Yesterday was the first time I had been a passenger in the 1971 registered VW Variant Squareback since, well, I guess it must have been about 1979 or possibly earlier.
I cannot remember the exact logistics but when, as a family of 7, we moved house in that year it consisted of a mini-convoy of large removals lorry and two of the three vehicles that Father had accumulated (The collection peaked at 5 in forthcoming years). At some time it will have been necessary to bring up the straggling third car and I seem to remember it was the Squareback.
As the crow flew, our relocation was only about 25 miles but critically, some 2 years before the Humber Bridge was completed and in use it involved a 70 plus miles drag around the course of the River to the Old Goole Bridge and also, pre-M62, travelling along some old, single carriageway roads to our new town of Beverley- a bit of a girly name but a very picturesque and nice place.
It will have been from this journey that the rear-mounted aircooled engine will have had it's last combustive process and, with the clunk-click of the driver's door it was mothballed for the next 34 years. It will have seen some daylight with the necessary shunting around of parked cars in the triple length garage at the back of the house and particularly with the arrival of car number 4, the 1966 built red mini that I shared with my two sisters. This will have been a manual push process and not under its own propulsion.
If Father happened to be working on oily or complicated looking mechanical things in the garage, pre plug in laptop diagnosis days, we may have breezed on by as disinterested teenagers to cadge pocket monies or to book a lift to or from a party or gig and caught a glimpse of the chrome bonnet badge towards the rear of the parked queue of vehicles.
We had never considered that it may have been kept in hibernation for us to use, but then again it was an estate car and it had window stickers from day trips to the tram museum at Crich, Derbyshire, Blair Atholl Castle in Perthshire, a visit I cannot recall to see the SS Great Western in Bristol Docks and Camping Club paraphernalia.
I admit that, to us, it was not a car with any semblance of being cool. The small mini, for all its skittish driving characteristics and crude engineering satisfied the criteria on cool grounds.
Our attitude towards the VW Squareback did definitely contribute to its survival for all the intervening years. Imagine how it would have fared in everyday use by us as late teens or twenty somethings setting new records for speed, number of people carried, possibly adorned with trendy or catchy badges or even, heaven forbid, some variations of the paintwork. The large load bay will have proven, in my mind, fairly effective for bonking and may have prevented me, on one occasion from misplacing a large amount of loose coinage which fell out of my trouser pockets in a field out near Walkington whilst entertaining a young lady in the great outdoors rather than in the back of an estate car.
As well as such misuse of the interior vinyl, the toll on the engine, transmission and running gear will have been enormous and a few years out on potholed or salt-infused roads will have contributed to the serious perforating corrosion that was the downfall of many a Peoples Car of that era.
The car is now in safe and responsible hands with Mark and Jo.
They already have credibility in aircooled circles as owners of a VW Beetle and it will be fantastic to see both vehicles together.
So, to my 34 years late lift around the block of yesterday.
I was giddy and excited, even more so than when last allowed to sit up front in 1979. I had contemplated secreting away a sick bag just in case or sitting on a sheet of newspaper in a dual bid to stave off queasiness and minimise that unpleasant stickiness when the back of your leg adheres to black vinyl seats. I did have a trial run, earlier in the day, of making some Marmite sandwiches in the quest for authenticity but, as always in my life, ate them at my house before setting off.
Mark edged the Squareback out of the gravelled lane from the garage. I had forgotten how long the bonnet was, a smooth profiled sheet of perfect white original paintwork flanked by the raised hoods of the headlight mounts. There was a cringing scrape and metallic crunch over the brick-setts from the lane to the road. This was a reminder that I had put on a bit of weight since 1979 thus contributing a few extra pounds to the axle weight as displayed on a Dymo-Tape strip on the passenger side door.
Mark kept up the revs and we were off, ascending the gentle incline of the street, through what resembled an honour guard of parked cars and across the Common.
A few pedestrians turned their heads at the distinctive throaty sound that characterise the rear engined VW's. Perhaps it invoked their own memories of owning one, or bonking in one, who knows?
It was decided to avoid the speed bumps of the nearest village which would rip out the guts of the car and take a longer route around the ring road. Even though bought brand new in 1971, the VW had only ever done 30,000 miles which amounted to only 700 miles a year, the equivalent of one return trip per year to Edinburgh. The engine was still sweet and you could even say not yet fully run in.
At junctions Mark kept the car in motion and with light traffic they were negotiated seamlessly. Cruising past the racecourse and into town on the York Road Mark pulled up at the traffic lights behind a bright, metallic blue BMW convertible. The single male occupant was immediately categorised by my judgemental mind as a) Hairdresser, b)Divorced, c) On the Pull or d) any other.
At his expense I got a few laughs, politically and gender incorrect, from my fellow passengers. However, I noticed that, on every distinctive throaty rev of the Squareback he would move his head and glance into his rear view mirror seeking out the source of the sound. I thought he felt threatened by what could be a similar sounding air cooled Porsche but it was his upper body language that suggested he was a pure motoring enthusiast.
Granted, his current choice of effeminate car may have been an error of judgement. I did not give him the benefit of any doubt on that subject. We remained on his tail through a number of junctions and my disrespectful comments continued to my captive audience but it soon became clear that he was adopting a CIA text book of following us from in front.
Like a photo fit identification process I was mentally assembling his features. Eyes from the mirror view, good head of hair, a bit jowly around the cheeks. I had seen him somewhere before.
In a hand gesture that I had experienced in a few road rage incidents he indicated that he wanted a word. Mark was worried that my terrible character assassination at the traffic lights had been lip-read by the driver. In the nose to tail town centre traffic there was no opportunity to pull over or stop, not that we wanted to given the evidence for a possible confrontation.
At a wide 'T' junction the BMW pulled alongside and slightly off the rear wing. I, stiff necked, turned and recognised the persistent driver as the man who in the previous autumn had enthused over and then bought the pride and joy of Fathers' car collection- the 1957 Morris Minor Convertible. In that beauty parade ,overseen by Mother, he had stood out as the best prospect for the car to be restored. He also stood out because he had a false leg as a consequence of an accident quite recently. He had heard of the sale of the Morris Minor through his therapist who felt a project would be good for him in coming to terms with his loss of lower limb. "I see you got it running then" he shouted over the traffic noise "Did you want to see how I'm getting on with the Morris?" It was an invitation too good to be true and Mark fell in behind and followed the BMW back across town and into the industrial estate on the River Hull bank.
There we were shown the Minor. It was stripped down, seats out and wings off but had obviously had many, many hours to date of careful attention to weld up the chassis and body. It was well on the way to a return to the road.
Looking back, I cannot really believe the coincidences of the day. I do however firmly hold that it was a reminder that Father is very much in attendance, keenly watching over us and encouraging us to enjoy our automotive experiences as much as they played a part in his own life.
Sunday 31 March 2013
Saturday 30 March 2013
Picture Perfect
It's a typical photograph from just about any family album from the 1970's.
If taken by my Father it is likely to have remained undeveloped for a couple of years if there were a few exposures left on the roll of 35mm film. This always made for a great surprise when the pictures were eventually developed.
