The tree directly outside the house has been adopted by our family from perhaps the first day we moved in some 17 years ago. It is a beautiful, thriving and charismatic Plane tree. About 15 to 20 metres tall, slightly crooked trunk and with a bough which in full canopy spreads across the entire frontage of the house.
The children were frantic with anxiety when the men from the Council painted an ominous cross on the trunk as though marking it out for death. We made enquiries about whether the tree was to be felled and made it plain that we would be objecting in the strongest way possible. Whether this would be a formal letter to the Council or , the physical attachment of our children around the trunk in a human shield ,we did not specify. Nothing happened either way. We, as parents, told the children that People Power had saved the tree.They were suitably impressed by such a practical demonstration of democracy and even more so by the green and ecological credentials of mum and dad.
I suspect that the cross simply signified that the tree had been accounted for in some sort of survey, a tally of what was what and where amongst tall growing things on the hundreds of miles of adopted roadways and footpaths in the management of the Local Authority.
In revenge for being so daubed in official graffitti the tree jumped out in front of the number 66 bus, early one morning, causing it to stop violently and eject a number of passengers out of their seats causing some injury. No doubt the conversation between the bus company and the council tree department was quite involved.
In the autumn months I do shake a symbolic fist at the tree as it sheds its large maple leaf shaped foliage. This thick mass of brownish, yellow and russet soon-to-be mulch always collects in the drain surround at the side of the house into which the bath/shower empties. My crude chicken wire mesh cover has consistently disappointed and many times the driveway has been involuntarily swilled down with Radox, Head and Shoulders and John Frieda products as the gully has overflowed.
It is those same pesky leaves when firmly attached to the dangly, springy boughs that keep the front of the house nicely shaded and cool in the height of summer hence my figurative damnation only.
In recent years the tree has become a nesting and perching site for a family of pigeons. Unfortunately this fact also became apparent to an aggressive Sparrow Hawk who we came across one afternoon amongst a storm of feathers and two decapitated young pigeons on the front lawn. Understandably proud of its killing spree the hawk stared us out as we sat, shocked, in the car on the driveway as though requiring us to reverse away and pretend that we had seen nothing. Even after getting out of the car and scaring off the carnivorous bird it returned twice in an attempt to carry away its conquests but was unable to take off with either one of the plump carcasses locked in its talons.
The appearance this season of what resembles small dormant hedgehogs or baby gremlins is a rare fruiting of the tree. The growths are hairy, dense and almost pomegranate like to the seeded core and I have been expecting a few dents in the car roof from their random plummet under gravitational pull. They are perfectly round spheres and the first time they have emanated from the tree in the years in which we have co-existed.
I now have quite a dilemna.
The shallow coursing roots of the tree have snaked up through the public pathway which has been repaired periodically as baby buggies and disability scooters have encountered difficulties scaling the north face. The probing roots have now caused the front wall of our garden to fracture and sag. A ridge has also appeared like a varicose vein in the tarmac of our driveway. If it were not for a photograph taken 17 years ago of a crack in the main house wall I would attribute this to the desire of the tree to get closer to us but in all that time the gap between bricks and mortar has remained constant. That's 1920's builders for you.
We do not want to get the tree into any trouble or draw attention to the vague wanderings of its root system but we do have some cause for concern over the damage. The tree has now, more than ever before, taken on the persona of an elderly and much loved neighbour but getting on a bit in years and showing some senior moments. We have its best interests at heart and are prepared to work towards an amicable solution with the guardians of the tree. I have written an understanding and sympathetic note to the Council and have been given a reference number for use in all subsequent correspondence.
The number is well into the seven figures and so I do not expect anything to happen some time soon if the Council are working on a strictly consecutively numbered basis in attending to their many and varied responsibilities.
Sunday 30 September 2012
Saturday 29 September 2012
Shed Seventy Seven
My wife has all the best ideas.
She is the driving force behind our family and I am the perpetual passenger along for the journey. Of course I have to fulfill my role as a man by being the spoiler of good ideas, the pooh-pooher of grand schemes and the purveyor of practical considerations which make the best ideas seem impractical.
That is not to say that some of my wife's best ideas have materialised.
The house had a big makeover on her initiative perhaps a decade or more ago but I admit that the builder I found for the job,on the recommendation of someone I have not seen or heard of since, was pretty hopeless. His more than competent Number 1 plasterer was fantastic in skimming the bedroom but then had to go off on another job. I came home from work to find the lounge ceiling beautifully smooth finished and thought that perhaps the key man had managed to carry through the job.
In the early hours of the morning a frantic scrabbling of dogs claws on bare floorboards was the precursor for a strange crackling and almost glass-tinkling sound as the thin layer of plaster parted company with the original finish. It was a mosaic of a million fragments on everything stored in the room. The action of our dog gave me some comfort in that if there was an earthquake or even a meteorite strike we may be forewarned by a matter of milliseconds which would be nice.
The builder was a bit embarassed in admitting that he had forgotten to provide a bonding agent as preparation for the work.His other lasting legacy, that we are aware of, is an horrific Artex coating on the dining room ceiling. I have seen some wonderful craftmanship in other peoples homes with rambling roses, shells and intricate combed patterns. The most polite description of our example would be Antarctica from space. There, I admit it is terrible but then global warming was always expected to cause a contraction of the Polar Regions and strange ridged, speckled, creased, pockmarked and distorted phenomena.
We have hard wearing real wood floors through the heavy footfall areas and when clean, mopped to a non-sticky and polished patina they look striking. That was my wife's idea.
The Kitchen was refitted 4 years ago to cater for our teenage grazers and fridge browser. A big project but well worth doing- my wife's idea.
The placing of our house on the market last year highlighted a number of aspects where it was lacking based on the properties that we were competing against for the few buyers able and willing to consider a transaction.
My wife, over the last 18 months of monitoring Rightmove, Zoopla and the seemingly endless other media for selling a property is now fully versed on what features help to woo and seduce the rare breed that are prospective buyers.
We have, since the first sales brochure, painted those bits of the front of the house that I was brave enough to reach even with the help of Dave the Fireman. I have covered up, rather effectively all of the rotten woodwork around the balcony with plastic claddings and soon I may even finish fastening it properly where I ran out of screw fixings. The tarmac drive has been power washed of nearly all of its moss. The slate bed feature along the base of the kitchen wall has been extended over what resembled an untidy fly-tipping site. Yes, over and not replacing.
The chimney breast in the dining room has a bright and gawdy papered finish to contrast with the stark white emulsion which covers the facing and offset walls.
We do not have a wet room or any Travertine tiling but I am waiting patiently for this type of feature to go out of fashion as did Yorkstone fireplaces, cheap brittle laminate and formica. On the evidence presented by the fact that we are still for sale and with no actual offers I may have misjudged the attraction and stickability of Travertine and a plug hole flush to the floor through which to sluice your dead skin and bits of bodily hair.
We are making the best we can of the existing attributes of a property that has been a wonderful family home for the last 17 years.
I am not even sure now if the garden, 100 feet long at the rear, and more than adequate for a football pitch, badminton court, swingball circle, outdoor party, camping, learning to ride bikes and just sitting out and relaxing does in fact represent a disincentive to a purchaser.
My wife has definitely second guessed market trends with her latest, best idea and it revolves around the old summerhouse which sits half way down the garden, just behind the garage and has a due south aspect. People would fight over it if it was on the Promenade at Mablethorpe or Filey. Cleared of the stored playroom and computer furniture, folding garden chairs (mostly burst in the canvas seating), gardening ephemera and just junk, my wife has a vision of establishing a safe haven, a get away from it all, a tranquil retreat in which to write that novel, pen that poem or pay those bills.
I am on board with the idea and have suppressed my obligations as a male to stifle creativity and imagination. I have already had serious thoughts on sourcing materials and have undertaken an internet search of similar ventures. Think tongued and grooved flooring- painted and perhaps stencilled in attractive motifs, a new door that actually opens on some hinges, replacement glass , a simple shelving arrangement, a shabby-chic desk and chair, the overall emphasis on less is more.
Tomorrow will be Day One and another run or series of trips up to the local tip to empty the accumulated contents. The resident spiders, wood lice and earwigs will be carefully relocated. I am quite excited and motivated by the project.
At last, that book that someone bought me more than a decade ago entitled 'Men and Their Sheds' may become my principal reference work, a permanent protruberance through my stylish work dungarees (Matalan £1.99).
She is the driving force behind our family and I am the perpetual passenger along for the journey. Of course I have to fulfill my role as a man by being the spoiler of good ideas, the pooh-pooher of grand schemes and the purveyor of practical considerations which make the best ideas seem impractical.
That is not to say that some of my wife's best ideas have materialised.
The house had a big makeover on her initiative perhaps a decade or more ago but I admit that the builder I found for the job,on the recommendation of someone I have not seen or heard of since, was pretty hopeless. His more than competent Number 1 plasterer was fantastic in skimming the bedroom but then had to go off on another job. I came home from work to find the lounge ceiling beautifully smooth finished and thought that perhaps the key man had managed to carry through the job.
In the early hours of the morning a frantic scrabbling of dogs claws on bare floorboards was the precursor for a strange crackling and almost glass-tinkling sound as the thin layer of plaster parted company with the original finish. It was a mosaic of a million fragments on everything stored in the room. The action of our dog gave me some comfort in that if there was an earthquake or even a meteorite strike we may be forewarned by a matter of milliseconds which would be nice.
The builder was a bit embarassed in admitting that he had forgotten to provide a bonding agent as preparation for the work.His other lasting legacy, that we are aware of, is an horrific Artex coating on the dining room ceiling. I have seen some wonderful craftmanship in other peoples homes with rambling roses, shells and intricate combed patterns. The most polite description of our example would be Antarctica from space. There, I admit it is terrible but then global warming was always expected to cause a contraction of the Polar Regions and strange ridged, speckled, creased, pockmarked and distorted phenomena.
We have hard wearing real wood floors through the heavy footfall areas and when clean, mopped to a non-sticky and polished patina they look striking. That was my wife's idea.
The Kitchen was refitted 4 years ago to cater for our teenage grazers and fridge browser. A big project but well worth doing- my wife's idea.
The placing of our house on the market last year highlighted a number of aspects where it was lacking based on the properties that we were competing against for the few buyers able and willing to consider a transaction.
My wife, over the last 18 months of monitoring Rightmove, Zoopla and the seemingly endless other media for selling a property is now fully versed on what features help to woo and seduce the rare breed that are prospective buyers.
We have, since the first sales brochure, painted those bits of the front of the house that I was brave enough to reach even with the help of Dave the Fireman. I have covered up, rather effectively all of the rotten woodwork around the balcony with plastic claddings and soon I may even finish fastening it properly where I ran out of screw fixings. The tarmac drive has been power washed of nearly all of its moss. The slate bed feature along the base of the kitchen wall has been extended over what resembled an untidy fly-tipping site. Yes, over and not replacing.
The chimney breast in the dining room has a bright and gawdy papered finish to contrast with the stark white emulsion which covers the facing and offset walls.
We do not have a wet room or any Travertine tiling but I am waiting patiently for this type of feature to go out of fashion as did Yorkstone fireplaces, cheap brittle laminate and formica. On the evidence presented by the fact that we are still for sale and with no actual offers I may have misjudged the attraction and stickability of Travertine and a plug hole flush to the floor through which to sluice your dead skin and bits of bodily hair.
We are making the best we can of the existing attributes of a property that has been a wonderful family home for the last 17 years.
I am not even sure now if the garden, 100 feet long at the rear, and more than adequate for a football pitch, badminton court, swingball circle, outdoor party, camping, learning to ride bikes and just sitting out and relaxing does in fact represent a disincentive to a purchaser.
My wife has definitely second guessed market trends with her latest, best idea and it revolves around the old summerhouse which sits half way down the garden, just behind the garage and has a due south aspect. People would fight over it if it was on the Promenade at Mablethorpe or Filey. Cleared of the stored playroom and computer furniture, folding garden chairs (mostly burst in the canvas seating), gardening ephemera and just junk, my wife has a vision of establishing a safe haven, a get away from it all, a tranquil retreat in which to write that novel, pen that poem or pay those bills.
I am on board with the idea and have suppressed my obligations as a male to stifle creativity and imagination. I have already had serious thoughts on sourcing materials and have undertaken an internet search of similar ventures. Think tongued and grooved flooring- painted and perhaps stencilled in attractive motifs, a new door that actually opens on some hinges, replacement glass , a simple shelving arrangement, a shabby-chic desk and chair, the overall emphasis on less is more.
Tomorrow will be Day One and another run or series of trips up to the local tip to empty the accumulated contents. The resident spiders, wood lice and earwigs will be carefully relocated. I am quite excited and motivated by the project.
At last, that book that someone bought me more than a decade ago entitled 'Men and Their Sheds' may become my principal reference work, a permanent protruberance through my stylish work dungarees (Matalan £1.99).
Friday 28 September 2012
Ordeal by Time
A challenge against the clock, the race of truth, just you and nowhere to hide, a cycling road time trial.
Not something of a truly sociable nature although in a timber built Village Hall somewhere adjacent to the course and at an ungodly hour in the morning it was possible to savour perhaps the best cup of tea and home made cakes in the whole world.
An early start was a prerequisite of the time trial whether it was an event over the standard competition distances of 10 and 25 miles or the endurance ordeals of 50 or 100 miles or more. This was mainly to avoid the build up of traffic on what would be a principal transport route including for many years sections of the dreaded A1 dual carriageway. Early risers for work or perhaps families setting off for holiday or a long weekend in the spring and summer months may have noticed the flash of a flourescent orange, yellow or green race number safety-pinned to the lower back of a crouching and concentrating cyclist. The riders, widely dispersed, were otherwise easily passed and inconspicuous and causing only minor comment from those awake and alert in their fast moving vehicles.
It was usually a case of having to ride out from home to the start and this could be equivalent to the distance of the actual race, each way. In the chill of the morning there would be a light mist over the road surface and verges on leaving the city streets and entering the open countryside. The cold, fresh air was a rude awakening to the lungs. Damp cycling gear grabbed from an unheated radiator felt clammy and uncomfortable against the skin. There was in truth no such thing as an entirely wind proofed jacket.
Bodily extremities were poorly protected against the heavy mositure laden air. Fingers projecting from fingerless gloves had to be warmed in the steady stream of exhalation, toes wiggled within stiff leather cycling shoes and genitals, sat on the front tip of the saddle just had to shrivel up and act like a man.
The bike had been specially prepared with an extra squirt of oil on the transmission. Toe straps checked for any wear and tear. A rattle or squeak on any part of the machine would be a sign of weakness amongst those who heard it. Best lighweight wheels and slick, stick on tubular tyres were the only real concession to speed that could be hoped for on a bike that was used to go to the shops, dodge the 61 Service Bus and all points inbetween.
It was always a bit of a gamble, that ride across the city to the start, that the tyres would not be perforated or lacerated by shattered glass, a solitary thorn or a sharp flint.
Under the multiple clothing layers was the other secret weapon- the skin suit. A lycra sheath, a second skin with nothing else on , not even underpants. Mine had been made to measure by one of the cycling club Mums. Team colours of red, white and blue so arranged to resemble the French national Flag to the upper part and sheer, black to the shorts, all in one piece with carefully stiched in chamois leather seat padding. Climbing in and out of the garment was an event in itself.
Arriving at the Village Hall HQ the bike was left stacked against tens of others outside. Signing on and collecting race numbers gave an opportunity to weigh up the opposition. A large, hand written chart affixed to the wall or on an artists easel resembled a complex scientific formula. Riders, club affiliation, number, time off and that blank column in which the race times would be slowly filled in. The field of riders could be 60 to 100 in number.
Every tenth name on the start sheet would be a seeded rider, a locally renowned time triallist and distinguished by the best equipment of dedicated steeply raking time trial bike, streamlined aero helmet, disc wheels and a steely determination to do well, unlike us other opportunistic chancers. Above all they had driven to the venue, They were that serious.
Already warmed up from the exertions of the ride out I would carry out my final preparations, strip off down to the skin suit, try to conceal the sweat patches and then set off to the start. Consecutively numbered competitors milled around waiting for their call up. A Club Official with a stop watch ushered you to the chalked up line and a further Club regular grabbed the handlebar stem and seat post. This allowed toe straps to be tightened and adoption of a position in which your body would be prone for the next 25 minutes (10 miles) or hour (25 miles).
A short countdown from 3, a faint rocking motion and then the first pedal downstroke and off. In that first few seconds you knew instinctively if the ride was going to be good or horrendous.
Powering up through the gears to cruising speed was accompanied by a lung bursting intake of air, the blood could be felt surging into muscles and tendons. If the physical process could have a soundtrack it would undoubtedly be a pitiful scream.
The course was usually a straight out and back affair with a roundabout, or a slip road and bridge as the turning point. If starting about the middle order there would be riders well on their way back to that sweet cup of tea and carrot cake on the opposite side of the road. Immediate emotions towards them were envy, jealousy and not a little bit of anger at their chance of an earlier reprieve from the torture.
