no direct route from the Horsewash to South America - or is it there to be discovered..........?
(As it is Alice's 21st today please forgive me revamping this piece from Sept 2011)
My Mother may have agreed to the idea prior to the commencement of the project but had she known that canoe launch day did not actually take place for another 2 years she may have had a different view.
The canoe was in kit form through Ottersports and arrived in a very large box like an oversized Airfix. The particular model was entirely in wood and must have been marine ply or laminated . The parts forming the hull had to be glued, taped and carefully pinned in position and some evenings and some weekends when not attending to family responsibilities my Father did a little bit more work on the single seater. On finer days the work took place on the patio with the superstructure, bows and cockpit taking shape al fresco. The lounge carpet held up well on inclement working days.
My parents, then in their early forties , had Keeping fit Commando Style on cassette and the same rear section of the lounge doubled up as a gym. This was apt as many of the exercises around the assembly line took on the apperance of training for an amphibious assault. Progress with the wooden torpedo was slow and my Mother took us kids off for a week after matrimonial relations became strained over the prolonged project. I often thought that the all-pervading smell of varnish in the later stages may have contributed to behaviour otherwise totally out of character for a loving couple.
It was a very proud day for my Father when the completed canoe was loaded onto the VW roofrack as part of the mass transit that was the Thomson's going on holiday- estate car, boat, caravan, 5 children, overflow tents and chemical toilet, in fact all the trappings. On it's maiden voyage what a machine the canoe was. The steeply raked hull made for a very fast speed through the Scottish Loch but on the downside this was accompanied by considerable instability. A bit like simulated white water but on a glassy smooth body of water. I seem to remember initial enthusiasm from us kids for a paddle but second requests were not forthcoming and we busied ourselves with looking for fish, bleached sheeps bones and following severed fishing lines to find abandoned spinners and lures stuck in the rocky floor of the shallows of the Loch.
I must have put 'Experienced with watersports' on my CV as I soon found myself being pushed headfirst into a fibre glass canoe at Scouts in order to resin together the moulded hull and deck. A very unpleasant task indeed and only bearable for a few minutes and probably outlawed now in all but the farthest east sweat-shops. Was it my experience or as I suspect that I was undersized for my age and ideally suited to the fume laden , runny eyes and wheezy chest operation in the narrow confines only intended for the canoeists legs.
A bit later on my Father acquired another canoe - an open deck Canadian version for expeditions up river but it was just too heavy to be even lifted near a roof rack and I am not sure now that it ever had a christening under our ownership.
I am still fascinated by all things canoe and recently marvelled at a metal hulled Grumman canoe on the canal at North Frodingham. A flat bottomed tourer in which the elderly owner regularly took his grandchildren and dogs up river for hours on end with no jeopardy or instability even with an unruly and inquisitive crew.
I have some intentions to one day canoe the full navigable length of the River Hull from the Tidal Barrier to its deep set source in the hinterland. My wife has expressed some concerns but it's not as if I'm going to disappear off the coast of Hartlepool and turn up in Panama.
There is to my knowledge no direct route from the Horsewash to South America - or is it there to be discovered..........?
(As it is Alice's 21st today please forgive me revamping this piece from Sept 2011)
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