It was a long process in those days, none of this 'while you wait' printing, no presentations on a CD or just inserting a photo card into a coin or credit card operated self service machine. A loose collection of completed rolls of film would have to be either left at Boots The Chemists or sent away in a brightly coloured pre-paid stick down envelope to Bonusprint, wherever they were located.
The potential for this latter arrangement to result in lost or damaged films was tremendous and I expect many family albums still have blank pages from that period eagerly anticipating long overdue return of the photo's to mount on corners above the already scrawled description of what you should be looking at.
Father was a keen photographer and in his youth he would develop and print his own work. The resulting snaps were small and black and white but very evocative of his formative years. There are some very glam photo's of Mother in their courting days, to be expected of such a stunner and rightfully trouncing the competition to become Miss Electrolux.
The chemicals and bulky equipment followed our family in successive house moves over 50 years, always being carefully secreted away in the attic spaces as though with some forlorn hope that us siblings would have a go one day. There was just too much science and time involved so we tended to leave that part of the process to the likes of Maximillian Spielmann and his contemporaries.
The single picture below shows me as a gawky, scrawny kid lacking confidence, with a very unfashionable hair style if it could at all be described as a style, dodgy swimming trunks and sandals and with a sticky vinyl camera case on my bare torso.
If not entirely clear, Yes, it is me on the right of the pair. The small child is my younger brother Mark, he must have been about 3 years old at the time which would date the picture to 1978.
I can confirm this because on the same family holiday I remember sitting on the steps of the caravan and listening to the Chart Countdown and 'If the Kids are United' by Sham 69 was playing.
The photo is now a bit jaundiced around the edges but then so am I some 35 years older. In the background is a house that was owned by my Father's cousins. The fields in between were part of the same farming estate in a beautiful part of Somerset, complete with rolling hills, woodland, a stream with fishing rights and a small encampment containing a group of squatting distant relatives (us).
It was an idyllic holiday and I remember having a complete strop with my parents when they explained that it was not really possible for me to stay on in the caravan in that grassy meadow and become a farmhand rather than return to do my O' Levels at school. I sulked for the entire journey back to Lincolnshire when it was time to pack up and go back to normality.
After about a week at home I forgot about becoming a farmer and tormented my loving parents with an announcement that I was going to join the Army.
I was, it is clear to see from the album snap , not obviously cut out for a vocation in a field, agricultural or battle.
Perhaps I was always destined to be a Chartered Surveyor....discuss.
Friday 29 March 2013
Snow Way Through
Me and The Boy only really started our serious cycling in the sweltering days of early August last year. It was short sleeved shirt and shorts time and we soon bore our distinctive cyclists sun tan of half arms and half legs, almost like a Neapolitan ice cream in human form.
The decision process whether to go out for a ride at that time was easy. If it was one or more of daylight hours, blue sky, sunshine, above twenty degrees centigrade and dry then we were out in our flashy team gear ready to take on shopper bikes, electric cycles and mobility scooters.
We could set off with the assurance that it would not rain for the duration and we would be bathed in glorious warmth to keep that strange patterned tan topped up.
Even if not on two wheels and just in summer clothes we would be instantly recognised as cyclists or perhaps painters of motorway barriers which I feel would be the only real activity to achieve anywhere near the same stripey skin tone appearance.
The light evenings meant that we could set off about 4pm, if I skipped work early, and have three hours as rouleurs before the chill and dusk set in.
We watched with increasing dismay as the nights began to draw in by mid to late September and if we misjudged distance and time we would have to sneak back through town in failing visibility risking being hauled up for not having a set of lights.
The final ride for 2012 was on a weekend in November and the mountain bikes were power washed down and prepared for a hibernation in the garage. We would keep a watching brief on whether a ride would be possible in the coming harsher months.
Like the thoroughbreds we now believed ourselves to be we would pace up and down looking for any optimism in the weather but there was little or no meaningful daylight, the skies were grey or darker, the sunshine weak and insipid, temperatures in single figures either just positive or below zero and the air thick with every form of precipitation. Conversations between us were becoming centred on justifying how poor any cycling attempt would be in the prevailing conditions.
Gradually a criteria for winter riding was formulated and we managed to start up again quite quickly in 2013 but entirely on the surfaced roads rather than taking to off road paths, tracks and bridleways which were still gloopy and impassable.
January had some reasonable weekend weather and this held up in February. A few rides were possible, each just around 20 miles before frostbite and face-ache set in. However, the heavier cold air and falls of snow in March were deterrent enough to venture out. It would just be unpleasant on bodily extremities and quite painful to facial projections.
The upshot has been that until today we have had an enforced lay-off from the bikes. We have walked over 60 miles around the town but never wandering more than a mile away from the house. Our route goes up and down a series of parallel streets and avenues, some quite long inclines and then onto the exposed Humber Foreshore before clambering up through the Country Park, under the carriageway of the suspension bridge and back down the hill. The pace is relentless with The Boy always half a stride ahead which is mightily annoying. He never keeps a straight line and, intentionally or not, I find myself squeezed into a hedge or on a couple of occasions my momentum has taken me up someone's driveway like a grand prix pit stop rather than crash through the boundary fence.
Our stamina has been much improved, well at least after getting over the agonising shin splints in the first mile or so. To shake off this agonising deep boned pain involves a bit of a hop, skip and jump which to homeowners on the route may be either entertaining or downright disturbing.
I was fully prepared, today, to just go for a walk but The Boy expressed disappointment in my broaching this type of activity as he wanted to go cycling. The criteria for winter riding were barely met. It was a borderline, touch and go situation. The Boy won.
It was an effort to get motivated to put the roof bars and cycle carriers on the car notwithstanding that it was cold and breezy. A mere four degrees centigrade smacked of recklessness to me. I persisted and after a swift re-education in how to securely fix bikes to the roof rack I tracked down my riding gear, checked the spares, pumped up the cold, hard tyres and lifted the surprisingly heavy pair of machines into position.
As soon as we reached the dual carriageway there was a strange rapping and knocking from somewhere above our heads. When you need somewhere to execute an emergency stop there is no hard shoulder, slip road or lay-by to hand and at minimal acceptable speed amongst HGV's and the usual dense flow of traffic I crawled along until a parking area loomed up. The noise was nothing more than a flapping strap.
As a precaution I checked all the fixings again and once more before being satisfied that we would not be cited on the local traffic news as the cause of an obstruction on the carriageway. I was not really sure of our destination and mental maps popped up of the previous summers idyllic days out until a route sprang to mind. Then we had been smacked in the face by flying bugs, dodged slow moving bumble bees and skittish butterflies, paced comically moving wildfowl up the lanes, weaved around grazing livestock and their oversized faecal mounds. Today we started the ride in the swirling dry powder from successive days of the activity of gritting lorries.
On the steep slope of the Medieval sounding Trundlegate hill we carved a track through banks of packed ice and snow and sloshed through the melt waters which were flowing quite fast in the opposite direction. It was bitterly cold and the easterly wind which we had calculated would be part foe and part ally to a cyclist decided to behave erratically and we had no respite from swirling and strong gusts.
I was prepared to look The Boy in the eye with an expression along the lines of ' a walk would have been less taxing' but he was waltzing away well up the slope resuming another of his annoying traits, that of leaving me behind which he had practiced to a fine art last summer.