Most events were fully mixed with men, women, youths, girls, boys and veterans participating. If you did not have a seeded rider bearing down on you within minutes or rapidly disappearing some way up the road it was possible to see, chase and catch your minute marker. This did give added motivation although even a rather tubby lady, squeezed into a skin suit and rather poured around a saddle seemed to remain at a constant distance ahead for an eternity.
In my mind I would develop a metronomic rythym and if that part of my brain responsible for my legs was functioning as it should the miles would be ground out pedal stroke by pedal stroke. In full flight it was a tremendous feeling of wellbeing, albeit tiring. If into a head wind, cross wind or a curtain of rain the sensation was a bit tempered.
Not all roads were smooth and flat. A challenging course had to have a few ups and downs, an open exposed section, potholes and stupid motorists.
The golden rule was "do not ride with your head down and unsighted." At that early hour and especially on a Sunday there was invariably an elderly couple parked up straddling the verge, having a cuppa and browsing the newspapers. Why they had left a warm home and comfortable sofa to just camp out in the middle of nowhere was always a mystery to me. A protruding vehicle on the course was a must to avoid.
The final mile and parts thereof were always the longest. Lactic acid was seeping into the muscle tissue. That cup of tea could be visualised in its pale green Womens Institute china cup. Then, over the line, freewheel, sit up and gasp. There was no loitering. A runner would convey the finishing times to the HQ or a Scout team would send them by short wave radio.
There were the usual pleasantries with the other finishers with the words 'tough', 'bonking', 'personal best', ' could not get going' and 'crap' being my own favourite utterances.
The moment of truth came in a few strokes of a felt tip pen. It could be some hours before all results were in but you could not hide from your recorded time. My best ever peformances were 22'11 for 10 miles and 1'1'05" for 25 miles, both freakish results involving a downhill start, a late boozy night beforehand and possibly a faulty stop watch but a reluctance by the timekeeper to admit to it.
Those proficient and athletic at time trialling always excelled at other forms of cycle racing because they could simply call upon their natural power and ride away from the competition when they felt like it. Those, like me, who tried it out and did not really have the dedication to stick to it found ultimate comfort in a hot, sweet cup of tea and a home made and very sticky bun. After indulging in such treats those cold shrunken genitals seem to be restored to somewhere about normal.
Not something of a truly sociable nature although in a timber built Village Hall somewhere adjacent to the course and at an ungodly hour in the morning it was possible to savour perhaps the best cup of tea and home made cakes in the whole world.
An early start was a prerequisite of the time trial whether it was an event over the standard competition distances of 10 and 25 miles or the endurance ordeals of 50 or 100 miles or more. This was mainly to avoid the build up of traffic on what would be a principal transport route including for many years sections of the dreaded A1 dual carriageway. Early risers for work or perhaps families setting off for holiday or a long weekend in the spring and summer months may have noticed the flash of a flourescent orange, yellow or green race number safety-pinned to the lower back of a crouching and concentrating cyclist. The riders, widely dispersed, were otherwise easily passed and inconspicuous and causing only minor comment from those awake and alert in their fast moving vehicles.
It was usually a case of having to ride out from home to the start and this could be equivalent to the distance of the actual race, each way. In the chill of the morning there would be a light mist over the road surface and verges on leaving the city streets and entering the open countryside. The cold, fresh air was a rude awakening to the lungs. Damp cycling gear grabbed from an unheated radiator felt clammy and uncomfortable against the skin. There was in truth no such thing as an entirely wind proofed jacket.
Bodily extremities were poorly protected against the heavy mositure laden air. Fingers projecting from fingerless gloves had to be warmed in the steady stream of exhalation, toes wiggled within stiff leather cycling shoes and genitals, sat on the front tip of the saddle just had to shrivel up and act like a man.
The bike had been specially prepared with an extra squirt of oil on the transmission. Toe straps checked for any wear and tear. A rattle or squeak on any part of the machine would be a sign of weakness amongst those who heard it. Best lighweight wheels and slick, stick on tubular tyres were the only real concession to speed that could be hoped for on a bike that was used to go to the shops, dodge the 61 Service Bus and all points inbetween.
It was always a bit of a gamble, that ride across the city to the start, that the tyres would not be perforated or lacerated by shattered glass, a solitary thorn or a sharp flint.
Under the multiple clothing layers was the other secret weapon- the skin suit. A lycra sheath, a second skin with nothing else on , not even underpants. Mine had been made to measure by one of the cycling club Mums. Team colours of red, white and blue so arranged to resemble the French national Flag to the upper part and sheer, black to the shorts, all in one piece with carefully stiched in chamois leather seat padding. Climbing in and out of the garment was an event in itself.
Arriving at the Village Hall HQ the bike was left stacked against tens of others outside. Signing on and collecting race numbers gave an opportunity to weigh up the opposition. A large, hand written chart affixed to the wall or on an artists easel resembled a complex scientific formula. Riders, club affiliation, number, time off and that blank column in which the race times would be slowly filled in. The field of riders could be 60 to 100 in number.
Every tenth name on the start sheet would be a seeded rider, a locally renowned time triallist and distinguished by the best equipment of dedicated steeply raking time trial bike, streamlined aero helmet, disc wheels and a steely determination to do well, unlike us other opportunistic chancers. Above all they had driven to the venue, They were that serious.
Already warmed up from the exertions of the ride out I would carry out my final preparations, strip off down to the skin suit, try to conceal the sweat patches and then set off to the start. Consecutively numbered competitors milled around waiting for their call up. A Club Official with a stop watch ushered you to the chalked up line and a further Club regular grabbed the handlebar stem and seat post. This allowed toe straps to be tightened and adoption of a position in which your body would be prone for the next 25 minutes (10 miles) or hour (25 miles).
A short countdown from 3, a faint rocking motion and then the first pedal downstroke and off. In that first few seconds you knew instinctively if the ride was going to be good or horrendous.
Powering up through the gears to cruising speed was accompanied by a lung bursting intake of air, the blood could be felt surging into muscles and tendons. If the physical process could have a soundtrack it would undoubtedly be a pitiful scream.
The course was usually a straight out and back affair with a roundabout, or a slip road and bridge as the turning point. If starting about the middle order there would be riders well on their way back to that sweet cup of tea and carrot cake on the opposite side of the road. Immediate emotions towards them were envy, jealousy and not a little bit of anger at their chance of an earlier reprieve from the torture.
Most events were fully mixed with men, women, youths, girls, boys and veterans participating. If you did not have a seeded rider bearing down on you within minutes or rapidly disappearing some way up the road it was possible to see, chase and catch your minute marker. This did give added motivation although even a rather tubby lady, squeezed into a skin suit and rather poured around a saddle seemed to remain at a constant distance ahead for an eternity.
In my mind I would develop a metronomic rythym and if that part of my brain responsible for my legs was functioning as it should the miles would be ground out pedal stroke by pedal stroke. In full flight it was a tremendous feeling of wellbeing, albeit tiring. If into a head wind, cross wind or a curtain of rain the sensation was a bit tempered.
Not all roads were smooth and flat. A challenging course had to have a few ups and downs, an open exposed section, potholes and stupid motorists.
The golden rule was "do not ride with your head down and unsighted." At that early hour and especially on a Sunday there was invariably an elderly couple parked up straddling the verge, having a cuppa and browsing the newspapers. Why they had left a warm home and comfortable sofa to just camp out in the middle of nowhere was always a mystery to me. A protruding vehicle on the course was a must to avoid.
The final mile and parts thereof were always the longest. Lactic acid was seeping into the muscle tissue. That cup of tea could be visualised in its pale green Womens Institute china cup. Then, over the line, freewheel, sit up and gasp. There was no loitering. A runner would convey the finishing times to the HQ or a Scout team would send them by short wave radio.
There were the usual pleasantries with the other finishers with the words 'tough', 'bonking', 'personal best', ' could not get going' and 'crap' being my own favourite utterances.
The moment of truth came in a few strokes of a felt tip pen. It could be some hours before all results were in but you could not hide from your recorded time. My best ever peformances were 22'11 for 10 miles and 1'1'05" for 25 miles, both freakish results involving a downhill start, a late boozy night beforehand and possibly a faulty stop watch but a reluctance by the timekeeper to admit to it.
Those proficient and athletic at time trialling always excelled at other forms of cycle racing because they could simply call upon their natural power and ride away from the competition when they felt like it. Those, like me, who tried it out and did not really have the dedication to stick to it found ultimate comfort in a hot, sweet cup of tea and a home made and very sticky bun. After indulging in such treats those cold shrunken genitals seem to be restored to somewhere about normal.
Thursday 27 September 2012
Pyke. Not the idiot boy.
Sometimes the exploits and antics of an individual really capture my interest and one such person featured in a recent BBC4 Extra dramatisation was Geoffrey Pyke.
The man may not have been at the forefront of public perception but he contributed greatly to the Nation and particularly so in the rarified times of conflict when a wild and crazy idea often stood a good chance of success, if a measure of that success was the shortening of a war and the saving of countless lives or even a single life.
I have never seen any film footage or audio recordings of Geoffrey Pyke but my generation, 1960's baby boomers, will certainly recall with affection his close relative the scientist Magnus Pyke, flailing arms and exaggerated gesticulations and all. Certain characteristics follow the family lineage and my visualisation and appreciation of Geoffrey Pyke has certainly been helped by my memories of Dr Magnus.
The earlier Pyke was born in 1894. He engendered a reputation for eccentricity and genius in his ideas, inventions and schemes but equally exasperated and frustrated many who came across him, particularly those in authority.
In the first world war he persuaded a Newspaper to infiltrate him into Berlin to report back but he was captured shortly after arriving and had to make an escape from prison and make his way back to the UK. He was however declared a hero by his media employers and lived well off this status.
Between the wars he became self taught in playing the investment market and his scientific system of dabbling in stocks and shares made him a fortune. This he used to open a school where pupils were encouraged to pursue their own interests in a free and easy environment with a non-punishment or reprimand regime. The idea was largely an antidote to his own years in secondary education when he was the victim of remorseless bullying and victimisation. It was a success in its unique way but drained him of his wealth and it was after only a few years that the educational establishment was forced to close.
His aptitude for thinking well out of the box was well suited to the war effort from 1939. His first initiative was to try to oust Adolf Hitler by popular demand and he attempted this by sending students into Nazi Germany, disguised as golfers with clubs and clipboards to try to demonstrate in a public straw poll that Hitler was in fact not at all popular. The failure was inevitable but then hindsight is a wonderful thing.
With genius and individualism comes strange behaviour and traits. Geoffrey Pyke spent most of his working days in his pyjamas and would only eat herring. He was obsessed with not being cramped or constricted by furniture and possessions and he rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys to elevate all of his belongings up to ceiling height to give a clear, open plan and spacious work space during his office hours. I personally like that idea and can see some contemporary applications in modern lifestyles.
From brainstorming, Geoffrey Pyke soon moved on to actual engineered inventions from a motorised sledge to an actual tracked, all terrain vehicle, The Weasel which went into production and with many still mobile and in use well into the post war period in Polar Exploration.
His behaviour and appearance, very much along the lines of a mad professor were not widely accepted particularly in North America here he was seconded on joint research and development projects. He was reputed to have met the Canadian Prime Minister with trouser flies wide open which only added to their mistrust and frustrations of a strange man.
The radio drama that introduced me to Geoffrey Pyke revolved around two of his wartime inventions. These had come about in his time with British Combined Operations- a think-tank reporting back and with the interest of Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten.
Project Habbakuk was to be a huge ocean going aircraft carrier made from reinforced ice. The main constituent of the huge vessel was Pykrete, a mixture of water and wood pulp which when frozen exhibited tremendous strength, durability and stability and was also virtually bomb and torpedo proof. The idea progressed to a prototype on a Canadian Lake and it survived a whole summer. The D Day invasions caused the project to be abandoned although Pykrete had proven to be a workable and viable structural material.
It appears that after this personal disappointment Geoffrey Pyke found it very difficult to reach the same influential people and became forgotten and ignored insite of numerous authoratative writings and consultancy posts in a nation emerging from a crippling war.
.In 1948, increasingly pessimistic and despairing about the world and the direction it was taking he took his own life. His legacy, even to the present day, has not in my opinion really been recognised with due credit and acknowledgement. We can only stand back and speculate on what he may have contributed to the nation and wider world had he reached what may well have been his most fruitful and productive years. We will never know and we are poorer for that fact.
The man may not have been at the forefront of public perception but he contributed greatly to the Nation and particularly so in the rarified times of conflict when a wild and crazy idea often stood a good chance of success, if a measure of that success was the shortening of a war and the saving of countless lives or even a single life.
I have never seen any film footage or audio recordings of Geoffrey Pyke but my generation, 1960's baby boomers, will certainly recall with affection his close relative the scientist Magnus Pyke, flailing arms and exaggerated gesticulations and all. Certain characteristics follow the family lineage and my visualisation and appreciation of Geoffrey Pyke has certainly been helped by my memories of Dr Magnus.
The earlier Pyke was born in 1894. He engendered a reputation for eccentricity and genius in his ideas, inventions and schemes but equally exasperated and frustrated many who came across him, particularly those in authority.
In the first world war he persuaded a Newspaper to infiltrate him into Berlin to report back but he was captured shortly after arriving and had to make an escape from prison and make his way back to the UK. He was however declared a hero by his media employers and lived well off this status.
Between the wars he became self taught in playing the investment market and his scientific system of dabbling in stocks and shares made him a fortune. This he used to open a school where pupils were encouraged to pursue their own interests in a free and easy environment with a non-punishment or reprimand regime. The idea was largely an antidote to his own years in secondary education when he was the victim of remorseless bullying and victimisation. It was a success in its unique way but drained him of his wealth and it was after only a few years that the educational establishment was forced to close.
His aptitude for thinking well out of the box was well suited to the war effort from 1939. His first initiative was to try to oust Adolf Hitler by popular demand and he attempted this by sending students into Nazi Germany, disguised as golfers with clubs and clipboards to try to demonstrate in a public straw poll that Hitler was in fact not at all popular. The failure was inevitable but then hindsight is a wonderful thing.
With genius and individualism comes strange behaviour and traits. Geoffrey Pyke spent most of his working days in his pyjamas and would only eat herring. He was obsessed with not being cramped or constricted by furniture and possessions and he rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys to elevate all of his belongings up to ceiling height to give a clear, open plan and spacious work space during his office hours. I personally like that idea and can see some contemporary applications in modern lifestyles.
From brainstorming, Geoffrey Pyke soon moved on to actual engineered inventions from a motorised sledge to an actual tracked, all terrain vehicle, The Weasel which went into production and with many still mobile and in use well into the post war period in Polar Exploration.
His behaviour and appearance, very much along the lines of a mad professor were not widely accepted particularly in North America here he was seconded on joint research and development projects. He was reputed to have met the Canadian Prime Minister with trouser flies wide open which only added to their mistrust and frustrations of a strange man.
The radio drama that introduced me to Geoffrey Pyke revolved around two of his wartime inventions. These had come about in his time with British Combined Operations- a think-tank reporting back and with the interest of Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten.
Project Habbakuk was to be a huge ocean going aircraft carrier made from reinforced ice. The main constituent of the huge vessel was Pykrete, a mixture of water and wood pulp which when frozen exhibited tremendous strength, durability and stability and was also virtually bomb and torpedo proof. The idea progressed to a prototype on a Canadian Lake and it survived a whole summer. The D Day invasions caused the project to be abandoned although Pykrete had proven to be a workable and viable structural material.
It appears that after this personal disappointment Geoffrey Pyke found it very difficult to reach the same influential people and became forgotten and ignored insite of numerous authoratative writings and consultancy posts in a nation emerging from a crippling war.
.In 1948, increasingly pessimistic and despairing about the world and the direction it was taking he took his own life. His legacy, even to the present day, has not in my opinion really been recognised with due credit and acknowledgement. We can only stand back and speculate on what he may have contributed to the nation and wider world had he reached what may well have been his most fruitful and productive years. We will never know and we are poorer for that fact.
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Nice Bristols
Is it anti-social, an example of creeping separatism or just plain unpatriotic?.
I am talking about the recent emergence of what amounts to a private currency system in the City of Bristol.
It almost sounds like a return to the Medieval period when the Guilds and Master Trades ruled the commerce in English towns and cities or even to the later philanthropists and entrepreneurs of the industrial revolution who paid their workers in tokens which could only be redeemed through the company shop.
The underlying intention is however genuine in a bid to encourage residents to buy locally produced goods from independent retailers rather than give the Corporate Megastores an even greater slice of what is purported to be one in every eight pounds passing from consumers through the UK tills.
Bristol has adopted the scheme after the relative success of smaller scale currency systems in Totnes, Lewes, Stroud and Brixton.
The mechanics of the scheme are as follows.