We were after all at the highest point on the Wolds and even though there had been no fresh snow falls for a week the persistence of the cold temperatures had ensured that much of it was in situ. We crossed the main road and continued along a single track lane.
A few vehicles and the Post Lady in her red van passed by, just, if we rode on the permafrost verge. All of them came back which suggested that they had collectively taken a wrong turn or delivered the mail, respectively. I joked about errant Sat-Navs.
The reason soon became clear.
The road was blocked by a snow drift- in late March- and this stretched for as far as the eye could see. It was inconceivable that, in 21st Century England and just a few miles from a major regional city, our passage was thwarted by such a thing. I had not seen anything like it before. It was real snow as I found out on trying to get a front wheel on it and not a film set for Doctor Zhivago 2.
Put it down to cuts in Local Authority services or just a massive oversight it was still inexcusable and especially so as it added another 6 miles to our ride just to get to where the road resumed on the far side of the starting point of the New Ice Age.
The decision process whether to go out for a ride at that time was easy. If it was one or more of daylight hours, blue sky, sunshine, above twenty degrees centigrade and dry then we were out in our flashy team gear ready to take on shopper bikes, electric cycles and mobility scooters.
We could set off with the assurance that it would not rain for the duration and we would be bathed in glorious warmth to keep that strange patterned tan topped up.
Even if not on two wheels and just in summer clothes we would be instantly recognised as cyclists or perhaps painters of motorway barriers which I feel would be the only real activity to achieve anywhere near the same stripey skin tone appearance.
The light evenings meant that we could set off about 4pm, if I skipped work early, and have three hours as rouleurs before the chill and dusk set in.
We watched with increasing dismay as the nights began to draw in by mid to late September and if we misjudged distance and time we would have to sneak back through town in failing visibility risking being hauled up for not having a set of lights.
The final ride for 2012 was on a weekend in November and the mountain bikes were power washed down and prepared for a hibernation in the garage. We would keep a watching brief on whether a ride would be possible in the coming harsher months.
Like the thoroughbreds we now believed ourselves to be we would pace up and down looking for any optimism in the weather but there was little or no meaningful daylight, the skies were grey or darker, the sunshine weak and insipid, temperatures in single figures either just positive or below zero and the air thick with every form of precipitation. Conversations between us were becoming centred on justifying how poor any cycling attempt would be in the prevailing conditions.
Gradually a criteria for winter riding was formulated and we managed to start up again quite quickly in 2013 but entirely on the surfaced roads rather than taking to off road paths, tracks and bridleways which were still gloopy and impassable.
January had some reasonable weekend weather and this held up in February. A few rides were possible, each just around 20 miles before frostbite and face-ache set in. However, the heavier cold air and falls of snow in March were deterrent enough to venture out. It would just be unpleasant on bodily extremities and quite painful to facial projections.
The upshot has been that until today we have had an enforced lay-off from the bikes. We have walked over 60 miles around the town but never wandering more than a mile away from the house. Our route goes up and down a series of parallel streets and avenues, some quite long inclines and then onto the exposed Humber Foreshore before clambering up through the Country Park, under the carriageway of the suspension bridge and back down the hill. The pace is relentless with The Boy always half a stride ahead which is mightily annoying. He never keeps a straight line and, intentionally or not, I find myself squeezed into a hedge or on a couple of occasions my momentum has taken me up someone's driveway like a grand prix pit stop rather than crash through the boundary fence.
Our stamina has been much improved, well at least after getting over the agonising shin splints in the first mile or so. To shake off this agonising deep boned pain involves a bit of a hop, skip and jump which to homeowners on the route may be either entertaining or downright disturbing.
I was fully prepared, today, to just go for a walk but The Boy expressed disappointment in my broaching this type of activity as he wanted to go cycling. The criteria for winter riding were barely met. It was a borderline, touch and go situation. The Boy won.
It was an effort to get motivated to put the roof bars and cycle carriers on the car notwithstanding that it was cold and breezy. A mere four degrees centigrade smacked of recklessness to me. I persisted and after a swift re-education in how to securely fix bikes to the roof rack I tracked down my riding gear, checked the spares, pumped up the cold, hard tyres and lifted the surprisingly heavy pair of machines into position.
As soon as we reached the dual carriageway there was a strange rapping and knocking from somewhere above our heads. When you need somewhere to execute an emergency stop there is no hard shoulder, slip road or lay-by to hand and at minimal acceptable speed amongst HGV's and the usual dense flow of traffic I crawled along until a parking area loomed up. The noise was nothing more than a flapping strap.
As a precaution I checked all the fixings again and once more before being satisfied that we would not be cited on the local traffic news as the cause of an obstruction on the carriageway. I was not really sure of our destination and mental maps popped up of the previous summers idyllic days out until a route sprang to mind. Then we had been smacked in the face by flying bugs, dodged slow moving bumble bees and skittish butterflies, paced comically moving wildfowl up the lanes, weaved around grazing livestock and their oversized faecal mounds. Today we started the ride in the swirling dry powder from successive days of the activity of gritting lorries.
On the steep slope of the Medieval sounding Trundlegate hill we carved a track through banks of packed ice and snow and sloshed through the melt waters which were flowing quite fast in the opposite direction. It was bitterly cold and the easterly wind which we had calculated would be part foe and part ally to a cyclist decided to behave erratically and we had no respite from swirling and strong gusts.
I was prepared to look The Boy in the eye with an expression along the lines of ' a walk would have been less taxing' but he was waltzing away well up the slope resuming another of his annoying traits, that of leaving me behind which he had practiced to a fine art last summer.
We were after all at the highest point on the Wolds and even though there had been no fresh snow falls for a week the persistence of the cold temperatures had ensured that much of it was in situ. We crossed the main road and continued along a single track lane.
A few vehicles and the Post Lady in her red van passed by, just, if we rode on the permafrost verge. All of them came back which suggested that they had collectively taken a wrong turn or delivered the mail, respectively. I joked about errant Sat-Navs.
The reason soon became clear.
The road was blocked by a snow drift- in late March- and this stretched for as far as the eye could see. It was inconceivable that, in 21st Century England and just a few miles from a major regional city, our passage was thwarted by such a thing. I had not seen anything like it before. It was real snow as I found out on trying to get a front wheel on it and not a film set for Doctor Zhivago 2.
Put it down to cuts in Local Authority services or just a massive oversight it was still inexcusable and especially so as it added another 6 miles to our ride just to get to where the road resumed on the far side of the starting point of the New Ice Age.
Thursday 28 March 2013
Overhead Power Lines
Some of the older generation that I meet seem genuinely surprised to have reached a ripe old age.
A conversation with them will invariably start with reference to how old they are. It is delivered with pride but then tinged with a bit of sadness as they realise that although they form part of a select demographic it is one that is dwindling on a daily basis. I do value any time spent in the company of, in particular, the 80 to 90 year olds because the life and times that they have experienced include some of the most tumultuous events in world history from the Depression to World conflict, post war austerity and boom and all points within the spectrum of social, personal, economic, health, welfare and political phenomena.
In the decade of their birth it was still very much a case of recovery from the First World War with a decimated male population and the imbalance arising which had repercussions not just amongst individual families but for the Nation as a whole.
The optimistic and flamboyant 1920's created a much welcomed tonic but by the 1930's had foundered with the emerging crises of a failing economy and another looming coming together of warring ideologies. The generation would be reduced with inevitable casualties in battle, military and civilian and not just confined to the male contingent.
Rationing and shortages persisted into the 1950's before recovery and a seemingly miraculous resurgence in industry and consumerism. It was a period of full employment, jobs for life, expansion of the housing sector from largely rented to an encouragement and means to own your own home, cheap petrol for the newest models of cars, better roads and infrastructure, a health service; indeed a Golden Age epitomised in 1957 by the sentiment that things had never been so good.
Heated arguments always seem to be about whether the 1960's that followed surpassed the previous decade. There is something of a case to side with the pro-group with increased freedoms in behaviour, particularly the sexual revolution and the much cited music playlist of that era which is an evocative soundtrack to more conflict, upheaval, coups d'état and atrocities.
However, to my age group, with a different outlook and perspective it can sometimes just resemble a big boozy and drug infused party, a letting loose of conventions and morals by a lost generation.
Like a bad hangover the 1970's were a decade of uncertainty and my recollections during my own formative years were of periodic power cuts, piles of rubbish on the street, going to school through a picket line of demonstrating public servants or teachers, the weather either persistently freezing or permanent summer, tank tops, Oxford Bag trousers, kissing girls and with everything in soft, multicolour focus whereas my memories that went before were in black and white.
If I were to say what was my most productive decade I would certainly start with the 1980's. I had a hot hatchback, reactolite prescription lenses, my first house, the job I had always wanted, a beautiful wife and a good group of friends. Yuppy or muppet are two descriptions that come to mind from that time.
The 1990's were equally productive with three children by the same beautiful wife and a venture into self employment which brought the superficial trappings of success, yes, epitomised by ownership (Hire Purchase Agreement) of a Volvo Estate Car.
Where the following fifteen to twenty years have gone, I know not where because they have flown by at an incessant pace. I have been busy and engaged, alright.
I discussed this seemingly uncontrollable evaporation of time with a gentleman of 87 this week.
He was moving out of a house that he had occupied since 1956. He had, in fact, sourced his own builder upon stumbling across an open field plot for the purpose upon arriving in York to take up a teaching post.
Now surrounded by later speculative developments of estate housing he recounted that from the upstairs rooms he used to be able to see the Pennine Hills to the west and the dancing lights of vehicles ascending and descending Garrowby, a steep hill on the Wolds to the east. From his well chosen, slightly elevated and flood free plot this was a clear view extending more than 30 miles in each direction.
It had been a good family house and his children, now in their mid to late 50's had benefitted from unrestricted roaming in the surrounding rural area. On what we now infrequent visits to their recently widowed father they always remarked, sadly, that their street which had been on the very edge of their known world was now firmly built up and suburban. As for the electricity pylons striding across the street scene in view they were even more expressive, in a negative way, of the relentless expansion of the local area. This was to them a great disappointment.
They would not now ever consider returning to live where their memories and day dreams had become so tainted.
A conversation with them will invariably start with reference to how old they are. It is delivered with pride but then tinged with a bit of sadness as they realise that although they form part of a select demographic it is one that is dwindling on a daily basis. I do value any time spent in the company of, in particular, the 80 to 90 year olds because the life and times that they have experienced include some of the most tumultuous events in world history from the Depression to World conflict, post war austerity and boom and all points within the spectrum of social, personal, economic, health, welfare and political phenomena.
In the decade of their birth it was still very much a case of recovery from the First World War with a decimated male population and the imbalance arising which had repercussions not just amongst individual families but for the Nation as a whole.
The optimistic and flamboyant 1920's created a much welcomed tonic but by the 1930's had foundered with the emerging crises of a failing economy and another looming coming together of warring ideologies. The generation would be reduced with inevitable casualties in battle, military and civilian and not just confined to the male contingent.
Rationing and shortages persisted into the 1950's before recovery and a seemingly miraculous resurgence in industry and consumerism. It was a period of full employment, jobs for life, expansion of the housing sector from largely rented to an encouragement and means to own your own home, cheap petrol for the newest models of cars, better roads and infrastructure, a health service; indeed a Golden Age epitomised in 1957 by the sentiment that things had never been so good.
Heated arguments always seem to be about whether the 1960's that followed surpassed the previous decade. There is something of a case to side with the pro-group with increased freedoms in behaviour, particularly the sexual revolution and the much cited music playlist of that era which is an evocative soundtrack to more conflict, upheaval, coups d'état and atrocities.
However, to my age group, with a different outlook and perspective it can sometimes just resemble a big boozy and drug infused party, a letting loose of conventions and morals by a lost generation.
Like a bad hangover the 1970's were a decade of uncertainty and my recollections during my own formative years were of periodic power cuts, piles of rubbish on the street, going to school through a picket line of demonstrating public servants or teachers, the weather either persistently freezing or permanent summer, tank tops, Oxford Bag trousers, kissing girls and with everything in soft, multicolour focus whereas my memories that went before were in black and white.
If I were to say what was my most productive decade I would certainly start with the 1980's. I had a hot hatchback, reactolite prescription lenses, my first house, the job I had always wanted, a beautiful wife and a good group of friends. Yuppy or muppet are two descriptions that come to mind from that time.
The 1990's were equally productive with three children by the same beautiful wife and a venture into self employment which brought the superficial trappings of success, yes, epitomised by ownership (Hire Purchase Agreement) of a Volvo Estate Car.
Where the following fifteen to twenty years have gone, I know not where because they have flown by at an incessant pace. I have been busy and engaged, alright.
I discussed this seemingly uncontrollable evaporation of time with a gentleman of 87 this week.
He was moving out of a house that he had occupied since 1956. He had, in fact, sourced his own builder upon stumbling across an open field plot for the purpose upon arriving in York to take up a teaching post.
Now surrounded by later speculative developments of estate housing he recounted that from the upstairs rooms he used to be able to see the Pennine Hills to the west and the dancing lights of vehicles ascending and descending Garrowby, a steep hill on the Wolds to the east. From his well chosen, slightly elevated and flood free plot this was a clear view extending more than 30 miles in each direction.
It had been a good family house and his children, now in their mid to late 50's had benefitted from unrestricted roaming in the surrounding rural area. On what we now infrequent visits to their recently widowed father they always remarked, sadly, that their street which had been on the very edge of their known world was now firmly built up and suburban. As for the electricity pylons striding across the street scene in view they were even more expressive, in a negative way, of the relentless expansion of the local area. This was to them a great disappointment.
They would not now ever consider returning to live where their memories and day dreams had become so tainted.