There are actual printed cash notes in various denominations and known as Bristol Pounds. They circulate with pounds Sterling and are underwritten as a non-profit partnership between Bristol Credit Union and a community interest company founded by local business leaders. The £B can be bought at cash points around Bristol or on the internet but is legal tender only with independent traders based in or around the City area.
The initial exchange rate for Bristol Pounds is at parity with Sterling and so traders do not have to dilute their turnover or profit more than already the case to compete with the big, brash boys on the High Street and Out of Town Retail Parks.
The scheme has around 300 independent businesses signed up and it is hoped that a target of more than 1000 can be acheived. An innovative feature of the currency is the function for customers to pay for goods by text message as a very attractive alternative to retailers who otherwise have to subscribe to a credit card processing operator at tangible cost. The flash of a Membership Card and the texting of the name of the trader and a personal pincode to the Bristol Credit Union allows the transaction to be completed.
There is no quantative easing required in the economy of a brave independent Bristol with notes in circulation currently amounting to £B125,000 but with hopes for this to more than triple over the next 12 months.
The world media has shown interest in what the Bristolians are trying to acheive as well as other UK towns and cities who feel that Mary Portas is just not enough to save the traditional shopping streets and proud independent retailers from being squeezed out by the high volume, shelf stacking ,pocket smacking warehouse type operators. To turn their own guns on themselves it is really a case of every little helps.
I am talking about the recent emergence of what amounts to a private currency system in the City of Bristol.
It almost sounds like a return to the Medieval period when the Guilds and Master Trades ruled the commerce in English towns and cities or even to the later philanthropists and entrepreneurs of the industrial revolution who paid their workers in tokens which could only be redeemed through the company shop.
The underlying intention is however genuine in a bid to encourage residents to buy locally produced goods from independent retailers rather than give the Corporate Megastores an even greater slice of what is purported to be one in every eight pounds passing from consumers through the UK tills.
Bristol has adopted the scheme after the relative success of smaller scale currency systems in Totnes, Lewes, Stroud and Brixton.
The mechanics of the scheme are as follows.
There are actual printed cash notes in various denominations and known as Bristol Pounds. They circulate with pounds Sterling and are underwritten as a non-profit partnership between Bristol Credit Union and a community interest company founded by local business leaders. The £B can be bought at cash points around Bristol or on the internet but is legal tender only with independent traders based in or around the City area.
The initial exchange rate for Bristol Pounds is at parity with Sterling and so traders do not have to dilute their turnover or profit more than already the case to compete with the big, brash boys on the High Street and Out of Town Retail Parks.
The scheme has around 300 independent businesses signed up and it is hoped that a target of more than 1000 can be acheived. An innovative feature of the currency is the function for customers to pay for goods by text message as a very attractive alternative to retailers who otherwise have to subscribe to a credit card processing operator at tangible cost. The flash of a Membership Card and the texting of the name of the trader and a personal pincode to the Bristol Credit Union allows the transaction to be completed.
There is no quantative easing required in the economy of a brave independent Bristol with notes in circulation currently amounting to £B125,000 but with hopes for this to more than triple over the next 12 months.
The world media has shown interest in what the Bristolians are trying to acheive as well as other UK towns and cities who feel that Mary Portas is just not enough to save the traditional shopping streets and proud independent retailers from being squeezed out by the high volume, shelf stacking ,pocket smacking warehouse type operators. To turn their own guns on themselves it is really a case of every little helps.
Tuesday 25 September 2012
Entebbe Takeaway
In August 1972, as consequence of a dream of the Ugandan President Idi Amin , we, as a white middle class British family met our first Asians.
I was 9 years old at the time and having lived in small sleepy towns in the south of England and rural Lincolnshire I would have found it very difficult to recall ever having come across or seen a non-white face.
World events, to an under 10, are not really a matter of interest and so I was understandably oblivious to what President Amin was intent on doing to his citizens whose only differing factor was that they had originated from the Indian sub Continent. The Indophobic attitude had really been initiated in 1969 with a clamp down on the ability of the Ugandan Asian population to work and earn a living. They were an easy target, a scapecoat for the wider problems in an African economy.
As with other racial and ethnic minority groups in history any perception of disproportionate wealth or success was seen to be an act of hoarding, greed and sabotage, somehow unpatriotic. In fact the success of the Ugandan Asians was simply through their own diligence and work ethic which was a primary reason why their services had been so prized and sought after in the outposts of the British Empire. The natural aptitude for clerical work, in all aspects of Imperial duties and also in labouring and general grafting was easily absorbed into the emergence of Uganda as its own Nation.
Idi Amin perpetuated a stereotype of the ethnic group as bankers and tailors very much along the lines of the demonising of the Jews over previous centuries throughout Europe. An order was issued in 1972 giving a period of 90 days for the Ugandan Asians, around 60,000 persons, to leave the country. This was a green light for the Ugandan Army to harass and intimidate, thieve and attack those relegated from citizen to refugee overnight.
Business interests from firms to farms and possessions from homes to cars were confiscated by being what was termed as re-allocation to the indigenous Ugandan Africans. Within 3 years what had been a high profile economy, in the good and conscientious stewardship of those now having to flee with what they could carry, had collapsed with disastrous and lingering consequences.
Almost half of those ejected were eligible for emigration to the United Kingdom. Other former colonies of the British Empire took in their dutiful allocation. Almost 20,000 were reported as being unaccounted for.
I seem to remember watching the BBC News of the arrival of the first Ugandan Asian families in England but did not really appreciate the significance. This may have been down to the fact that we only had a black and white television on which everyone tended to look the same.
The Vicar at our local church, in which my Mother and two sisters made up 50% of the choir, made an appeal for compassion from his anglo saxon congregation towards refugees who had been accommodated at an old RAF base, some 20 or so miles from our town.
In what would today be regarded as a racial slur the Vicar, upon first encountering a disappointing response to his plea remarked that we should not worry because the Africans will have been asked to leave their spears at the door. Irrationally this comment eased many fears and the initial reluctance soon became a wave of enthusiasm. St John's would apply itself to this world crisis with the same commitment as organising the annual Carol Concert, a Bring and Buy Sale or amassing tins and packets for the Harvest Festival.
The main priority was to supply second hand and warm clothes as those expelled had not been able to gather up anything at all sufficient for a Northern European late summer. A quick sort out of little used or outgrown jumpers and coats in our bedroom wardrobes yielded a few items.
We all piled into the VW Estate car and headed for RAF Hemswell. On a first come first serve basis we were seconded to an Asian family. After our Vicar had placed some scary thoughts in my mind with his comment about sharpened weapons I was not at all sure about what we would meet after a long walk down a hospital type corridor in a semi derelict aircrew dormitory building.
Hubert Franks, his wife Tina and their three very young children welcomed us into their small cramped single room as though it was us who had been to hell in a hand cart. Quietly spoken and in perfect English we were ushered in and immediately felt a connection. The youngest child, Errol peeked out from behind an RAF issue blanket which divided the room into a living area and sleeping quarters. I think we found mutual mirth in sticking out our tongues at each other.
It was our enquiring minds, and not out of any complaint or bitterness ,that persuaded Hubert to talk about what the family had faced in the whole traumatic circumstances of eviction from their homesn and country. Childrens soft toys, travel companions had been ripped open by officials at Entebbe Airport in search of any concealed items. They had been in constant fear of their lives from heavily armed and trigger happy troops. The clampdown had not been unexpected because of the gradual and creeping campaign of victimisation over a number of years. In anticipation of threats and potential sanctions Hubert had been able to stock up a shipping container with possessions and export it to a neighbouring country. Unfortunately, in a humid African climate the contents had corroded, rotted away or were spoiled beyond salvage.
It really was a case of starting out from scratch in a completely new country. The donation of clothes was gracefully and humbly received and in return we were given hot spiced corn based snacks. I do not know to this day how these could have been prepared and cooked in such a cramped space. They were a revelation to a 9 year old who thought that Twiglets and Cheesy Quavers were the pinnacle of sophistication in savoury snacks.. Even now ,at the age of 49 , I still seek out, with relish those packets of nibbles and treats of a curry and exotic hot spice flavour in the ethnic food aisle of Tesco's.
It was a matter of great amusement to all assembled when the clothes were tried . Tina briefly disappeared inside a chunky knitwear sweater. The small children were also swamped by cardigans and T-shirts.
This was the first of many visits to the transit camp and we also hosted the family at our house as they became acclimatised to life in deepest Lincolnshire.. Hubert had been a refridgeration engineer in Uganda and it had been a good living in a large house and with their own servants. It was sad to share in their loss of liberty and livelihood as they remembered their own home and treasured possessions.
I find it hard to believe that this year is the fortieth anniversary of our friendship with the Franks family. They were able through their own endeavours and determination to launch themselves into a new life in the UK and every Christmas we receive a card with snippets of news and it is all good.
I often have a warm feeling at such times although it may, in a large part, be due to excessive consumption of Bombay Mix for which I have developed a special affinity.
I was 9 years old at the time and having lived in small sleepy towns in the south of England and rural Lincolnshire I would have found it very difficult to recall ever having come across or seen a non-white face.
World events, to an under 10, are not really a matter of interest and so I was understandably oblivious to what President Amin was intent on doing to his citizens whose only differing factor was that they had originated from the Indian sub Continent. The Indophobic attitude had really been initiated in 1969 with a clamp down on the ability of the Ugandan Asian population to work and earn a living. They were an easy target, a scapecoat for the wider problems in an African economy.
As with other racial and ethnic minority groups in history any perception of disproportionate wealth or success was seen to be an act of hoarding, greed and sabotage, somehow unpatriotic. In fact the success of the Ugandan Asians was simply through their own diligence and work ethic which was a primary reason why their services had been so prized and sought after in the outposts of the British Empire. The natural aptitude for clerical work, in all aspects of Imperial duties and also in labouring and general grafting was easily absorbed into the emergence of Uganda as its own Nation.
Idi Amin perpetuated a stereotype of the ethnic group as bankers and tailors very much along the lines of the demonising of the Jews over previous centuries throughout Europe. An order was issued in 1972 giving a period of 90 days for the Ugandan Asians, around 60,000 persons, to leave the country. This was a green light for the Ugandan Army to harass and intimidate, thieve and attack those relegated from citizen to refugee overnight.
Business interests from firms to farms and possessions from homes to cars were confiscated by being what was termed as re-allocation to the indigenous Ugandan Africans. Within 3 years what had been a high profile economy, in the good and conscientious stewardship of those now having to flee with what they could carry, had collapsed with disastrous and lingering consequences.
Almost half of those ejected were eligible for emigration to the United Kingdom. Other former colonies of the British Empire took in their dutiful allocation. Almost 20,000 were reported as being unaccounted for.
I seem to remember watching the BBC News of the arrival of the first Ugandan Asian families in England but did not really appreciate the significance. This may have been down to the fact that we only had a black and white television on which everyone tended to look the same.
The Vicar at our local church, in which my Mother and two sisters made up 50% of the choir, made an appeal for compassion from his anglo saxon congregation towards refugees who had been accommodated at an old RAF base, some 20 or so miles from our town.
In what would today be regarded as a racial slur the Vicar, upon first encountering a disappointing response to his plea remarked that we should not worry because the Africans will have been asked to leave their spears at the door. Irrationally this comment eased many fears and the initial reluctance soon became a wave of enthusiasm. St John's would apply itself to this world crisis with the same commitment as organising the annual Carol Concert, a Bring and Buy Sale or amassing tins and packets for the Harvest Festival.
The main priority was to supply second hand and warm clothes as those expelled had not been able to gather up anything at all sufficient for a Northern European late summer. A quick sort out of little used or outgrown jumpers and coats in our bedroom wardrobes yielded a few items.
We all piled into the VW Estate car and headed for RAF Hemswell. On a first come first serve basis we were seconded to an Asian family. After our Vicar had placed some scary thoughts in my mind with his comment about sharpened weapons I was not at all sure about what we would meet after a long walk down a hospital type corridor in a semi derelict aircrew dormitory building.
Hubert Franks, his wife Tina and their three very young children welcomed us into their small cramped single room as though it was us who had been to hell in a hand cart. Quietly spoken and in perfect English we were ushered in and immediately felt a connection. The youngest child, Errol peeked out from behind an RAF issue blanket which divided the room into a living area and sleeping quarters. I think we found mutual mirth in sticking out our tongues at each other.
It was our enquiring minds, and not out of any complaint or bitterness ,that persuaded Hubert to talk about what the family had faced in the whole traumatic circumstances of eviction from their homesn and country. Childrens soft toys, travel companions had been ripped open by officials at Entebbe Airport in search of any concealed items. They had been in constant fear of their lives from heavily armed and trigger happy troops. The clampdown had not been unexpected because of the gradual and creeping campaign of victimisation over a number of years. In anticipation of threats and potential sanctions Hubert had been able to stock up a shipping container with possessions and export it to a neighbouring country. Unfortunately, in a humid African climate the contents had corroded, rotted away or were spoiled beyond salvage.
It really was a case of starting out from scratch in a completely new country. The donation of clothes was gracefully and humbly received and in return we were given hot spiced corn based snacks. I do not know to this day how these could have been prepared and cooked in such a cramped space. They were a revelation to a 9 year old who thought that Twiglets and Cheesy Quavers were the pinnacle of sophistication in savoury snacks.. Even now ,at the age of 49 , I still seek out, with relish those packets of nibbles and treats of a curry and exotic hot spice flavour in the ethnic food aisle of Tesco's.
It was a matter of great amusement to all assembled when the clothes were tried . Tina briefly disappeared inside a chunky knitwear sweater. The small children were also swamped by cardigans and T-shirts.
This was the first of many visits to the transit camp and we also hosted the family at our house as they became acclimatised to life in deepest Lincolnshire.. Hubert had been a refridgeration engineer in Uganda and it had been a good living in a large house and with their own servants. It was sad to share in their loss of liberty and livelihood as they remembered their own home and treasured possessions.
I find it hard to believe that this year is the fortieth anniversary of our friendship with the Franks family. They were able through their own endeavours and determination to launch themselves into a new life in the UK and every Christmas we receive a card with snippets of news and it is all good.
I often have a warm feeling at such times although it may, in a large part, be due to excessive consumption of Bombay Mix for which I have developed a special affinity.
Monday 24 September 2012
JFK'd
It is a conspiracy wrapped up in an irony.
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK next year the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising year through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitomy of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
Home sourced DVD's never seemed to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty,not part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK. Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK next year the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising year through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitomy of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
Home sourced DVD's never seemed to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty,not part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK. Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
Sunday 23 September 2012
Daydream Believer
I drift in and out of people's homes every working day.
In the busier times of the year this could be one property on the hour, every hour between 10am and 4pm allowing time for travelling, snacking, becoming distracted by the sight of a flock of geese in flight and the occasional stop for a power nap.
A common factor regardless of type, size and value is that somewhere in the house the television or multiple televisions will be switched on. I can therefore look forward to a snapshot of the broadcast content of daytime TV.
My overall opinion is that I am extremely thankful to be employed and therefore able to choose not to be subjected to the bland, meaningless and ultimately frivolent nature of the output.
My day of wandering voyeurism usually starts with being confronted by one of those programmes where members of the public willingly and gleefully reveal what they have been up to and with whom when they should know better and perhaps think about getting out and meeting people other than close relatives. It is quite compulsive viewing, however, and I may be seen to linger awhile in the room supposedly engrossed in the search for dampness, saggy floorboards or electrical sockets but otherwise absorbed in all the confessions of sordid and disgraceful behaviour. I invariably have to vacate the premises before the big reveal of the show where the results of a lie detector or paternity test are revealed to a studio audience either sobbing in sympathy or ready to form a lynch mob. I have however already come to my own conclusions on the guilt or not of persons involved from the snippets of information I have been able to assimilate by eavesdropping from various locations in the house. One day it would be interesting to compare my judgement with the actual outcome.
By my next appointment it is time for the first of the property programmes where presenters escort prospective, but ultimately doomed and failed, purchasers around a series of homes usually well beyond their budgetary range. It is a rich seam of themes and connotations with escaping to the country, escaping out of the country or just escaping from reality being most prominent. The wealthy house hunters have a budget of seven figures at their disposal and consequently the producers do not need to stray anywhere out of London and the Home Counties unless there is a small working class town to be had for the same sort of money up north.
Unfortunately most of the series shown today are hopelessly out of date and this is usually acknowledged in the final credits with the admission that prices mentioned were those from the boom years 2005 to 2008. In their favour the TV companies have moved with the economic times and day time content includes shows where someones home, hopes and aspirations, accumulated in the boom years, can be purchased at auction for a few pence following its Repossession by the mortgage company. Under the hammer it may be called but under the cosh it is more like.
By lunchtime it is casual chat show time. My favourite involves four women who discuss deep rooted and topical issues with considerable knowledge and compassion but always make sure that the subject is steered back to sex, their own middle age type, as quickly as possible.
Early afternoon marks the emergence of programmes loosely based on the antiques market.