Wednesday 27 March 2013
Bedtime Stories from Phil and Kirsty
One Storey;
The bungalow was built just on the northern edge of the town. That is the current edge of the town which had expanded significantly in the post war and more modern period with an estate of commuter housing. A hundred years earlier the same location was well out of town, more rural than urban. Then, opposite stood the railway station, a good walk from the town centre. Now, opposite a trackless station building, with a new lease of life as a printers workshop. The land for the bungalow had been cheap on locational factors. It was also a strange wedge shaped parcel of land, narrow road frontage and opening out, long and bulbous. The longest boundary will have been close and parallel to the old railway line that Mr Beeching considered unviable. Excavations for the bungalow foundations threw up a good supply of lumps of coal, perhaps falling from theladen tender of the constant stream of steam trains in the heyday of rail travel. Nothing else impeded the rapid construction of the bungalow. Some years later the owners considered the attachment of a conservatory on the inward facing rear elevation. Plans were drawn up, approved and quotations obtained for the work. The trenches for the dwarf walling were hand dug at first, close to the bungalow and then a JCB was brought in to continue the scraping and gouging of the clay soil. Progress was good but then the driver of the excavator signalled frantically that something was wrong. The bucket had broken through the crust of the site to reveal a hole. A test brick thrown in took some time to impact below. The surface was carefully scraped away to reveal not a hole but a chasm. The whole part of the inner site had been but a thin dome of soil beneath which was the remains of the Town Gas Works. Letters of enquiry were sent to Solicitors and the Council. The plant had certainly existed but was never documented or mapped. The only townsperson who remembered the burning of coal and production of gas in that part of the town had died only weeks before. There was no redress through Law . It took about thirty tipper lorry loads of rubble to fill the hole before a raft foundation could be built to support the planned structure. Sitting out in the conservatory on a pleasantly warm evening watching the wildlife on the course of the old railway line was not really enough to compensate for the cost and stress of its manifestation .
Storey Two
The chalet style house looked good as I pulled up outside. Built in the 1970’s it had been newly renovated and refurbished and this cosmetic effect had taken perhaps 25 years off its appearance. My database had a record that it had been purchased just 6 months ago and for a price which clearly indicated that it must have been in quite a state of dereliction or abandonment. The proud new owner welcomed me in and gave me the grand tour. My visit was to appraise and value the house for a bank with the intention of releasing some of the equity achieved from the investment of renovation. The resurrection of the house had been a good one. I gave an opinion of where I thought the value was now and the owner was evidently pleased that his speculative venture had paid a healthy dividend. We got to talking all things property market. Then the owner asked if the demand for and value of a property could be affected by an untimely death in that property. I reassured him that this was not usually a problem as local memory was often short on such things. He came back hesitantly asking what about if there had been two untimely deaths and at the same time. I stalled with an answer which was fortunate as he gushed forth with the whole story. His house had previously been occupied by an elderly lady and her grown up son. The pair were inseperable, very reclusive and not a little bit eccentric. Untidy garden, grubby always drawn net curtains, flaking paintwork, the same black spotted sticky fly paper in the porch. The sorts of things that kept the local children well away. One Christmas morning the pair had fallen out in a big way over who was to take the first bath. By heavy handed accident, it was thought, the mother was pushed over, impacted her head and died. The son, distressed and distraught then took his own life. That was a chapter in the history of the house. A couple of years later I noticed an advertisement for the sale of the house in the Thursday property supplement. Within a few days there was a sold sticker across the agents board. I had been right that local memory was often short on infamous events. I would not however like to be the first to break the news to the new owner particularly if they had any firm position on manslaughter and suicide on their own doorstep.
Storey Three
Three storey house. That description met one of my multiple criteria for a prospective purchase. A good number of the other boxes were also ticked for location, 4 bed rooms, newly fitted kitchen and bathroom , games room, decent sized garden and a garage. I rang the selling agents to enquire about a viewing. My own house was sold and I was in a strong position to proceed if I liked the property. Holding the line, the agent rang through to the vendor and after a few cross referenced conversations a mutually acceptable date and time to view was agreed. I took away a single sheet brochure for the property, minus a photograph as it was a very new listing and the particulars were still in a draft unapproved format. The approach to the property was through a newish development of four detached houses along a hard surfaced but private status roadway. The cul de sac terminated at a set of high metal gates set within a high perimeter fence more reminiscent of a prison than a private dwelling. I had to get out of the car to buzz for entry. I drove through into what could only be described as a compound. The only building was a squat cast concrete rectangle of only one story height under a flat reinforced slab roof and with a vented tower atop. The owner met me at the door and commenced a tour of the property. It was indeed three storeys of rooms but two of these were wholly subterranean having been purpose built in the 1970’s as the command bunker for the Local Authority in the event of a nuclear conflict. The tour was interesting and informative but coming away I was more than sure that bunker survivalist living was not at the top of my property shopping list.
Tuesday 26 March 2013
Our Swipe at things
It is a private matter, between me, my conscience and my Maker about how I eat my Cadbury Cream Egg and I will not, under any circumstances, be persuaded to divulge it.
I am under extreme pressure so to do and this is exerted through the medium of TV advertising every year at this time, just before Easter.
I object to such an intrusion but in today's information overloaded culture and with so much data available in the public domain what I do with my Cream Egg in the privacy of my own home may in fact be the only secret left in my whole existence. That is apart from the fact that I know where the bodies are buried.
I have recently subscribed to a service company who send me an alert if anyone attempts to access my credit history or financial records. This could be from a perfectly innocent search against my name if I have thought about buying anything or if I have stood as guarantor for my young adult children.
Alternatively someone could be stealing my identity and seeking to start a new life as me. I can only say good luck on that basis. I have every sympathy for your previous and current existence but you may not be aware what you are now taking on.
The amount of information held by third parties is astonishing.
In a quiet moment I will do what everyone does on the internet, yes, Google my own name. My best appearance is on page 34 which is a bit disappointing at face value but in the context of a multi billion page count not too bad.
I am a bit spooked by just putting in my house number and first part of my postcode in an online form and then being bombarded by every material fact associated with it. I seem to remember that the only thing that you ever needed to prove your existence was a National Insurance number or some reference relating to medical history.
When young I was mightily impressed by seeing someone present their UK Passport as proof of identity. I didn't have a real passport until well into my thirties. That implies that I might have had a false one but I mean to say that on the rare occasions that I ventured abroad it was on just an annual visitors passport but severely lacking the gravitas of its hard bound and authentic relation. In a potential hostage situation involving British Citizens such a non-descript document may not have drawn attention to my nationality. That may not be all that bad after all.
Personal matters that were Taboo just a few decades ago are now well and truly out in the open. For example, how much you earned and who your political sympathies lie with are now flaunted as badges of honour. If we believe the tabloid newspapers it is also fair game to let all and sundry know about sexual behaviour with front page tales of how much, how long and with how many setting the national standard and expectations.
Well, that line of decency and politeness has been well and truly crossed with a recent piece of TV marketing. Not so much crossed as used as a hop scotch marker.
The advertisement that arouses my normally tolerant and broad-minded outlook is from a well known brand of toilet roll. We are honestly being expected to publically express our favour for either folding or scrunching the toilet tissue before applying it to our obviously less than sensitive backsides. It may be intended as a bit of 'tongue in cheek' humour but to me and my sense of privacy it is just a bare faced liberty.
I am under extreme pressure so to do and this is exerted through the medium of TV advertising every year at this time, just before Easter.
I object to such an intrusion but in today's information overloaded culture and with so much data available in the public domain what I do with my Cream Egg in the privacy of my own home may in fact be the only secret left in my whole existence. That is apart from the fact that I know where the bodies are buried.
I have recently subscribed to a service company who send me an alert if anyone attempts to access my credit history or financial records. This could be from a perfectly innocent search against my name if I have thought about buying anything or if I have stood as guarantor for my young adult children.
Alternatively someone could be stealing my identity and seeking to start a new life as me. I can only say good luck on that basis. I have every sympathy for your previous and current existence but you may not be aware what you are now taking on.
The amount of information held by third parties is astonishing.
In a quiet moment I will do what everyone does on the internet, yes, Google my own name. My best appearance is on page 34 which is a bit disappointing at face value but in the context of a multi billion page count not too bad.
I am a bit spooked by just putting in my house number and first part of my postcode in an online form and then being bombarded by every material fact associated with it. I seem to remember that the only thing that you ever needed to prove your existence was a National Insurance number or some reference relating to medical history.
When young I was mightily impressed by seeing someone present their UK Passport as proof of identity. I didn't have a real passport until well into my thirties. That implies that I might have had a false one but I mean to say that on the rare occasions that I ventured abroad it was on just an annual visitors passport but severely lacking the gravitas of its hard bound and authentic relation. In a potential hostage situation involving British Citizens such a non-descript document may not have drawn attention to my nationality. That may not be all that bad after all.
Personal matters that were Taboo just a few decades ago are now well and truly out in the open. For example, how much you earned and who your political sympathies lie with are now flaunted as badges of honour. If we believe the tabloid newspapers it is also fair game to let all and sundry know about sexual behaviour with front page tales of how much, how long and with how many setting the national standard and expectations.
Well, that line of decency and politeness has been well and truly crossed with a recent piece of TV marketing. Not so much crossed as used as a hop scotch marker.
The advertisement that arouses my normally tolerant and broad-minded outlook is from a well known brand of toilet roll. We are honestly being expected to publically express our favour for either folding or scrunching the toilet tissue before applying it to our obviously less than sensitive backsides. It may be intended as a bit of 'tongue in cheek' humour but to me and my sense of privacy it is just a bare faced liberty.
Monday 25 March 2013
Diet Coke Ad. The Grass Cutters Perspective
It was my turn.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had literally ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and disposed of the rubbish. This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of a hard working man. I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower. It was , to me better than sex.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had literally ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and disposed of the rubbish. This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of a hard working man. I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower. It was , to me better than sex.
Sunday 24 March 2013
Mellowed with Age
In their day they were the sort of people that you did your best to avoid doing business with.
More than that you tried to avoid having any association, actual or implied, with them whatsoever because their bad reputations could tarnish you own.
You were also best advised not to walk with them for any distance down a public highway in case a disgruntled former employee, unhappy customer, ex-wife or a desperate creditor took it upon themselves to exact revenge using a vehicle intentionally mounting the pavement or by any other form of propelled missile.
What had these people done to produce such an adverse reaction in others?
Well, a good proportion of them were expert in some form of sharp business practice.
I must clarify that they were not involved in any illegal, criminal or nefarious activities but that they had little disregard, borne from a lack of moral compass or conscience for others. In some cases they were just slow to pay their monthly invoices. This may have been simply down to chaotic accounting practice, a befuddling of the books so that what was owed was not made clear but I suspect it was down to a sadistic pleasure in making others squirm and anxious for what was, after all ,rightly theirs for materials or services rendered.
Naturally, with roles reversed and money being outstanding to them they could be heavy handed, threatening, intimidating and downright unpleasant.
A few stories circulated amongst the commercial network in our City about specific individuals and their debt collection practices or business dealings. After a few Chinese whispers any truth in the tales was very difficult to ascertain but the reputations persisted and further episodes of somewhat wild speculation and credibility were added and embellished.
If the subjects of these urban myths were subsequently observed in the town there would be an exodus to the opposite pavement, a huddling together and furtive glances in their direction and a few, under-breath stock judgements. The recipients of such a reaction did not appear to notice that they invoked a fear amongst their peers or just did not care. To me, they always looked healthy, wealthy and happy. They were not obviously losing any sleep over what they were alleged to have done.
I did cross paths with a few of this select group of 'businessmen' but more from default than intention.
They were particularly active in the property sector and it was inevitable that, in my job , I would come across them.
One of them dealt in the buying and selling of houses for profit. A wreck of an old terraced house would be bought from a bankrupt estate, disinterested executors or an owner teetering on the fringes of being repossessed by a mortgage company. These distressed circumstances made for a very low outlay to buy. When vacant the house would be 'done-up', with I must stress the emphasis on 'done'. Even if in a state of advanced dereliction and decay the extent of the refurbishment would solely be a liberal application of woodchip paper throughout. That was it, the full scheme.
If I was engaged by a prospective buyer to inspect and report on what they had been informed was a 'fully modernised house' my subsequent damning report on a complete absence of any meaningful repairs or material improvements was quite a shock. My client would, understandably drop out of the running but the same property always sold within a short time frame. I dreaded having to collect a set of keys from the perpetrators' seedy office for subsequent jobs as he was obviously aware of the advice I was giving to my clients which served as the deal breaker. I developed an irrational hatred of any form of woodchip wallpaper and this persists to the present day.
I sometimes found myself in the employ of this select group on a default basis if instructed by a Bank or a Solicitor. This could be quite a menacing experience as I was duty bound to provide impartial and reasoned advice to the instructing Client but yet would be provided with information of dubious validity by their customer. It was a case of being ultra-professional in approach and behaviour in the face, often as not, of extreme pressure and coercion to gloss over any faults or shortcomings and provide an inflated opinion of the true value of the properties being offered up as collateral for a loan or additional financial facilities. I maintain that my reputation was upheld and the job done ethically and fairly.
Some thirty years on and these names from the past have attained the status of loveable rogues. Their halcyon days in business permitted a graceful retreat from the public eye and they were left to enjoy the fruits of their labours in retirement. Those who were terrified by their regime back then have either not lasted the course, moved into other spheres of business or out of the region. It has the impression of a period of no real victims.
To see the rogues now is quite sad as they are old, grey, unsure on their legs and a mere ghost of their former vigour, charm and persuasive powers. There may still be a flamboyant red silk handkerchief in a blazer pocket as a flash from the past . They may also be seen in the company of a bleached -blonde elderly lady who certainly will have been a looker in her time.
In recompense for their making a buck in business some have devoted their now ample free time to good causes being patrons of a Charity, the life and soul of fund raising at their local golf club or sponsoring a bout at the twice yearly Boys Boxing Club socials.
Just recently I received a request to act for one of the old characters in a family matter which involved me being driven round a few properties in his car. We had not ever met before which was unusual in three decades of working in the same City but soon established common links to others whom we knew.
I did however have some trepidation about sharing a car with him. This was because of an urban myth of indeterminate origin which had made quite an impression on me at the time and subsequently.
The story was that he was owed a considerable sum of money but the debtor was reluctant to meet his obligations. After exhausting conventional routes to collect without satisfaction the hapless debtor was bundled into the expansive boot of my hosts Mercedes and driven around the city for the best part of the day until a promise to pay was extracted from a distressed voice from somewhere behind the number plate.
This piece of information played on my mind as a passenger in, I realised, perhaps the very same vehicle ,now an aged, classic Mercedes saloon.
We had get on very amicably, chatty and with many humorous anecdotes given in turn but it was always going to happen that we just ran out of mutual conversation.