This can range from strangers raiding your personal possessions, carefully archived in the loft, and forcing you to part with them thankfully and with grace in a Sale Room to haggling and pressurising already down at heel dealers to part with their stock at, frankly, a shameful discount. Not wanting to appear greedy in front of intrusive camera and production crews they always concede but may well cry into their Toby jugs and Lalique Vases in the back room of the shop later.
My conclusion from watching the antique themed programmes is that the demand for curious, collectibles and ephemera is virtually zero. Teams competing to sell at a profit always struggle to accumulate mere pence and suffer the humiliation at the hands of the cravat and blazer wearing experts for their purchases which are invariably based on emotion and nostalgia and not the latest Millers Antiques Price Guide.
There is often desperation in the voices of the so called experts as their own sourced, reasoned and validated star lots crash and burn at th auction rooms. Still, I could have told them that the market for embroidered quilted smoking jackets is a bit fragile at present, what with the recession, the health implications over tobacco and us being in the 21st Century and not the 19th.
The patter of many of the now celebrity status Specialists as they sit in a field and receive those hopefully bearing a previously unknown Rembrandt, Clarice Cliff rarity of a full set of Wade Whimseys probes cleverly to reveal the facts of the item.
One man turned up with a stuffed dog. The authority on taxidermy was enthralled and regailed the man on the rarity and beauty of his possession. It was a truly great find. "Did he know", the expert enquired "what it would fetch in good condition?". "Sticks" was the reply.
In the busier times of the year this could be one property on the hour, every hour between 10am and 4pm allowing time for travelling, snacking, becoming distracted by the sight of a flock of geese in flight and the occasional stop for a power nap.
A common factor regardless of type, size and value is that somewhere in the house the television or multiple televisions will be switched on. I can therefore look forward to a snapshot of the broadcast content of daytime TV.
My overall opinion is that I am extremely thankful to be employed and therefore able to choose not to be subjected to the bland, meaningless and ultimately frivolent nature of the output.
My day of wandering voyeurism usually starts with being confronted by one of those programmes where members of the public willingly and gleefully reveal what they have been up to and with whom when they should know better and perhaps think about getting out and meeting people other than close relatives. It is quite compulsive viewing, however, and I may be seen to linger awhile in the room supposedly engrossed in the search for dampness, saggy floorboards or electrical sockets but otherwise absorbed in all the confessions of sordid and disgraceful behaviour. I invariably have to vacate the premises before the big reveal of the show where the results of a lie detector or paternity test are revealed to a studio audience either sobbing in sympathy or ready to form a lynch mob. I have however already come to my own conclusions on the guilt or not of persons involved from the snippets of information I have been able to assimilate by eavesdropping from various locations in the house. One day it would be interesting to compare my judgement with the actual outcome.
By my next appointment it is time for the first of the property programmes where presenters escort prospective, but ultimately doomed and failed, purchasers around a series of homes usually well beyond their budgetary range. It is a rich seam of themes and connotations with escaping to the country, escaping out of the country or just escaping from reality being most prominent. The wealthy house hunters have a budget of seven figures at their disposal and consequently the producers do not need to stray anywhere out of London and the Home Counties unless there is a small working class town to be had for the same sort of money up north.
Unfortunately most of the series shown today are hopelessly out of date and this is usually acknowledged in the final credits with the admission that prices mentioned were those from the boom years 2005 to 2008. In their favour the TV companies have moved with the economic times and day time content includes shows where someones home, hopes and aspirations, accumulated in the boom years, can be purchased at auction for a few pence following its Repossession by the mortgage company. Under the hammer it may be called but under the cosh it is more like.
By lunchtime it is casual chat show time. My favourite involves four women who discuss deep rooted and topical issues with considerable knowledge and compassion but always make sure that the subject is steered back to sex, their own middle age type, as quickly as possible.
Early afternoon marks the emergence of programmes loosely based on the antiques market.
This can range from strangers raiding your personal possessions, carefully archived in the loft, and forcing you to part with them thankfully and with grace in a Sale Room to haggling and pressurising already down at heel dealers to part with their stock at, frankly, a shameful discount. Not wanting to appear greedy in front of intrusive camera and production crews they always concede but may well cry into their Toby jugs and Lalique Vases in the back room of the shop later.
My conclusion from watching the antique themed programmes is that the demand for curious, collectibles and ephemera is virtually zero. Teams competing to sell at a profit always struggle to accumulate mere pence and suffer the humiliation at the hands of the cravat and blazer wearing experts for their purchases which are invariably based on emotion and nostalgia and not the latest Millers Antiques Price Guide.
There is often desperation in the voices of the so called experts as their own sourced, reasoned and validated star lots crash and burn at th auction rooms. Still, I could have told them that the market for embroidered quilted smoking jackets is a bit fragile at present, what with the recession, the health implications over tobacco and us being in the 21st Century and not the 19th.
The patter of many of the now celebrity status Specialists as they sit in a field and receive those hopefully bearing a previously unknown Rembrandt, Clarice Cliff rarity of a full set of Wade Whimseys probes cleverly to reveal the facts of the item.
One man turned up with a stuffed dog. The authority on taxidermy was enthralled and regailed the man on the rarity and beauty of his possession. It was a truly great find. "Did he know", the expert enquired "what it would fetch in good condition?". "Sticks" was the reply.
Saturday 22 September 2012
Pulling the Wool over my eyes
I am pleased that they have gone to good, appreciative homes.
I am talking about two of my old cycling jerseys.
They have history and I did wear them many, many times when first purchased but in polite terms their size became incompatible with my own or in brutal and no holds barred language- I simply outgrew them.
I did, I admit attempt one last wearing before packaging them up for the successful E-bay bidders but fearful of being hauled up under the misdescriptions act for ' little signs of wear and tear' I aborted the exercise at just below head height. 30 year old stitched seams do weaken over time and I attribute the extremely tight fit to excessive shrinkage at the last low temperature wash.
The jerseys were 80% wool mix from an era when lycra was but a chemical formula on the notepad of a research laboratory technician and still too much of an expensive commodity and in limited supply to be considerd for any sort of practical application to sportswear.
I do recall the cycle runs when I wore such vestments. In the dry they retained their shape, form and function but if wet weather was encountered then they rapidly took on the form of a frock dress, baggy and saggy so as to catch around the knees and impede the actual physical process of pedalling.
Still, they were the pinnacle of fashion and bang-on with the heroes and icons of that era of cycle racing.
One of the jerseys was in the colours of the bike manufacturer Colnago. Pale blue shoulder yoke, powder blue in fact and with the distinctive typeface seen on what were regarded then, and still today as some of the best frames in the world of cycling. Below the wording the jersey was striped in alternate blue and white vertical bands, a bit like the kit of the Argentinian National football team. In contrast to what else was available to purchase from my local bicycle shop it was positively exotic but then again anything sounding french, italian or continental in late 1970's Britain was in vogue.
Examining the jersey before wrapping it up for its Californian destination I noticed a small rip and tear in the side panel. This immediately brought back the painful memory of falling off my bike in 1980 probably as a consequence of not paying attention to the road or more likely from posing outrageously for a bus queue or other audience. The three rear pockets also looked a bit sorry from being overloaded and stretched from a typical store of drink bottles, Mars Bars and spare parts. I was surprised that the oily fingermarks had either decomposed and disappeared over time.
The jersey will go down well in the United States. It is authentic and Italian made which for the inhabitants of the New World is, frankly, of antique status. I just hope the lucky recipient is prepared for the sweaty and uncomfortable experience of actually wearing it in a warm climate.
The other part of my cycling inheritance was a purchase in France in 1983 when I saw a stage of the Tour de France.
It was a La Redoute Motobecane replica team jersey made famous through Stephen Roche the Irish cyclist who made such an impact on the continent as one of the most successful of the pioneering English speaking riders to shake up the home advantage.
I recall that it cost me nearly all of my hard saved holiday budget, about £40 sterling although I forget the rate of exchange to Francs. Very distinctive and striking in its design with blue, green and white colours and a good amount of advertising logos. It is funny that french words take on a very romantic persona. La Redoute. At face value it sounds strong, forceful, powerful, reliable. In fact it is a mail order company, still one of the largest in France for clothes and fashions. The nearest UK equivalent would be Littlewoods or my Mother's regular- Brian Mills. Many would refuse to wear a jersey so branded. Motobecane similarly suggests something exciting but it is in fact just a bike manufacturer.
On my return to England the jersey was much admired and I could easiy have recouped my initial expenditure if I had given in to the clamour for its acquisition by those who saw it. I think I may even have worn it to a disco once.
So a memorable chapter comes to a close in the history of my cycling knitwear.
I am talking about two of my old cycling jerseys.
They have history and I did wear them many, many times when first purchased but in polite terms their size became incompatible with my own or in brutal and no holds barred language- I simply outgrew them.
I did, I admit attempt one last wearing before packaging them up for the successful E-bay bidders but fearful of being hauled up under the misdescriptions act for ' little signs of wear and tear' I aborted the exercise at just below head height. 30 year old stitched seams do weaken over time and I attribute the extremely tight fit to excessive shrinkage at the last low temperature wash.
The jerseys were 80% wool mix from an era when lycra was but a chemical formula on the notepad of a research laboratory technician and still too much of an expensive commodity and in limited supply to be considerd for any sort of practical application to sportswear.
I do recall the cycle runs when I wore such vestments. In the dry they retained their shape, form and function but if wet weather was encountered then they rapidly took on the form of a frock dress, baggy and saggy so as to catch around the knees and impede the actual physical process of pedalling.
Still, they were the pinnacle of fashion and bang-on with the heroes and icons of that era of cycle racing.
One of the jerseys was in the colours of the bike manufacturer Colnago. Pale blue shoulder yoke, powder blue in fact and with the distinctive typeface seen on what were regarded then, and still today as some of the best frames in the world of cycling. Below the wording the jersey was striped in alternate blue and white vertical bands, a bit like the kit of the Argentinian National football team. In contrast to what else was available to purchase from my local bicycle shop it was positively exotic but then again anything sounding french, italian or continental in late 1970's Britain was in vogue.
Examining the jersey before wrapping it up for its Californian destination I noticed a small rip and tear in the side panel. This immediately brought back the painful memory of falling off my bike in 1980 probably as a consequence of not paying attention to the road or more likely from posing outrageously for a bus queue or other audience. The three rear pockets also looked a bit sorry from being overloaded and stretched from a typical store of drink bottles, Mars Bars and spare parts. I was surprised that the oily fingermarks had either decomposed and disappeared over time.
The jersey will go down well in the United States. It is authentic and Italian made which for the inhabitants of the New World is, frankly, of antique status. I just hope the lucky recipient is prepared for the sweaty and uncomfortable experience of actually wearing it in a warm climate.
The other part of my cycling inheritance was a purchase in France in 1983 when I saw a stage of the Tour de France.
It was a La Redoute Motobecane replica team jersey made famous through Stephen Roche the Irish cyclist who made such an impact on the continent as one of the most successful of the pioneering English speaking riders to shake up the home advantage.
I recall that it cost me nearly all of my hard saved holiday budget, about £40 sterling although I forget the rate of exchange to Francs. Very distinctive and striking in its design with blue, green and white colours and a good amount of advertising logos. It is funny that french words take on a very romantic persona. La Redoute. At face value it sounds strong, forceful, powerful, reliable. In fact it is a mail order company, still one of the largest in France for clothes and fashions. The nearest UK equivalent would be Littlewoods or my Mother's regular- Brian Mills. Many would refuse to wear a jersey so branded. Motobecane similarly suggests something exciting but it is in fact just a bike manufacturer.
On my return to England the jersey was much admired and I could easiy have recouped my initial expenditure if I had given in to the clamour for its acquisition by those who saw it. I think I may even have worn it to a disco once.
So a memorable chapter comes to a close in the history of my cycling knitwear.
Friday 21 September 2012
The Pits
Every town and village will have one or more of these as an important part of their history but may not realise it. Some have been simply filled in, others built upon, a few flooded intentionally and the remainder just forgotten.
These important features that pockmark our landscape are the brick pits
These areas excavated for their natural clays, if deemed suitable for moulding and hard-firing, contributed greatly to the growth of the stock of buildings from cottages to town halls and all manner of Civic projects from sewers to brick parapets, clock towers and public conveniences.
When first productive the brick fields will have been some way out of the built up areas , in many cases representing another source of income for landowners and entrepreneurs. Gradually the combination of urban growth and exhaustion of the clay deposits saw many swallowed up by housing developments.
My late father in law remembered as a young lad in the 1930's the glow of kilns and the strong and distinctive odour of sulphur from an area of East Hull where bricks were made. This information was of interest to me over half a century later when the same location was an estate of residential bungalows raising the issue of contamination.
Practical and far reaching implications of the transition from an industrial process to housing site were clear to see when former pits were used as a waste tip for the metal filings and detritus from a boiler and radiator factory in a West Hull suburb. Over time the land was deemed fit for development but such was the corrosive elements in the soil that sub site drainage pipes, in cast iron, simply rotted away. Persistent spillage of foul and surface water, undetected for many years, eventually undermined the foundations of a group of the houses. The salvage and underpinning was only just viable over demolition and clearance.
Other former excavations became valued as landfill sites and if beyond reasonable documentation and living memory these too soon became built on. If for commercial buildings with occupation over working hours only it was relatively easy to install methane alarms or adequate venting to resolve explosive and toxic issues. A housing estate in the West Midlands was found to have been built on a waste filled former brick field. The solution to the methane problem retrospectively was a network of pipes feeding a series of flare stacks which would, in the nightime hours, erupt into life giving the impression of Dante's Inferno to startled residents. The impact on demand, saleability and values was perhaps more striking to those who had purchased their dream house in a nightmarish setting.
In areas where there is less pressure for housing the brick pits have become a natural environment having been flooded and landscaped. These provide wild fowl wetlands, fishing lakes and stretches for watersports.
Whatever the fate of the brick pits over time their contribution is assured.
The often distinctive shades and hues of clay used for the local brick buildings give a unique appearance which can vary subtly in close neighouring settlements just a few miles up the road.
A family that I came across out in the Holderness rural area towards the North Sea coast of East Yorkshire still used their own private brick pit. The boulder clay deposits are rich, heavy and almost copper in colour and make excellent building bricks. If their house or outbuildings require extending or altering the family just go out into the pit to source the raw material. This is compressed in their own moulds and dried naturally or by mechanical means to form customised and bespoke bricks.
Somehow, the excitement of having a Lego set would not, I expect, be appreciated by that family.
These important features that pockmark our landscape are the brick pits
These areas excavated for their natural clays, if deemed suitable for moulding and hard-firing, contributed greatly to the growth of the stock of buildings from cottages to town halls and all manner of Civic projects from sewers to brick parapets, clock towers and public conveniences.
When first productive the brick fields will have been some way out of the built up areas , in many cases representing another source of income for landowners and entrepreneurs. Gradually the combination of urban growth and exhaustion of the clay deposits saw many swallowed up by housing developments.
My late father in law remembered as a young lad in the 1930's the glow of kilns and the strong and distinctive odour of sulphur from an area of East Hull where bricks were made. This information was of interest to me over half a century later when the same location was an estate of residential bungalows raising the issue of contamination.
Practical and far reaching implications of the transition from an industrial process to housing site were clear to see when former pits were used as a waste tip for the metal filings and detritus from a boiler and radiator factory in a West Hull suburb. Over time the land was deemed fit for development but such was the corrosive elements in the soil that sub site drainage pipes, in cast iron, simply rotted away. Persistent spillage of foul and surface water, undetected for many years, eventually undermined the foundations of a group of the houses. The salvage and underpinning was only just viable over demolition and clearance.
Other former excavations became valued as landfill sites and if beyond reasonable documentation and living memory these too soon became built on. If for commercial buildings with occupation over working hours only it was relatively easy to install methane alarms or adequate venting to resolve explosive and toxic issues. A housing estate in the West Midlands was found to have been built on a waste filled former brick field. The solution to the methane problem retrospectively was a network of pipes feeding a series of flare stacks which would, in the nightime hours, erupt into life giving the impression of Dante's Inferno to startled residents. The impact on demand, saleability and values was perhaps more striking to those who had purchased their dream house in a nightmarish setting.
In areas where there is less pressure for housing the brick pits have become a natural environment having been flooded and landscaped. These provide wild fowl wetlands, fishing lakes and stretches for watersports.
Whatever the fate of the brick pits over time their contribution is assured.
The often distinctive shades and hues of clay used for the local brick buildings give a unique appearance which can vary subtly in close neighouring settlements just a few miles up the road.
A family that I came across out in the Holderness rural area towards the North Sea coast of East Yorkshire still used their own private brick pit. The boulder clay deposits are rich, heavy and almost copper in colour and make excellent building bricks. If their house or outbuildings require extending or altering the family just go out into the pit to source the raw material. This is compressed in their own moulds and dried naturally or by mechanical means to form customised and bespoke bricks.
Somehow, the excitement of having a Lego set would not, I expect, be appreciated by that family.