We sat in awkward silence. My inner voice toyed with the idea of introducing the subject of boot space on that model of car. I was in business myself and perhaps I could raise the matter of cash flow and how to resolve the periodic lack of it . There would be some benefit in tapping into the experiences of someone who had adopted the most practical of approaches in his time.
I glanced sideways at a wrinkled old man who was struggling to see the road ahead through thick bi-focal lenses. His hands on the steering wheel shook uncontrollably and he muttered about having to find a place for a wee quite soon. A regular knocking sound came from deep in the car boot somewhere behind my seated position. In a sudden cold sweat I feared that I was an unwitting accomplice in another abduction. This time perhaps a pensioner who had not paid the annual subscription at the Bowls Club or had not acted on the promise of donating something as a tombola prize.
The old man cursed Mercedes Benz and the well known manufacturing deficiencies in the rear shock absorbers on his particular executive model which had proven to be a most persistent problem since he had bought it all those years ago. He would definitely think about buying Japanese next. I just kept quiet for the rest of the day, preferring to perpetuate the myth.
More than that you tried to avoid having any association, actual or implied, with them whatsoever because their bad reputations could tarnish you own.
You were also best advised not to walk with them for any distance down a public highway in case a disgruntled former employee, unhappy customer, ex-wife or a desperate creditor took it upon themselves to exact revenge using a vehicle intentionally mounting the pavement or by any other form of propelled missile.
What had these people done to produce such an adverse reaction in others?
Well, a good proportion of them were expert in some form of sharp business practice.
I must clarify that they were not involved in any illegal, criminal or nefarious activities but that they had little disregard, borne from a lack of moral compass or conscience for others. In some cases they were just slow to pay their monthly invoices. This may have been simply down to chaotic accounting practice, a befuddling of the books so that what was owed was not made clear but I suspect it was down to a sadistic pleasure in making others squirm and anxious for what was, after all ,rightly theirs for materials or services rendered.
Naturally, with roles reversed and money being outstanding to them they could be heavy handed, threatening, intimidating and downright unpleasant.
A few stories circulated amongst the commercial network in our City about specific individuals and their debt collection practices or business dealings. After a few Chinese whispers any truth in the tales was very difficult to ascertain but the reputations persisted and further episodes of somewhat wild speculation and credibility were added and embellished.
If the subjects of these urban myths were subsequently observed in the town there would be an exodus to the opposite pavement, a huddling together and furtive glances in their direction and a few, under-breath stock judgements. The recipients of such a reaction did not appear to notice that they invoked a fear amongst their peers or just did not care. To me, they always looked healthy, wealthy and happy. They were not obviously losing any sleep over what they were alleged to have done.
I did cross paths with a few of this select group of 'businessmen' but more from default than intention.
They were particularly active in the property sector and it was inevitable that, in my job , I would come across them.
One of them dealt in the buying and selling of houses for profit. A wreck of an old terraced house would be bought from a bankrupt estate, disinterested executors or an owner teetering on the fringes of being repossessed by a mortgage company. These distressed circumstances made for a very low outlay to buy. When vacant the house would be 'done-up', with I must stress the emphasis on 'done'. Even if in a state of advanced dereliction and decay the extent of the refurbishment would solely be a liberal application of woodchip paper throughout. That was it, the full scheme.
If I was engaged by a prospective buyer to inspect and report on what they had been informed was a 'fully modernised house' my subsequent damning report on a complete absence of any meaningful repairs or material improvements was quite a shock. My client would, understandably drop out of the running but the same property always sold within a short time frame. I dreaded having to collect a set of keys from the perpetrators' seedy office for subsequent jobs as he was obviously aware of the advice I was giving to my clients which served as the deal breaker. I developed an irrational hatred of any form of woodchip wallpaper and this persists to the present day.
I sometimes found myself in the employ of this select group on a default basis if instructed by a Bank or a Solicitor. This could be quite a menacing experience as I was duty bound to provide impartial and reasoned advice to the instructing Client but yet would be provided with information of dubious validity by their customer. It was a case of being ultra-professional in approach and behaviour in the face, often as not, of extreme pressure and coercion to gloss over any faults or shortcomings and provide an inflated opinion of the true value of the properties being offered up as collateral for a loan or additional financial facilities. I maintain that my reputation was upheld and the job done ethically and fairly.
Some thirty years on and these names from the past have attained the status of loveable rogues. Their halcyon days in business permitted a graceful retreat from the public eye and they were left to enjoy the fruits of their labours in retirement. Those who were terrified by their regime back then have either not lasted the course, moved into other spheres of business or out of the region. It has the impression of a period of no real victims.
To see the rogues now is quite sad as they are old, grey, unsure on their legs and a mere ghost of their former vigour, charm and persuasive powers. There may still be a flamboyant red silk handkerchief in a blazer pocket as a flash from the past . They may also be seen in the company of a bleached -blonde elderly lady who certainly will have been a looker in her time.
In recompense for their making a buck in business some have devoted their now ample free time to good causes being patrons of a Charity, the life and soul of fund raising at their local golf club or sponsoring a bout at the twice yearly Boys Boxing Club socials.
Just recently I received a request to act for one of the old characters in a family matter which involved me being driven round a few properties in his car. We had not ever met before which was unusual in three decades of working in the same City but soon established common links to others whom we knew.
I did however have some trepidation about sharing a car with him. This was because of an urban myth of indeterminate origin which had made quite an impression on me at the time and subsequently.
The story was that he was owed a considerable sum of money but the debtor was reluctant to meet his obligations. After exhausting conventional routes to collect without satisfaction the hapless debtor was bundled into the expansive boot of my hosts Mercedes and driven around the city for the best part of the day until a promise to pay was extracted from a distressed voice from somewhere behind the number plate.
This piece of information played on my mind as a passenger in, I realised, perhaps the very same vehicle ,now an aged, classic Mercedes saloon.
We had get on very amicably, chatty and with many humorous anecdotes given in turn but it was always going to happen that we just ran out of mutual conversation.
We sat in awkward silence. My inner voice toyed with the idea of introducing the subject of boot space on that model of car. I was in business myself and perhaps I could raise the matter of cash flow and how to resolve the periodic lack of it . There would be some benefit in tapping into the experiences of someone who had adopted the most practical of approaches in his time.
I glanced sideways at a wrinkled old man who was struggling to see the road ahead through thick bi-focal lenses. His hands on the steering wheel shook uncontrollably and he muttered about having to find a place for a wee quite soon. A regular knocking sound came from deep in the car boot somewhere behind my seated position. In a sudden cold sweat I feared that I was an unwitting accomplice in another abduction. This time perhaps a pensioner who had not paid the annual subscription at the Bowls Club or had not acted on the promise of donating something as a tombola prize.
The old man cursed Mercedes Benz and the well known manufacturing deficiencies in the rear shock absorbers on his particular executive model which had proven to be a most persistent problem since he had bought it all those years ago. He would definitely think about buying Japanese next. I just kept quiet for the rest of the day, preferring to perpetuate the myth.
Saturday 23 March 2013
A Matter of Scale
On the original Builder's Blueprint the cul de sac looked broad, shapely and with plenty of open sky between the executive detached houses that were to shortly be transformed from one dimensional footprints into three dimensional residences.