Putting the boot in
On analysis I have come to the conclusion that I have a fear of car boot sales. It is very easy to make the decision not to load up and go to sell on the basis of one or more of the following excuses.
a) Not enough stock
b)Too much crap stock
c)No cash float
d) No sufficiently sticky labels
e)Poor pricing strategy
f) Ridiculously early start
g)It's raining.
h) Creaky hinge on metal cash box
i) Packed the car but forgot to leave room for pasting table
j) Not shaved/look distinctly dodgy
The whole process of setting up shop in a field and hawking a cross section of mementos, unwanted gifts, out of favour prints and pictures and, frankly, part of your life is very daunting.
I liken the first 30 minutes of public access to the prospect of facing St Peter at The Pearly Gates. "What have you done in your life?"
Well, based on two wooden chopping boards, a DVD player minus remote, a vintage toilet roll holder and a collection of handbags I would expect any interview and Saintly decision to be a very short affair indeed.
Best sellers are practical things, warm clothes, holiday attire, stout shoes, good labels, bits of motor vehicle from the 1970's.. No shortage of buyers for such things. Impulse buys are next in line with ornaments, small pottery houses, anything with a fairy or angel theme, potential antiques. Avoid toys as children are the worst customers ever unless they are with a parent with access rights for the day and keen to ingratiate themselves and annoy the ex's new partner. I haggled with a small child over a 1p difference for a quaint wooden trinket box. He said he would think about it.
Progress is often slow to meet target expectations or at least a decent return for the day less the pitch fee.
Demoralised souls are soon deserting the field of battle and then it is decision time. Return home via the Civic Dump with an empty car or preserve the stock until the next time?
Slight amended version of a blog from last year......busy day for original thoughts.
a) Not enough stock
b)Too much crap stock
c)No cash float
d) No sufficiently sticky labels
e)Poor pricing strategy
f) Ridiculously early start
g)It's raining.
h) Creaky hinge on metal cash box
i) Packed the car but forgot to leave room for pasting table
j) Not shaved/look distinctly dodgy
The whole process of setting up shop in a field and hawking a cross section of mementos, unwanted gifts, out of favour prints and pictures and, frankly, part of your life is very daunting.
I liken the first 30 minutes of public access to the prospect of facing St Peter at The Pearly Gates. "What have you done in your life?"
Well, based on two wooden chopping boards, a DVD player minus remote, a vintage toilet roll holder and a collection of handbags I would expect any interview and Saintly decision to be a very short affair indeed.
Best sellers are practical things, warm clothes, holiday attire, stout shoes, good labels, bits of motor vehicle from the 1970's.. No shortage of buyers for such things. Impulse buys are next in line with ornaments, small pottery houses, anything with a fairy or angel theme, potential antiques. Avoid toys as children are the worst customers ever unless they are with a parent with access rights for the day and keen to ingratiate themselves and annoy the ex's new partner. I haggled with a small child over a 1p difference for a quaint wooden trinket box. He said he would think about it.
Progress is often slow to meet target expectations or at least a decent return for the day less the pitch fee.
Demoralised souls are soon deserting the field of battle and then it is decision time. Return home via the Civic Dump with an empty car or preserve the stock until the next time?
Slight amended version of a blog from last year......busy day for original thoughts.
Wednesday 19 September 2012
You old bag!
I started to learn to play the bagpipes.
Not being unkind to the proud tradition of piping but I think that I have an ear for music and I cannot surely be the only person to sense that a good old Scots dirge is a bit towards the flat side of being tuneful.
I know that by saying this my ancestors from the north of Scotland will be reaching for their small sock mounted daggers or whatever weaponry they may harbour within their sporrans to wreak an awful revenge. Do not get me wrong, I do get fired up and emotional within hearing distance of a pipe band or sole piper. There is nothing more melancholy and stirring to the soul than a slow march or lament by the pipes and I am not aware of anything that comes close to creating such a very special ambience for a whole country. The instrument has been, well, instrumental in the very history of the Scots and a first hand witness to give testimony to the hardships and suffering of that proud nation and its people.
I was under the impression that by mastering the bagpipes I would become closer in kindred spirit to my Scottish heritage. I was wrong. I turned out at the Sea Cadets Hall for my first introduction with a local Pipe band. I was informed that the apprenticeship is long and requires considerable dedication. I can see that this would be an easier task if, for example, I was stationed on the North West Frontier of the old Empire and had nothing much else to do than learn the pipes and avoid getting shot by the rusty flintlock rifle of a local warlord. There must have been a fairly high turnover of military pipers as in most period war films they are usually the first casualties in a full out frontal attack. Perhaps the represented enemy was of the same opinion on the jarring tunefulness as myself and could stand it no longer.
Far from being let loose on any actual bagpipes I was loaned a practice chanter. This is the same size as a descant recorder but with less holes so surely, and again I state, less potential for a good range of tuneful notes. I was taught the first few fingering positions and how to blend in notes and phrases. Hardly a relaxing pastime in its early stages.
My pipedream of standing in full Highland regalia on a heather clad mountainside and playing an extensive repertoire of bagpipe anthems to, funnily enough, a group of Japanese tourists was never farther away than at that point.
I attended a few weeks only before giving up.
The chanter remained in a drawer for some further weeks before I had the nerve to return it to the owner. That was my one and only foray into the world of bagpipes.To add insult to injury I then found that I had grown out of my wedding kilt.
I have not however been completely disowned by my people. Jim from Music in Scotland has kept me on his mailing list, my Jessie Rae picture disc CD of 'Over the Sea' is appreciating in cult status if not in actual value, I have a copy of the Visit Scotland background tune , I am still eligible to buy Tunnocks Snowballs and I have enyoyed free and unrestricted rights to enter and leave the country at will with no hassle at the border.
(This first appeared last year but I like it and so there........)
Not being unkind to the proud tradition of piping but I think that I have an ear for music and I cannot surely be the only person to sense that a good old Scots dirge is a bit towards the flat side of being tuneful.
I know that by saying this my ancestors from the north of Scotland will be reaching for their small sock mounted daggers or whatever weaponry they may harbour within their sporrans to wreak an awful revenge. Do not get me wrong, I do get fired up and emotional within hearing distance of a pipe band or sole piper. There is nothing more melancholy and stirring to the soul than a slow march or lament by the pipes and I am not aware of anything that comes close to creating such a very special ambience for a whole country. The instrument has been, well, instrumental in the very history of the Scots and a first hand witness to give testimony to the hardships and suffering of that proud nation and its people.
I was under the impression that by mastering the bagpipes I would become closer in kindred spirit to my Scottish heritage. I was wrong. I turned out at the Sea Cadets Hall for my first introduction with a local Pipe band. I was informed that the apprenticeship is long and requires considerable dedication. I can see that this would be an easier task if, for example, I was stationed on the North West Frontier of the old Empire and had nothing much else to do than learn the pipes and avoid getting shot by the rusty flintlock rifle of a local warlord. There must have been a fairly high turnover of military pipers as in most period war films they are usually the first casualties in a full out frontal attack. Perhaps the represented enemy was of the same opinion on the jarring tunefulness as myself and could stand it no longer.
Far from being let loose on any actual bagpipes I was loaned a practice chanter. This is the same size as a descant recorder but with less holes so surely, and again I state, less potential for a good range of tuneful notes. I was taught the first few fingering positions and how to blend in notes and phrases. Hardly a relaxing pastime in its early stages.
My pipedream of standing in full Highland regalia on a heather clad mountainside and playing an extensive repertoire of bagpipe anthems to, funnily enough, a group of Japanese tourists was never farther away than at that point.
I attended a few weeks only before giving up.
The chanter remained in a drawer for some further weeks before I had the nerve to return it to the owner. That was my one and only foray into the world of bagpipes.To add insult to injury I then found that I had grown out of my wedding kilt.
I have not however been completely disowned by my people. Jim from Music in Scotland has kept me on his mailing list, my Jessie Rae picture disc CD of 'Over the Sea' is appreciating in cult status if not in actual value, I have a copy of the Visit Scotland background tune , I am still eligible to buy Tunnocks Snowballs and I have enyoyed free and unrestricted rights to enter and leave the country at will with no hassle at the border.
(This first appeared last year but I like it and so there........)
Tuesday 18 September 2012
Going Dutch
Taking the 9pm North Sea Car Ferry sailing from Hull , partaking of the onboard facilities and splashing out on a cabin with a porthole, pigging out on the breakfast buffet, buying souvenirs for family and friends in the duty free shop, disembarking at 8am and driving fast to Rotterdam, being revived by elevenses of strong coffee and pastries at a canopied pavement cafe, seeking out a prestigious venue for lunching on the best of Nederlands fare, interviewing suitable candidates and then the return trip accompanied by the successful interviewee amongst the small Dutch Boys skilled in inserting a finger to stem a leak would have worked out much cheaper and easier in logistical terms than actually sourcing a local plumber to attend to the pinhole drip from the old pipe in my boiler cupboard.
The escape of water was so negligible that it may have been going on for days before any physical signs of a problem were noticeable. I first became aware of the slow and faint dripping sound whilst sat quietly at the dining room table early one morning last week. It was difficult to identify and then place the source of the leak because of its insidious nature. The same sound could as easily have been from a dripping tap in the adjoining kitchen, a slash of bird whiting on the window pane or an intermittent single drop of September rain audible through the airbrick in the bay a it fell on the driveway outside.
With intense concentration and straining with unreliable ears I finally tracked down the leak to the very top pelmet of the alcove cupboard which was directly under the aforementioned boiler position. Three streams of perfect droplets were making their way down the woodwork , disappearing behind the large stripped pine door and then percolating through the contents of the cupboard before emerging to splash on the floor.
In closing the kitchen door which when fully open sat against the wall at ninety degrees from the casual cascade I found a dirty yellowish streak of a stain which reinforced the theory that the leak was quite well established.
A washing up bowl, plastic grey type was wedged onto the top shelf of the cupboard to catch the water before it further saturated the contents. A further stainless steel mixing bowl was placed on the floor below. On a regular basis the bowl would resonate when hit with a full drop or the shrapnel from the pelmet. It sounded like a bell signifying the end of a boxing bout. The collected residue was, again,a dirty urine colour and I sincerely hoped that the pipework was not part of the drinking water delivery system.
The plumber who lived a couple of streets away was not my first choice but was the only one of a few contacted who actually responded to my multiple messages for urgent help. He was not available for two days but I preferred to have someone lined up rather than risk not getting anyone at all.
I did not feel it necessary to just shut off the mains supply given the limited amount of water involved in the escape and the restricted potential for major damage. Feeling blindly around the pipes in the boiler cupboard did detect seepage on a joint and I tightly wound a towelling cloth around it in an enthusiatic but misguided attempt to inhibit the leak. The cupboard was cleared of its miscellaneous contents of back copies of cycling and aircraft magazines, part assembled Airfix models (boxed ) and CD's. It was a job that was on the list of chores ironically reserved for a rainy day of the outdoors type.
The tide, temporarily diverted, was just a matter of annoyance and could not be forgotten or ignored being on the busiest footfall route through the house.
The plumber arrived early for the saturday morning appointment. I brought him up to speed on what I knew and I admit I did show off a bit with terminology researched from Wikipedia. The source of the leak was confirmed by the plumber and he set about draining the pipework, dismantling and cleaning up the joint before replacing the washer and restoring the supply.
In the meantime I was shuttling up and down the stairs monitoring the still persistent dripping. This appeared perplexing even to his expert eye.
It took some dismantling of the bedroom floor involving snapping of the laminate and prising up the 90 year old pitch pine boards to shed some light on the stubborn flow of water. Over the preceeding days of the leak every void, every piece of organic material, old bits of carpet remnants under the floor and the dining room ceiling had soaked up the moisture. With the leak mended the ongong dripping was from the slow release of water from the impromptu reservoir within the very bowels of the house itself. It took a full day for the water droplets to diminish and finally stop.
I am now sat looking into the deep, dark, empty cupboard. It is slowly drying out and I am assessing what is required to reinstate the blistered paintwork, wee wee colour stained emulsion on the walls and discoloured floor. Like emerging from a war zone (as I imagine) it is now hard to comprehend in the comparative calm what transpired in that place
Before I forget I must purchase a passenger ferry fare one way for the small Dutch Boy whose services in plugging a leak were not after all required. We hardly knew he was here. I expect that his family missed him.
The escape of water was so negligible that it may have been going on for days before any physical signs of a problem were noticeable. I first became aware of the slow and faint dripping sound whilst sat quietly at the dining room table early one morning last week. It was difficult to identify and then place the source of the leak because of its insidious nature. The same sound could as easily have been from a dripping tap in the adjoining kitchen, a slash of bird whiting on the window pane or an intermittent single drop of September rain audible through the airbrick in the bay a it fell on the driveway outside.
With intense concentration and straining with unreliable ears I finally tracked down the leak to the very top pelmet of the alcove cupboard which was directly under the aforementioned boiler position. Three streams of perfect droplets were making their way down the woodwork , disappearing behind the large stripped pine door and then percolating through the contents of the cupboard before emerging to splash on the floor.
In closing the kitchen door which when fully open sat against the wall at ninety degrees from the casual cascade I found a dirty yellowish streak of a stain which reinforced the theory that the leak was quite well established.
A washing up bowl, plastic grey type was wedged onto the top shelf of the cupboard to catch the water before it further saturated the contents. A further stainless steel mixing bowl was placed on the floor below. On a regular basis the bowl would resonate when hit with a full drop or the shrapnel from the pelmet. It sounded like a bell signifying the end of a boxing bout. The collected residue was, again,a dirty urine colour and I sincerely hoped that the pipework was not part of the drinking water delivery system.
The plumber who lived a couple of streets away was not my first choice but was the only one of a few contacted who actually responded to my multiple messages for urgent help. He was not available for two days but I preferred to have someone lined up rather than risk not getting anyone at all.
I did not feel it necessary to just shut off the mains supply given the limited amount of water involved in the escape and the restricted potential for major damage. Feeling blindly around the pipes in the boiler cupboard did detect seepage on a joint and I tightly wound a towelling cloth around it in an enthusiatic but misguided attempt to inhibit the leak. The cupboard was cleared of its miscellaneous contents of back copies of cycling and aircraft magazines, part assembled Airfix models (boxed ) and CD's. It was a job that was on the list of chores ironically reserved for a rainy day of the outdoors type.
The tide, temporarily diverted, was just a matter of annoyance and could not be forgotten or ignored being on the busiest footfall route through the house.
The plumber arrived early for the saturday morning appointment. I brought him up to speed on what I knew and I admit I did show off a bit with terminology researched from Wikipedia. The source of the leak was confirmed by the plumber and he set about draining the pipework, dismantling and cleaning up the joint before replacing the washer and restoring the supply.
In the meantime I was shuttling up and down the stairs monitoring the still persistent dripping. This appeared perplexing even to his expert eye.
It took some dismantling of the bedroom floor involving snapping of the laminate and prising up the 90 year old pitch pine boards to shed some light on the stubborn flow of water. Over the preceeding days of the leak every void, every piece of organic material, old bits of carpet remnants under the floor and the dining room ceiling had soaked up the moisture. With the leak mended the ongong dripping was from the slow release of water from the impromptu reservoir within the very bowels of the house itself. It took a full day for the water droplets to diminish and finally stop.
I am now sat looking into the deep, dark, empty cupboard. It is slowly drying out and I am assessing what is required to reinstate the blistered paintwork, wee wee colour stained emulsion on the walls and discoloured floor. Like emerging from a war zone (as I imagine) it is now hard to comprehend in the comparative calm what transpired in that place
Before I forget I must purchase a passenger ferry fare one way for the small Dutch Boy whose services in plugging a leak were not after all required. We hardly knew he was here. I expect that his family missed him.
Unlocking the mind
I have an illogical fear of dropping my car keys into a drain.
It is more chance than intention that my parking position against the kerb of a residential street corresponds with a cast iron grating above a surface water gully.
I dread that moment when I swing open the drivers door to find the gaping hole. It is little comfort that there is a stout metal grating because it is intended to prevent pedestrians, cyclists and other road users from falling in and not a small bunch of combined car and house keys. Even though carefully removed from the ignition and gripped tightly across the abyss there is still that threat of a frantic fumbling and juggling which would result in a clank of metal on metal followed by a distant splash or a splat if into a muddy or silty residue.
The scenario has not yet happened but I do run the risk of it every working day and consequently it is never far from my mind.
The same trepidation exists with other possessions. If leaving the house for work I can be observed patting down my pockets in some regimented order to verify their contents of wallet (inside breast of suit jacket), mobile phone (lower inside breast of suit jacket), means of unlocking the office (outer left suit), money for a meal deal purchase from Tesco's (outer right suit), piece of paper with chores and tasks for the day ahead (right side trouser) and as an indication of a good upbringing, a clean handkerchief (left side trouser). So attired I resemble the Michelin Man and people have remarked that freed from my working clothes and in casual wear I do look much less overweight. I have now advertised all of my belongings to potential pick pockets and muggers although even a desperado would hesitate to approach me if observing the pocket patting ritual which resembles the old camp fire song of head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, etc. or speeded up out of anxiety something akin to a martial arts routine.
The same behaviour is repeated many times a day and I can become quite agitated and disorientated if any of the items become displaced or unwittingly find their way into another pocket from their original stowage place.
If going away on holiday there is the inevitable volume of paperwork from passports to boarding passes. This can be placed carefully in a strict order usually in a rucksack or for more recent trips in a military style tactical gear bag. This resembles a large canvas man bag but is able to accommodate a startling volume of documents and personal belongings which are essential for travelling. Even so ordered it is still necessary for me to constantly sort, sift, review and reassemble to papers as though they could disappear, merge into each other or just evaporate before my very eyes.
Larger objects and the prospect of losing or misplacing them can also cause anxiety.
A car, for example.
The large surface and multi storey parking facilities of our cities and out of town shopping centres can raise the prospect of forgetting on what level or in what bay the family car was left. Some may laugh at this thought and regard it as being an impossibility in the modern age.
Joanne's Dad recounted an experience of his own in very recent days. He had driven his car, a microtype city model, to the local supermarket. The vehicle is very distinctive because of its rarity on UK roads and particularly so in a location outside of London which is just about the only place where such a compact motor car is advantageous in space saving and money saving terms.
Parking up he walked away after using the remote control to automatically lock the doors and boot. It was a reasonably early trip to the store and the car park was only about a third full. After he had spent some twenty minutes amongst the food aisles the shop floor had become much more crowded and busy. This was reflected by the level of activity in the car park with frequent traffic movements and that slow circular kerb crawling motion seeking out a spot as close as possible to the store entrance, avoiding the parents and toddler and disabled bays.
A white van, unmarked but with a high viz clad driver reading a newspaper had pulled in next to Joannes's Dads car.
With carrier bag of provisions in one hand he located the key fob and with a plink,plink noise and flash of hazards the car was unlocked. Climbing in he swung the bag towards the passenger seat where it would sit safely for the short drive home. It was then that he noticed a travel rug on the seat cushion. Joanne's dad did not possess a travel rug. The interior of the car was certainly that of a microtype city model but looking around there were unfamiliar aspects to those he was used to. Stepping out he checked the exterior. It was certainly his colour and style. However, the number plate was not his.
The van driver had noticed this strange behaviour. Joanne's Dad stood back. He is a straight talking and no nonsense character but was lost for words. Out of the corner of his eye, on the other side of the van he recognised the letters and numbers that made up his registration plate. The van was the meat in a sandwich of identical cars. What were the odds of finding two of the same rare microtype cars in such close proximity and how worrying the fact that the manufacturers appear to have only one frequency by which all similar vehicles can be unlocked and accessed at will.
The experience of Joanne's Dad has done nothing at all towards resolving my deep and inner fears of losing or misplacing those things that are intended to give reassurance, comfort and security in my life.
It is more chance than intention that my parking position against the kerb of a residential street corresponds with a cast iron grating above a surface water gully.
I dread that moment when I swing open the drivers door to find the gaping hole. It is little comfort that there is a stout metal grating because it is intended to prevent pedestrians, cyclists and other road users from falling in and not a small bunch of combined car and house keys. Even though carefully removed from the ignition and gripped tightly across the abyss there is still that threat of a frantic fumbling and juggling which would result in a clank of metal on metal followed by a distant splash or a splat if into a muddy or silty residue.
The scenario has not yet happened but I do run the risk of it every working day and consequently it is never far from my mind.
The same trepidation exists with other possessions. If leaving the house for work I can be observed patting down my pockets in some regimented order to verify their contents of wallet (inside breast of suit jacket), mobile phone (lower inside breast of suit jacket), means of unlocking the office (outer left suit), money for a meal deal purchase from Tesco's (outer right suit), piece of paper with chores and tasks for the day ahead (right side trouser) and as an indication of a good upbringing, a clean handkerchief (left side trouser). So attired I resemble the Michelin Man and people have remarked that freed from my working clothes and in casual wear I do look much less overweight. I have now advertised all of my belongings to potential pick pockets and muggers although even a desperado would hesitate to approach me if observing the pocket patting ritual which resembles the old camp fire song of head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, etc. or speeded up out of anxiety something akin to a martial arts routine.
The same behaviour is repeated many times a day and I can become quite agitated and disorientated if any of the items become displaced or unwittingly find their way into another pocket from their original stowage place.
If going away on holiday there is the inevitable volume of paperwork from passports to boarding passes. This can be placed carefully in a strict order usually in a rucksack or for more recent trips in a military style tactical gear bag. This resembles a large canvas man bag but is able to accommodate a startling volume of documents and personal belongings which are essential for travelling. Even so ordered it is still necessary for me to constantly sort, sift, review and reassemble to papers as though they could disappear, merge into each other or just evaporate before my very eyes.
Larger objects and the prospect of losing or misplacing them can also cause anxiety.
A car, for example.
The large surface and multi storey parking facilities of our cities and out of town shopping centres can raise the prospect of forgetting on what level or in what bay the family car was left. Some may laugh at this thought and regard it as being an impossibility in the modern age.
Joanne's Dad recounted an experience of his own in very recent days. He had driven his car, a microtype city model, to the local supermarket. The vehicle is very distinctive because of its rarity on UK roads and particularly so in a location outside of London which is just about the only place where such a compact motor car is advantageous in space saving and money saving terms.
Parking up he walked away after using the remote control to automatically lock the doors and boot. It was a reasonably early trip to the store and the car park was only about a third full. After he had spent some twenty minutes amongst the food aisles the shop floor had become much more crowded and busy. This was reflected by the level of activity in the car park with frequent traffic movements and that slow circular kerb crawling motion seeking out a spot as close as possible to the store entrance, avoiding the parents and toddler and disabled bays.
A white van, unmarked but with a high viz clad driver reading a newspaper had pulled in next to Joannes's Dads car.
With carrier bag of provisions in one hand he located the key fob and with a plink,plink noise and flash of hazards the car was unlocked. Climbing in he swung the bag towards the passenger seat where it would sit safely for the short drive home. It was then that he noticed a travel rug on the seat cushion. Joanne's dad did not possess a travel rug. The interior of the car was certainly that of a microtype city model but looking around there were unfamiliar aspects to those he was used to. Stepping out he checked the exterior. It was certainly his colour and style. However, the number plate was not his.
The van driver had noticed this strange behaviour. Joanne's Dad stood back. He is a straight talking and no nonsense character but was lost for words. Out of the corner of his eye, on the other side of the van he recognised the letters and numbers that made up his registration plate. The van was the meat in a sandwich of identical cars. What were the odds of finding two of the same rare microtype cars in such close proximity and how worrying the fact that the manufacturers appear to have only one frequency by which all similar vehicles can be unlocked and accessed at will.
The experience of Joanne's Dad has done nothing at all towards resolving my deep and inner fears of losing or misplacing those things that are intended to give reassurance, comfort and security in my life.
Sunday 16 September 2012
Victoria Secret
The summer is come and gone all too quickly. There is already a sharp chill in the air and although only 7pm it is distinctly dark and morose outside. It will not be long before the clocks change and we will be going to and returning from work in the dark.
The summer months were slow to get going and with June and July almost a write off because of the persistently wet and stormy weather which affected all of the usual seasonal activities of tending the garden, enjoying a few moments of sitting out or even contemplating a trip out to the coast or a countryside walk.
August did come to the rescue of an otherwise washed out high season and for the first time in many years there was a guarantee of successive good days in terms of warm sunshine and dry weather. This was not to everyone's benefit as what was termed "the wettest drought in history" led to hosepipe bans in many parts of the UK.
I try to prolong summer as much as possible. I look forward to getting up early, even on weekdays, to enjoy that fresh start to the day before it gets too hot. I equally savour a long evening of approaching coolness and sunset when it is just nice and civilised to spend time outdoors doing everything or nothing.
One of the last events of the summer is to harvest the Victoria Plums from our sole tree at the bottom of the garden. We planted a sapling some 16 years ago as a project with our young children and also in acknowledgement that we had found out true family home that met and exceeded all our material requirements. Oh, and it was intended to form a screen from neighbours when fully grown.
For the first decade of growth the tree struggled to establish itself. It was a good location to receive sunlight and rainfall and with reasonable shelter from extreme climatic periods. We all crowded around the slim trunk with the first indications of it bearing fruit and would regularly stray down to the far end of the garden to monitor the growth and health of the small and hard olive sized plums.
As the hotter months of the year passed in the inaugral year of maturing the fruit swelled and slowly turned colour from green to a deep purpley red. We returned from our annual 2 weeks leave to find the upper boughs split and hanging down limply under the sheer weight of the sumptious plums. This was distressing to see but the tree was strong enough to survive the inevitable major amputation of the dead weight of wood.
That year we did not know what to do with the masses of fruit. Jam was attempted but remained a bit runny. Kilner jars were filled with liquer and then stuffed with the softer fruits to undergo some sort of transformation to an even more potent alcoholic level. Donations were made to family and friends and we even thought, at one stage, of leaving a boxfull at the driveway gates with an honesty tin for payment if unsupervised by the children. The gardener from a large house, when hearing of our predicament, offered to harvest the still laden upper boughs in return for a precentage of the plunder. His offer was enthusiatically accepted and by early September the tree was bare.
After shedding what was a significant weight the boughs seemed to breathe a sigh and slowly return to their natural height and form.
Every year since the tree has performed well and today, well into September, saw me bring down to the house the last bowlful of the plums. The tail enders were a mixture of firm and sweet ones and those perhaps a bit past their best by their soft and dull texture. The wasps and insects had feasted well on the tree but not to a noticeable detriment to our domestic quota. The obvious drilled and holed plums could be avoided but even an apparently perfect and unblemished one could still surprise with a cluster of larvae or maggots if hastily bitten into or more advisably, cut in half and examined before eating.
All is now safely gathered in and the tree will revert to anonymity until the next growing season. This may be the last harvest from our planted tree as our house is currently up for sale and we are in that life cycle process of trading down. It has been most satisfying and humbling watching the development of our Victoria Plum and a constant reminder of the natural order of things. If we do eventually get moved I will be sure to drive past the old house in late August to check on the crop. It is possible to enter the garden unseen from an adjacent street and over a neighbours fence although with a ladder and large bucket I will have to time my scrumping expedition carefully and meticulously.
The summer months were slow to get going and with June and July almost a write off because of the persistently wet and stormy weather which affected all of the usual seasonal activities of tending the garden, enjoying a few moments of sitting out or even contemplating a trip out to the coast or a countryside walk.
August did come to the rescue of an otherwise washed out high season and for the first time in many years there was a guarantee of successive good days in terms of warm sunshine and dry weather. This was not to everyone's benefit as what was termed "the wettest drought in history" led to hosepipe bans in many parts of the UK.
I try to prolong summer as much as possible. I look forward to getting up early, even on weekdays, to enjoy that fresh start to the day before it gets too hot. I equally savour a long evening of approaching coolness and sunset when it is just nice and civilised to spend time outdoors doing everything or nothing.
One of the last events of the summer is to harvest the Victoria Plums from our sole tree at the bottom of the garden. We planted a sapling some 16 years ago as a project with our young children and also in acknowledgement that we had found out true family home that met and exceeded all our material requirements. Oh, and it was intended to form a screen from neighbours when fully grown.
For the first decade of growth the tree struggled to establish itself. It was a good location to receive sunlight and rainfall and with reasonable shelter from extreme climatic periods. We all crowded around the slim trunk with the first indications of it bearing fruit and would regularly stray down to the far end of the garden to monitor the growth and health of the small and hard olive sized plums.
As the hotter months of the year passed in the inaugral year of maturing the fruit swelled and slowly turned colour from green to a deep purpley red. We returned from our annual 2 weeks leave to find the upper boughs split and hanging down limply under the sheer weight of the sumptious plums. This was distressing to see but the tree was strong enough to survive the inevitable major amputation of the dead weight of wood.
That year we did not know what to do with the masses of fruit. Jam was attempted but remained a bit runny. Kilner jars were filled with liquer and then stuffed with the softer fruits to undergo some sort of transformation to an even more potent alcoholic level. Donations were made to family and friends and we even thought, at one stage, of leaving a boxfull at the driveway gates with an honesty tin for payment if unsupervised by the children. The gardener from a large house, when hearing of our predicament, offered to harvest the still laden upper boughs in return for a precentage of the plunder. His offer was enthusiatically accepted and by early September the tree was bare.
After shedding what was a significant weight the boughs seemed to breathe a sigh and slowly return to their natural height and form.
Every year since the tree has performed well and today, well into September, saw me bring down to the house the last bowlful of the plums. The tail enders were a mixture of firm and sweet ones and those perhaps a bit past their best by their soft and dull texture. The wasps and insects had feasted well on the tree but not to a noticeable detriment to our domestic quota. The obvious drilled and holed plums could be avoided but even an apparently perfect and unblemished one could still surprise with a cluster of larvae or maggots if hastily bitten into or more advisably, cut in half and examined before eating.
All is now safely gathered in and the tree will revert to anonymity until the next growing season. This may be the last harvest from our planted tree as our house is currently up for sale and we are in that life cycle process of trading down. It has been most satisfying and humbling watching the development of our Victoria Plum and a constant reminder of the natural order of things. If we do eventually get moved I will be sure to drive past the old house in late August to check on the crop. It is possible to enter the garden unseen from an adjacent street and over a neighbours fence although with a ladder and large bucket I will have to time my scrumping expedition carefully and meticulously.
Saturday 15 September 2012
Hopelessly Devoted
It was an impulse purchase, quite an extravagance at the time. It cost the equivalent of a few days provisions for my student existence or even the price of a text book for my course.The feeling of guilt was difficult to suppress but I managed it eventually.
But yet, thirty one years on it represents perhaps the best investment I have ever made because I still have it and at least one third of it is still there to be used.
It was the best of its kind at the time, hence its price tag compared to pale competitor products which promised the same effect but you just knew they would let you down. The brand name exudes respect and with a pedigree earned through reputation for quality, reliability and durability and not advertising images or hype.
I had of course learned the hard way about compromising and going for a cheap version. That fateful decision resulted in a complete malfunction of equipment and consequently an embarrassing and long walk home giving the impression that to the amused public at the sight of me that I, myself, had suffered a meltdown. I made the decision then to go for the best available on the market.
The product was Italian made. That does not perhaps instill the most confidence when you consider that German engineering is held in the highest regard- all of that Vorsprung durch technic stuff. Anything Italian is usually spoken about in terms of spirit, heart and passion which avoids having to answer the question "..but is it actually any good?". Take my wifes car of some years ago, a high mileage Alfa Romeo. I found it full of cuore but only from a distance which was usually with me sat in the cab of a recovery vehicle looking back at the sad and annoyingly frequent sight of it being transported back to our house or direct to the repair shop after yet another breakdown. The snapping of the timing belt was the final performance and not in very good circumstances on a busy city centre roundabout one dark and wet winters night. The Car of the Year 1999 had to be given away for nothing based on a market value of £1500 and a cost of repairs principally a new engine at considerably more. The Alfa is an example of more style than substance.
In direct contrast my acqusition was modest and unassuming and yet has proven to be of exceptional usefulness. It is a small plastic tub container. Matt white when bought but now with 31 years of fingerprints, mostly my own but including a few curious souls who handled it out of curiosity but mostly disbelief in its almost magical properties. The screw top lid in black, gloss coloured but also now worn from use. Around the container the distinctive logo of the company, one of the most iconic in the industry and intimately associated with the top echelon of the sport and its own heroes from the last five decades and perhaps longer.
The contents when I first revealed them were golden, unblemished and of a consistency that engendered confidence in its application on ball bearings, axles in bottom brackets and wheels, gear clusters, headsets, seat tubes and around the small plastic cogs that guide the chain around the drop-out positioned rear gear mechanism. It could be used sparingly because of its richness and that has been more than proven with the passage of time.
What is left in the tub is still potent and virile. There is a slight oily residue where perhaps I failed to store the material away from advised extremes in temperature. Given that I have over more than three decades moved from student digs, back to my parents, my first house purchase and a further 3 homes the environments have been quite varied and not conducive to stability and preservation.
I used the stuff today on those pesky small plastic cogs and the mountain bike became efficiently silent and smooth under pedal power. The distinctive odour of the precious remaining contents evoked many memories of using the elixir of motion. That and Swarfega which is the equivalent of Kryptonite to Superman.
I left a fresh set of grubby fingerprints on the rather battered container as I placed it carefully on a shelf in the garage. It would be a good bike ride in the knowledge that my Campagnolo Grease was carrying me effortlessly and frictionless over road, hill and dale.
But yet, thirty one years on it represents perhaps the best investment I have ever made because I still have it and at least one third of it is still there to be used.
It was the best of its kind at the time, hence its price tag compared to pale competitor products which promised the same effect but you just knew they would let you down. The brand name exudes respect and with a pedigree earned through reputation for quality, reliability and durability and not advertising images or hype.
I had of course learned the hard way about compromising and going for a cheap version. That fateful decision resulted in a complete malfunction of equipment and consequently an embarrassing and long walk home giving the impression that to the amused public at the sight of me that I, myself, had suffered a meltdown. I made the decision then to go for the best available on the market.
The product was Italian made. That does not perhaps instill the most confidence when you consider that German engineering is held in the highest regard- all of that Vorsprung durch technic stuff. Anything Italian is usually spoken about in terms of spirit, heart and passion which avoids having to answer the question "..but is it actually any good?". Take my wifes car of some years ago, a high mileage Alfa Romeo. I found it full of cuore but only from a distance which was usually with me sat in the cab of a recovery vehicle looking back at the sad and annoyingly frequent sight of it being transported back to our house or direct to the repair shop after yet another breakdown. The snapping of the timing belt was the final performance and not in very good circumstances on a busy city centre roundabout one dark and wet winters night. The Car of the Year 1999 had to be given away for nothing based on a market value of £1500 and a cost of repairs principally a new engine at considerably more. The Alfa is an example of more style than substance.
In direct contrast my acqusition was modest and unassuming and yet has proven to be of exceptional usefulness. It is a small plastic tub container. Matt white when bought but now with 31 years of fingerprints, mostly my own but including a few curious souls who handled it out of curiosity but mostly disbelief in its almost magical properties. The screw top lid in black, gloss coloured but also now worn from use. Around the container the distinctive logo of the company, one of the most iconic in the industry and intimately associated with the top echelon of the sport and its own heroes from the last five decades and perhaps longer.
The contents when I first revealed them were golden, unblemished and of a consistency that engendered confidence in its application on ball bearings, axles in bottom brackets and wheels, gear clusters, headsets, seat tubes and around the small plastic cogs that guide the chain around the drop-out positioned rear gear mechanism. It could be used sparingly because of its richness and that has been more than proven with the passage of time.
What is left in the tub is still potent and virile. There is a slight oily residue where perhaps I failed to store the material away from advised extremes in temperature. Given that I have over more than three decades moved from student digs, back to my parents, my first house purchase and a further 3 homes the environments have been quite varied and not conducive to stability and preservation.
I used the stuff today on those pesky small plastic cogs and the mountain bike became efficiently silent and smooth under pedal power. The distinctive odour of the precious remaining contents evoked many memories of using the elixir of motion. That and Swarfega which is the equivalent of Kryptonite to Superman.
I left a fresh set of grubby fingerprints on the rather battered container as I placed it carefully on a shelf in the garage. It would be a good bike ride in the knowledge that my Campagnolo Grease was carrying me effortlessly and frictionless over road, hill and dale.
Friday 14 September 2012
Educating Archie
Anyone calling at the house and walking from the outer porch to the kitchen remarks about the incline.
It is noticeable. There is a slight upward slope. It can catch you out on the return leg to the front door as there is a gentle and unseen force that pushes you as though you are being ejected by a large and polite but persuasive night club bouncer. It may seem that as a visitor you are being ushered out but in such a welcoming house that is highly unlikely. The momentum created by the slope served as a launch pad for us as children if we were at all apprehensive or reluctant to go to school or to face one of life's challenges.
In the floor there are signs of structural movement.
It is a wonderful example of a mosaic tile floor , individual fired pieces carefully crafted and fitted in a continuous covering of colour and interest. It runs some 30 feet in length from the storm porch to a single step down at the back lobby and door to the cellar. It is wide enough to easily pass the family test of leaning seven bicycles abreast against the wall and still with enough room to walk past. At about the middle of the ornate pavement, in the centre of the house, the immaculate tiling and flush jointing is split open and under foot or bike tyre can be heard the rattle of a slightly loosened group of tiles.
As though following a trail your eye is drawn upwards as you stand astride the fractured floor. The ceiling, some ten feet above, is similarly cracked laterally from wall to wall. The doorheads into the two front living rooms are perceptibly out of true but the heavy panelled doors have, by previous owners, been carefully shaved along the upper edge to fit close and snug. My parents bought the house over thirty years ago. The signs of movement were certainly there at that time but contributed the character of a house built in the last few years of the 19th Century.
The Drains Men, McPherson and Archie dug up the rear yard from monday this week to expose the sub ground pipework in pursuit of the actual cause of the problem. After two days of excavating a neat series of trenches and easing in a seemingly endless cable mounted boroscopic camera which threatened to emerge in the pan of the upstairs WC they were still not sure of the source. They then ventured under the house from a vertical hatch in one of the cellar store rooms. Archie went first being younger, more enthusiastic but subordinate to McPherson.
The crawl space was claustrophobic even from my viewpoint in the cellar over the dry chalky laid sub floor. There was a small gap in the sleeper walls which supported the joists and boards and through the breach could be seen a large sized drainage pipe. Both men shuffled across the oversite as though under enemy fire. Emerging, white and perspiring some time later they recounted that thay had found the reason for the fracture in the house.
The cause of the movement has been attributed to a leak from the mysterious, big pipe. It is a strange arrangement and to some extent has lowered my perception of the Victorians as methodical and meticulous house builders. The cast iron downpipe which drains the large roof surfaces on the front of the house is run into the concrete pathway. It woud be expected to direct the rainwater via underground pipework towards the mains drains in the Public Highway which is only a matter of a few feet away. Rather, the pipe turns back and is run under the living room and dining room floorboards , the full depth of the house and is connected to the main rear downpipe. The potential for leakage or a blockage is increased proportionately over thirty feet rather than a mere five or so.
The pipe, the original from the 1890's decade was in cast metal. The regular flow of surface water over the last century had gradually eroded and corroded the lining and although the perforation was minimal it had been enough for water to drip onto the sub site and soften the foundations through the centre section of the house.
The men were as close to ecstatic as two drainage operatives could ever be on the successful outcome to their investigation. Excitedly they discussed pipe guages, tolerances, rubberised push in collars and gravel settings in readiness for repairs which would establish worthy replacement drains for the house for the next hundred or so years.
Mother brought out the best coffee and the four of us stood near the trenches and celebrated as though we were party to the greatest discovery of our lifetimes.
It is noticeable. There is a slight upward slope. It can catch you out on the return leg to the front door as there is a gentle and unseen force that pushes you as though you are being ejected by a large and polite but persuasive night club bouncer. It may seem that as a visitor you are being ushered out but in such a welcoming house that is highly unlikely. The momentum created by the slope served as a launch pad for us as children if we were at all apprehensive or reluctant to go to school or to face one of life's challenges.
In the floor there are signs of structural movement.
It is a wonderful example of a mosaic tile floor , individual fired pieces carefully crafted and fitted in a continuous covering of colour and interest. It runs some 30 feet in length from the storm porch to a single step down at the back lobby and door to the cellar. It is wide enough to easily pass the family test of leaning seven bicycles abreast against the wall and still with enough room to walk past. At about the middle of the ornate pavement, in the centre of the house, the immaculate tiling and flush jointing is split open and under foot or bike tyre can be heard the rattle of a slightly loosened group of tiles.
As though following a trail your eye is drawn upwards as you stand astride the fractured floor. The ceiling, some ten feet above, is similarly cracked laterally from wall to wall. The doorheads into the two front living rooms are perceptibly out of true but the heavy panelled doors have, by previous owners, been carefully shaved along the upper edge to fit close and snug. My parents bought the house over thirty years ago. The signs of movement were certainly there at that time but contributed the character of a house built in the last few years of the 19th Century.
The Drains Men, McPherson and Archie dug up the rear yard from monday this week to expose the sub ground pipework in pursuit of the actual cause of the problem. After two days of excavating a neat series of trenches and easing in a seemingly endless cable mounted boroscopic camera which threatened to emerge in the pan of the upstairs WC they were still not sure of the source. They then ventured under the house from a vertical hatch in one of the cellar store rooms. Archie went first being younger, more enthusiastic but subordinate to McPherson.
The crawl space was claustrophobic even from my viewpoint in the cellar over the dry chalky laid sub floor. There was a small gap in the sleeper walls which supported the joists and boards and through the breach could be seen a large sized drainage pipe. Both men shuffled across the oversite as though under enemy fire. Emerging, white and perspiring some time later they recounted that thay had found the reason for the fracture in the house.
The cause of the movement has been attributed to a leak from the mysterious, big pipe. It is a strange arrangement and to some extent has lowered my perception of the Victorians as methodical and meticulous house builders. The cast iron downpipe which drains the large roof surfaces on the front of the house is run into the concrete pathway. It woud be expected to direct the rainwater via underground pipework towards the mains drains in the Public Highway which is only a matter of a few feet away. Rather, the pipe turns back and is run under the living room and dining room floorboards , the full depth of the house and is connected to the main rear downpipe. The potential for leakage or a blockage is increased proportionately over thirty feet rather than a mere five or so.
The pipe, the original from the 1890's decade was in cast metal. The regular flow of surface water over the last century had gradually eroded and corroded the lining and although the perforation was minimal it had been enough for water to drip onto the sub site and soften the foundations through the centre section of the house.
The men were as close to ecstatic as two drainage operatives could ever be on the successful outcome to their investigation. Excitedly they discussed pipe guages, tolerances, rubberised push in collars and gravel settings in readiness for repairs which would establish worthy replacement drains for the house for the next hundred or so years.
Mother brought out the best coffee and the four of us stood near the trenches and celebrated as though we were party to the greatest discovery of our lifetimes.
Thursday 13 September 2012
Lost and Found; Twisted Monarch
We stood just off the circular path around the Battle ground of Bosworth Field.
Another of the regularly placed information boards in multi-european languages was read with interest but importantly testified that we were looking over the spot where Richard the Third, King of England for only two short years from 1483 to 1485, is reputed to have been slain.
It was a poignant moment because only the evening before we had been to Stratford upon Avon to see a production of the Shakespeare Play about the very man. He was just 32 years old.
It is quite common and inevitable with the passage of time that the reputation of a single figure can fluctuate from a great and noble King to a calculating murderer. It is on the same theme as a terrorist in his own time being regarded as a freedom fighter by later generations.
Richard III was a fascinating character made both dramatic and sinister by his physical appearance caused by scoliosis of the spine depicting him as shuffling and stooping and with a crooked, shambling action in movement. He may have been confined to anonymity by these deformities but showed great fortitude, self belief, self preservation and ruthlessness through his achievements in his time.
He was the last Yorkist King of England and, in his demise on the battlefield, the last monarch since Harold at Hastings to die in such a way.
After the defeat of his army with his death his body was taken away for internment at the Church of The Greyfriars in the City of Leicester but the building and any memorial were lost either through conspiracy, carelessness or just through the relentless progress of urban redevelopment over the subsequent half a millennia.
The historic site of the Church became a surface car park in the 1960's and it was only until a couple of months ago that a determined and co-ordinated effort was made to excavate in the quest for his alleged resting place.
Just a few days ago the bones of an adult male were found under the position of the former church choir. The evidence to support that this is actually Richard III is either very coincidental or compelling.
The skull shows signs of impact damage. The removal of the body on horseback from Bosworth was reputed to have been rather haphazard and with reports of the trailing head striking the parapet of a bridge on its way from the killing fields.
The spine has an embedded arrowhead to a depth to cause immediate death which was a typical form of fatal injury in medieval warfare.
Interestingly the course of the skeletal spine shows distortion and curvature consistent with scoliosis.
The archaeological project has been wide ranging as befits the potentially momentous discovery of a key character in our nations history. Descendants, some sixteen generations down the line, have been forthcoming in providing swabs for DNA testing which will take place in the quiet, sombre and civilised environment of a laboratory.
If subsequently and irrefutably confirmed to be Richard the Third, I expect the debate will really begin about what to do with him and the measures of determining whether he was a good king or a psychopath will be applied in judgement.
Another of the regularly placed information boards in multi-european languages was read with interest but importantly testified that we were looking over the spot where Richard the Third, King of England for only two short years from 1483 to 1485, is reputed to have been slain.
It was a poignant moment because only the evening before we had been to Stratford upon Avon to see a production of the Shakespeare Play about the very man. He was just 32 years old.
It is quite common and inevitable with the passage of time that the reputation of a single figure can fluctuate from a great and noble King to a calculating murderer. It is on the same theme as a terrorist in his own time being regarded as a freedom fighter by later generations.
Richard III was a fascinating character made both dramatic and sinister by his physical appearance caused by scoliosis of the spine depicting him as shuffling and stooping and with a crooked, shambling action in movement. He may have been confined to anonymity by these deformities but showed great fortitude, self belief, self preservation and ruthlessness through his achievements in his time.
He was the last Yorkist King of England and, in his demise on the battlefield, the last monarch since Harold at Hastings to die in such a way.
After the defeat of his army with his death his body was taken away for internment at the Church of The Greyfriars in the City of Leicester but the building and any memorial were lost either through conspiracy, carelessness or just through the relentless progress of urban redevelopment over the subsequent half a millennia.
The historic site of the Church became a surface car park in the 1960's and it was only until a couple of months ago that a determined and co-ordinated effort was made to excavate in the quest for his alleged resting place.
Just a few days ago the bones of an adult male were found under the position of the former church choir. The evidence to support that this is actually Richard III is either very coincidental or compelling.
The skull shows signs of impact damage. The removal of the body on horseback from Bosworth was reputed to have been rather haphazard and with reports of the trailing head striking the parapet of a bridge on its way from the killing fields.
The spine has an embedded arrowhead to a depth to cause immediate death which was a typical form of fatal injury in medieval warfare.
Interestingly the course of the skeletal spine shows distortion and curvature consistent with scoliosis.
The archaeological project has been wide ranging as befits the potentially momentous discovery of a key character in our nations history. Descendants, some sixteen generations down the line, have been forthcoming in providing swabs for DNA testing which will take place in the quiet, sombre and civilised environment of a laboratory.
If subsequently and irrefutably confirmed to be Richard the Third, I expect the debate will really begin about what to do with him and the measures of determining whether he was a good king or a psychopath will be applied in judgement.
Wednesday 12 September 2012
Room with a View
They may be young adults in their 20's and taking responsibility for their own lives and actions but to parents their offspring are still as small, vulnerable and in need of constant care and direction as though they were still infants.
This is the further stage in our family life with eldest daughter just deposited at a strange house ahead of her final year at University. Younger daughter has recently graduated and is in lodgings in another City where she is in her first full time employment. Youngest, our son. is at home amongst a suite of rooms vacated by his sisters.
It is not necessary to go into specifics about the location, postcode, demographic or crime statistics for this new neighbourhood but suffice to say it would not make it onto a relocation, relocation, relocation type TV programme but may feature regularly on Police Action type features.
Our first impression of the street, claustrophobic and with unusually narrow fronted three storey Victorian terraced houses was founded in the dark. After a bit of a stressful drive on the M1 and hastily drawn up arrangements to collect the house key from someone behind twin decks at a rave we were not, as parents, really expecting too much.
Perhaps the weekly rent of £35 plus bills should have given a clue. Although I try to be optimistic and positive I am still firmly of the opinion that if something, like a cheap rent for a student house , is too good to be true then it invariably is not. In this case it appeared, before opening the front door, to be a fair reflection of quality and condition. I stepped over a discarded, split and discharging bin bag between the tailgate of the car and the gateway. Nudging the item with my foot I was startled by a movement within the black polythene but reassured by the emergence of a rolling plastic pop bottle rather than a rodent or close relative.
The forecourt, raised and shallow behind an old brick wall was well overlooked by a good proportion of the housing opposite and in true middle class style when confronted by an inner city environment I clicked, re-clicked and clicked again the central locking on the car as though the accompanying flash of orange hazards would ward off unwanted attentions from behind net and partly drawn curtaining.
Another high step over the threshold and then an excited daughter as she explored the immediate ground floor living room, stair lobby, kitchen and boiler room. I noticed my wife drop her shoulders in an expression of acceptance of a student house and its characteristic fusty, musty odours but in this case, mixed in with a nicotine aroma. The first two years of the Uni course had been in brand new purpose built student apartments which represented everything a concerned and doting parent could hope for in a home away from home. The shoulder movement was subtle so as not to deflate the thrill of the moment.
I busied myself in examining the arrangement of heavy duty locks and bolts on the front door and found them quite impressive. Daughters room was on the first floor at the top of a very steep and tortuously turned staircase. Such was the gradient that I could stand half way up the flight and simply push bags and boxes at head height directly onto the landing.
In an earlier existence as a single family dwelling her room may have extended the full, albeit scant width of the house but as a concession to modern standards it had been partitioned to form an indoor bathroom and across a window that would have been a welcome second source of natural light. I understand that spartan and sparse are the new in-vogue styles for a 21st century lifestyle. The room followed the trend but on an enforced basis because of the restricted size rather than a commitment to a populist creed. Having transferred the contents of the car boot to the room there was hardly enough space to get into it. I again busied myself checking the sturdy mortice lock into her room.
Our son, helpful in the transit operation between car and house commented after one of the trips that for the calibre of the street there was certainly a higher than average concentration of BMW's with tinted windows than he had seen for a long time, apart from some celubrious parts of Bayswater and Kensington.
Daughter settled in instantaneously and was already talking about staying there for Christmas.
Me and the Wife were a bit emotional about the whole thing and also that daughter had not arranged any contents insurance cover. If the Insurance Company wanted any details I had busied myself memorising the types and brands of internal locks.
Feelings at such a time can be very mixed.
On the one hand you are very proud of your offspring taking up great opportunities to enrich their lives and futures but on the other it is hard to accept that they are indeed grown up. We were reassured, as we drove away over the speed bumps, by the fact that daughter had just spent the last 12 months living in Brooklyn, New York with no great dramas or concerns and had become assimilated into that vibrant, multi cultural environment. This location by comparison could appear rather suburban, pedestrian and boring.
This is the further stage in our family life with eldest daughter just deposited at a strange house ahead of her final year at University. Younger daughter has recently graduated and is in lodgings in another City where she is in her first full time employment. Youngest, our son. is at home amongst a suite of rooms vacated by his sisters.
It is not necessary to go into specifics about the location, postcode, demographic or crime statistics for this new neighbourhood but suffice to say it would not make it onto a relocation, relocation, relocation type TV programme but may feature regularly on Police Action type features.
Our first impression of the street, claustrophobic and with unusually narrow fronted three storey Victorian terraced houses was founded in the dark. After a bit of a stressful drive on the M1 and hastily drawn up arrangements to collect the house key from someone behind twin decks at a rave we were not, as parents, really expecting too much.
Perhaps the weekly rent of £35 plus bills should have given a clue. Although I try to be optimistic and positive I am still firmly of the opinion that if something, like a cheap rent for a student house , is too good to be true then it invariably is not. In this case it appeared, before opening the front door, to be a fair reflection of quality and condition. I stepped over a discarded, split and discharging bin bag between the tailgate of the car and the gateway. Nudging the item with my foot I was startled by a movement within the black polythene but reassured by the emergence of a rolling plastic pop bottle rather than a rodent or close relative.
The forecourt, raised and shallow behind an old brick wall was well overlooked by a good proportion of the housing opposite and in true middle class style when confronted by an inner city environment I clicked, re-clicked and clicked again the central locking on the car as though the accompanying flash of orange hazards would ward off unwanted attentions from behind net and partly drawn curtaining.
Another high step over the threshold and then an excited daughter as she explored the immediate ground floor living room, stair lobby, kitchen and boiler room. I noticed my wife drop her shoulders in an expression of acceptance of a student house and its characteristic fusty, musty odours but in this case, mixed in with a nicotine aroma. The first two years of the Uni course had been in brand new purpose built student apartments which represented everything a concerned and doting parent could hope for in a home away from home. The shoulder movement was subtle so as not to deflate the thrill of the moment.
I busied myself in examining the arrangement of heavy duty locks and bolts on the front door and found them quite impressive. Daughters room was on the first floor at the top of a very steep and tortuously turned staircase. Such was the gradient that I could stand half way up the flight and simply push bags and boxes at head height directly onto the landing.
In an earlier existence as a single family dwelling her room may have extended the full, albeit scant width of the house but as a concession to modern standards it had been partitioned to form an indoor bathroom and across a window that would have been a welcome second source of natural light. I understand that spartan and sparse are the new in-vogue styles for a 21st century lifestyle. The room followed the trend but on an enforced basis because of the restricted size rather than a commitment to a populist creed. Having transferred the contents of the car boot to the room there was hardly enough space to get into it. I again busied myself checking the sturdy mortice lock into her room.
Our son, helpful in the transit operation between car and house commented after one of the trips that for the calibre of the street there was certainly a higher than average concentration of BMW's with tinted windows than he had seen for a long time, apart from some celubrious parts of Bayswater and Kensington.
Daughter settled in instantaneously and was already talking about staying there for Christmas.
Me and the Wife were a bit emotional about the whole thing and also that daughter had not arranged any contents insurance cover. If the Insurance Company wanted any details I had busied myself memorising the types and brands of internal locks.
Feelings at such a time can be very mixed.
On the one hand you are very proud of your offspring taking up great opportunities to enrich their lives and futures but on the other it is hard to accept that they are indeed grown up. We were reassured, as we drove away over the speed bumps, by the fact that daughter had just spent the last 12 months living in Brooklyn, New York with no great dramas or concerns and had become assimilated into that vibrant, multi cultural environment. This location by comparison could appear rather suburban, pedestrian and boring.
Tuesday 11 September 2012
Four Corners of The World
He was correct in saying that Britain was a nation of shopkeepers.
Of course it was not intended as a sentimental testimony nor a compliment on the versatility of the retail sector in a time of war.
It was however wholly misguided because the corner shops in particular were the very foundations of family life in our densely populated towns and cities.
It is sad now to come across what had been a corner shop. The characteristics are still there with the brickwork by which the large display frontage was enclosed standing out in sharp contrast to the remainder of the weathered and soot infused masonry from thousands of domestic hearths.
The scrollwork of the shop front usually survives and perhaps the faint traces of a proudly etched proprietors name can just be discerned in a certain light or from a defiined angle. If converted to a house there is usually a door and window with the appearance of being out of scale and alien to the street frontage.
There is no mistaking the old shop forecourt around which a fence or boundary is attempted but it has been a short cut and right of way for a century and that is a difficult momentum to curtail, like an elephant walk.
The four corners of the junctions of old urban streets would be occupied by shops. Typically, a greengrocers, newsagent/tobacconist, butcher and baker. Their shop lights in the darker seasonal mornings and closing in nights would guide the local population to their places of work or home again. The resonance of the bell atop the heavy panelled doors giving reassurance and comfort to those still under the covers.
The customers would be personally known to the shop keepers and the regular purchases prepared for collection such was the routine and regularity of visits and acquisitions. In hard economic times the proprietors would provide a credit system to be settled on the next pay day and would be understanding of family problems and hardships. This was engendered by the fact that they were also local residents living behind and above the shop.
Small children would be handed the cigarettes, tobacco and roll-ups for their parents or older siblings with no questions asked. This would invariably extend to beer, paraffin for heaters and all manner of what we would regard today as prohibited goods or hazards to the young.
The display windows would appear to be magical in the eyes of the children. Many play and idling hours would be spent around the shop front and the goods on show would become a strong memory well into the adult years so that a mock-up in a streetlife museum evokes strong emotions and nostalgia.
The nicknames of shop keepers would also persist whether reflecting some character trait, temperament or just a rhyme concocted around their christian or surnames. They were a hub for the streets which intersected and helped to make sure that everyones circumstances and business were known, not in a bad or gloating way but out of genuine concern even if whispered as a hearsay or rumour.
Gradually the arrival of the motor car and the development of the High Streets threatened the status and viability of the corner shop. The upwardly mobile local population moved on to the newer housing in the suburbs and strong ties and loyalties to the shops became inevitably diminished.
A few battled on but could not compete with the Discount Stores and large Supermarket chains. The display windows became dull and sparse. Clear glass became shrouded in the self adhesive livery of smaller independent shop chains. Graffitti and litter collected on the previously proudly kept brickwork and forecourt. Conversion to housing soon followed but not so as to eradicate the origins of the commerce and philanthropy that had been conducted there for decades.
Sterilised and impersonal In-Store counters killed off the butcher and baker from the terraced streets. Aisles and aisles of fresh and varied but genetically uniform fruit and veg made the corner shop produce look shabby and ugly. Newspapers and tobacco were being sold just about anywhere.
It is rare now to see any surviving corner shops. If any have lasted they are likely to be operating as a Ladies Hairdressers but as a mere shadow of their former bustling use. Still, even these neighbourhood salons could be at risk if Tesco decide to do cut price haircuts.
Of course it was not intended as a sentimental testimony nor a compliment on the versatility of the retail sector in a time of war.
It was however wholly misguided because the corner shops in particular were the very foundations of family life in our densely populated towns and cities.
It is sad now to come across what had been a corner shop. The characteristics are still there with the brickwork by which the large display frontage was enclosed standing out in sharp contrast to the remainder of the weathered and soot infused masonry from thousands of domestic hearths.
The scrollwork of the shop front usually survives and perhaps the faint traces of a proudly etched proprietors name can just be discerned in a certain light or from a defiined angle. If converted to a house there is usually a door and window with the appearance of being out of scale and alien to the street frontage.
There is no mistaking the old shop forecourt around which a fence or boundary is attempted but it has been a short cut and right of way for a century and that is a difficult momentum to curtail, like an elephant walk.
The four corners of the junctions of old urban streets would be occupied by shops. Typically, a greengrocers, newsagent/tobacconist, butcher and baker. Their shop lights in the darker seasonal mornings and closing in nights would guide the local population to their places of work or home again. The resonance of the bell atop the heavy panelled doors giving reassurance and comfort to those still under the covers.
The customers would be personally known to the shop keepers and the regular purchases prepared for collection such was the routine and regularity of visits and acquisitions. In hard economic times the proprietors would provide a credit system to be settled on the next pay day and would be understanding of family problems and hardships. This was engendered by the fact that they were also local residents living behind and above the shop.
Small children would be handed the cigarettes, tobacco and roll-ups for their parents or older siblings with no questions asked. This would invariably extend to beer, paraffin for heaters and all manner of what we would regard today as prohibited goods or hazards to the young.
The display windows would appear to be magical in the eyes of the children. Many play and idling hours would be spent around the shop front and the goods on show would become a strong memory well into the adult years so that a mock-up in a streetlife museum evokes strong emotions and nostalgia.
The nicknames of shop keepers would also persist whether reflecting some character trait, temperament or just a rhyme concocted around their christian or surnames. They were a hub for the streets which intersected and helped to make sure that everyones circumstances and business were known, not in a bad or gloating way but out of genuine concern even if whispered as a hearsay or rumour.
Gradually the arrival of the motor car and the development of the High Streets threatened the status and viability of the corner shop. The upwardly mobile local population moved on to the newer housing in the suburbs and strong ties and loyalties to the shops became inevitably diminished.
A few battled on but could not compete with the Discount Stores and large Supermarket chains. The display windows became dull and sparse. Clear glass became shrouded in the self adhesive livery of smaller independent shop chains. Graffitti and litter collected on the previously proudly kept brickwork and forecourt. Conversion to housing soon followed but not so as to eradicate the origins of the commerce and philanthropy that had been conducted there for decades.
Sterilised and impersonal In-Store counters killed off the butcher and baker from the terraced streets. Aisles and aisles of fresh and varied but genetically uniform fruit and veg made the corner shop produce look shabby and ugly. Newspapers and tobacco were being sold just about anywhere.
It is rare now to see any surviving corner shops. If any have lasted they are likely to be operating as a Ladies Hairdressers but as a mere shadow of their former bustling use. Still, even these neighbourhood salons could be at risk if Tesco decide to do cut price haircuts.
Monday 10 September 2012
Butlins- The Iron Age Years
Planning a holiday can be a stressful time, a self fulfilling prophecy whereby you become so exhausted in the booking and logistical process that you just need a holiday to recover.
The package holiday of the 1970's was revolutionary in that it required very little organisation apart from spending monies, clothing, flip flops and getting to the airport or point of departure on time and either sober or not. The saturation of short haul flight European Resorts between June and August by the English caused a reaction to this form of recreation and fellow countrymen, wanting to give the impression of being a bit more cultured and adventurous looked to other parts of the globe. The Spanish Riviera was too much like Clacton and sights were set on a 5 hour plus flight time which encompassed the Greek Islands, Egypt and Turkey or to arguably more exotic destinations such as Dominican Republic, Mexico and South East Asia.
Travelling in itself was a sophisticated experience and demands were made for a luxury holiday in all senses of the word. The more grading stars and features of an exclusive calibre the better. The bubble of cheap and spontaneous travel would soon be set to burst and in more recent years austerity, recession and even ecological concessions have had an impact on our annual jaunts to distant parts. We now have to consider our own carbon footprint and how to offset the environmental impact of jet travel, yet more cause for anxiety and soul searching.
I have just come across the perfect antidote to this dilemna.
How about a weeks vacation as a member of an Iron Age Village in Denmark?
The venue is Sagnlandet Lejre translated as 'Land of Legends' a cultural centre which, in addition to the main Iron Age Village has in remaining ascending date order, a Stone Age Camp, Viking Market and 19th Century Farm setting.
It is not a case of just booking a place but having to apply and meet specific criteria in order for what is in effect a socio-economic experiment to work.
It must be one of the few holidays where you do not need to take a full suitcase because everything authentically stone age is provided. The village is a group of seven wattle and daub and thatched houses and a Smithy set amongst what is described as the sacrificial bog. Each house takes between 4 and 8 persons and priority is given to a full household from the same family group as long as there is a sufficient age range from young children to seniors. Occupants, not termed as guests are required to undertake daily tasks as part of a co-operative covering grinding flour, fetching water, forging iron, chopping wood and gathering wild plants. Hours are not that authentic being 10am to 5pm rather than dawn to dusk. The activity only takes place during the summer months so as not to expose sensitive and cossetted 21st Century folk to other seasonal hardships.
Those going up for the experience are more than likely to have an idea what they are to encounter. Otherwise Customer Services would be extremely busy explaining the absence of Wi-Fi, sachets of instant coffee and a trouser press in the mud huts. Some may attend out of genuine empathy with the period , others as some form of purge or detox from modern life.
A degree of weight loss may be expected from the tone of the Welcome Pack consisting of cereals, milk, cream, meat, beans, apples, nuts, onions and mushrooms.
It is not however all chores and smelting. Those Iron Agers obviously knew how to enjoy themselves in the great outdoors and on offer are fire making, fashioning iron implements, rustic baking and if an exchange visit could be arranged with the Stone Age Camp much fun could be had with competitive stone pulling and striving to make the best dug out boat from a tree trunk.
Who says that different cultures cannot live and thrive in perfect harmony?
The package holiday of the 1970's was revolutionary in that it required very little organisation apart from spending monies, clothing, flip flops and getting to the airport or point of departure on time and either sober or not. The saturation of short haul flight European Resorts between June and August by the English caused a reaction to this form of recreation and fellow countrymen, wanting to give the impression of being a bit more cultured and adventurous looked to other parts of the globe. The Spanish Riviera was too much like Clacton and sights were set on a 5 hour plus flight time which encompassed the Greek Islands, Egypt and Turkey or to arguably more exotic destinations such as Dominican Republic, Mexico and South East Asia.
Travelling in itself was a sophisticated experience and demands were made for a luxury holiday in all senses of the word. The more grading stars and features of an exclusive calibre the better. The bubble of cheap and spontaneous travel would soon be set to burst and in more recent years austerity, recession and even ecological concessions have had an impact on our annual jaunts to distant parts. We now have to consider our own carbon footprint and how to offset the environmental impact of jet travel, yet more cause for anxiety and soul searching.
I have just come across the perfect antidote to this dilemna.
How about a weeks vacation as a member of an Iron Age Village in Denmark?
The venue is Sagnlandet Lejre translated as 'Land of Legends' a cultural centre which, in addition to the main Iron Age Village has in remaining ascending date order, a Stone Age Camp, Viking Market and 19th Century Farm setting.
It is not a case of just booking a place but having to apply and meet specific criteria in order for what is in effect a socio-economic experiment to work.
It must be one of the few holidays where you do not need to take a full suitcase because everything authentically stone age is provided. The village is a group of seven wattle and daub and thatched houses and a Smithy set amongst what is described as the sacrificial bog. Each house takes between 4 and 8 persons and priority is given to a full household from the same family group as long as there is a sufficient age range from young children to seniors. Occupants, not termed as guests are required to undertake daily tasks as part of a co-operative covering grinding flour, fetching water, forging iron, chopping wood and gathering wild plants. Hours are not that authentic being 10am to 5pm rather than dawn to dusk. The activity only takes place during the summer months so as not to expose sensitive and cossetted 21st Century folk to other seasonal hardships.
Those going up for the experience are more than likely to have an idea what they are to encounter. Otherwise Customer Services would be extremely busy explaining the absence of Wi-Fi, sachets of instant coffee and a trouser press in the mud huts. Some may attend out of genuine empathy with the period , others as some form of purge or detox from modern life.
A degree of weight loss may be expected from the tone of the Welcome Pack consisting of cereals, milk, cream, meat, beans, apples, nuts, onions and mushrooms.
It is not however all chores and smelting. Those Iron Agers obviously knew how to enjoy themselves in the great outdoors and on offer are fire making, fashioning iron implements, rustic baking and if an exchange visit could be arranged with the Stone Age Camp much fun could be had with competitive stone pulling and striving to make the best dug out boat from a tree trunk.
Who says that different cultures cannot live and thrive in perfect harmony?
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