Interested buyers would remark at the representation on the site plan of an almost parkland type vista with each of the houses seemingly a Chatsworth or Harewood in scale.
They would dreamily imagine that, as an owner occupier, their return home from work would be romantic and uplifting, almost Bronte-esque even in a small Japanese hatchback car rather than by horse or horse drawn carriage.
In reality the cul de sac was a narrow, claustrophobic canyon more Middle Earth than Middle England.
I am not sure if this was an intentional misrepresentation on the part of the Builder or down to a simple transcribing error in the drawing office.
I have my own scale ruler. It is of a stubby triangular cross section with four delineated scales on each face, paired up so, for example, 1:100 and 1:200 are along the same axis. Other planes of the ruler are similarly marked and the whole instrument can be used to interpret documents from the largest scale Ordnance Surveys to a precise working drawing of a specific architectural or topographical feature.
Whenever it is in use, and howsoever you are careful, the measuring tool always rotates in such a way that the scale you were just using is not the one so aligned with the piece of work.
I cannot account for this phenomena. Very rarely is there a need to actually lift the ruler from the plan or map but turn away for a second to cross reference something or jot down the readings and it has magically rotated to show another and completely inapplicable scale. In such a way I can, perhaps, explain away the differences between a Builder's Promotional Literature and what the buyers end up moving into, some weeks after being seduced and relieved of their hard earned mortgage monies.
As I drove into the residential estate in which the cul de sac was located I suddenly felt like a giant. My estate car was scaled up to a ponderous, wide berthed monster which straddled the middle of the narrow roadway. A parked vehicle such as the Ringtons Tea delivery van would create havoc and those going about their business in and out of the estate would have to mount the kerb to negotiate around. The arrival of the wheelie bin refuse lorry was dreaded on a Thursday and on that day a good proportion of the working population would intentionally leave their homes for the office, school or government department early so as not to be hemmed in on their driveways.
My job for that afternoon was to survey one of the modern detached houses for a prospective purchaser.
Before I had switched off the engine I could sense that the neighbourhood watch had activated. A few curtains and Roman blinds twitched. An army of homeworkers, child minding grandparents and young mothers had found a bit of excitement for a few minutes. By the time I had unloaded the trademark tools and equipment of an obvious Surveyor, ladders, torch and filled the pockets of my coat with sonic tape and miscellaneous equipment they had mentally disregarded me as a threat or ne'er do well.
Out of mischief the last piece of my kit to be pulled out of the back of the car is a classic crow bar and I wield this menacingly and with intent but have yet to excite any interest or challenge.
There can be one persistent neighbour in every group of ten or so houses who, under the pretence of relocating their recycled materials from the brown bin to the blue bin in fear of receiving a warning notice form the Council, may try to strike up a conversation. "Is it sold then?, or "Are you doing a survey?" are common opening lines. There is considerable scope, on my part, to allude to a potentially undesirable client profile in answer to the first query or just a "You think, derrrrrrrr!" to the second.
I, however, maintain my professionalism and engage in just enough dialogue to attain a satisfied look on their faces. The basic facts but not betraying any confidences will subsequently be spread like wildfire amongst the residents before tea time.
The Show begins. I have often toyed with the idea of fixing a pedometer to one of my socks and measuring the distance covered in any one survey job. Even in the case of a compact detached house I find myself crossing and re-crossing the frontage many times and passing between the boundaries of its depth to get that definitive view of the structure and jot down my observations. Perhaps my fee scale could be based on distance covered in the future although given the trend in New Build Developments for shrinking floor areas and gardens I may be diddling myself out of a reasonable rate for the job.
The tight arrangement of a typical cul de sac housing stock inevitably involves my having to ask permission of an adjacent owner to trespass on their land to get a better view. This is willingly given in most cases or I just stray over if the owners are absent. In returning to my commissioned job I have to be careful that I am again looking at the correct house because a momentary lack of concentration and I can be facing the wrong, but very similar looking property. Talk about disorientation in a small space. There is little scope to personalise and customise the exterior of modern box-like houses but owners really go to town on the interiors.
It is a fact, and one which I can substantiate from 25 years experience, that those who have new houses intentionally try to create an old, traditional style whereas those with old properties try to achieve a contemporary and modern style. I find this baffling and confusing.
Strikingly similar exteriors can therefore be dramatically different internally.
The trend for a through lounge has disappeared in favour of family room and combined kitchen. This involves insertion of new partitions and knocking through of load bearing walls. Such features are a challenge to a surveyor in terms of checking adequacy and suitability of such works. If I see a plaster or paint streaked copy of The Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements in a property I go completely cold all over. This spells potential trouble in encouraging an enthusiastic DIY'er to have a go at something well beyond capabilities and knowledge.
Latest trends also include Travertine Tiling to every surface in a cloakroom or bathroom, resin floors and underfloor heating. These give further causes for concern in that everything becomes concealed or just plain buried. Give it about 20 years and this type of feature will go the same way as melamine worktops, York-stone TV shelving and light ash coloured laminate flooring. I await the next wave of domestic must-have's. Damn You, again, Phil and Kirstie.
In the blink of a practiced eye, but actually approaching two hours later, I am satisfied that I have fathomed the condition of the house and gather my things to leave. My summary is of an unremarkable property, indistinct character, basic construction and finishing, cramped rooms and brow-beating low ceilings, bland and soulless in the extreme. A surprisingly good one then. Enjoy.
Interested buyers would remark at the representation on the site plan of an almost parkland type vista with each of the houses seemingly a Chatsworth or Harewood in scale.
They would dreamily imagine that, as an owner occupier, their return home from work would be romantic and uplifting, almost Bronte-esque even in a small Japanese hatchback car rather than by horse or horse drawn carriage.
In reality the cul de sac was a narrow, claustrophobic canyon more Middle Earth than Middle England.
I am not sure if this was an intentional misrepresentation on the part of the Builder or down to a simple transcribing error in the drawing office.
I have my own scale ruler. It is of a stubby triangular cross section with four delineated scales on each face, paired up so, for example, 1:100 and 1:200 are along the same axis. Other planes of the ruler are similarly marked and the whole instrument can be used to interpret documents from the largest scale Ordnance Surveys to a precise working drawing of a specific architectural or topographical feature.
Whenever it is in use, and howsoever you are careful, the measuring tool always rotates in such a way that the scale you were just using is not the one so aligned with the piece of work.
I cannot account for this phenomena. Very rarely is there a need to actually lift the ruler from the plan or map but turn away for a second to cross reference something or jot down the readings and it has magically rotated to show another and completely inapplicable scale. In such a way I can, perhaps, explain away the differences between a Builder's Promotional Literature and what the buyers end up moving into, some weeks after being seduced and relieved of their hard earned mortgage monies.
As I drove into the residential estate in which the cul de sac was located I suddenly felt like a giant. My estate car was scaled up to a ponderous, wide berthed monster which straddled the middle of the narrow roadway. A parked vehicle such as the Ringtons Tea delivery van would create havoc and those going about their business in and out of the estate would have to mount the kerb to negotiate around. The arrival of the wheelie bin refuse lorry was dreaded on a Thursday and on that day a good proportion of the working population would intentionally leave their homes for the office, school or government department early so as not to be hemmed in on their driveways.
My job for that afternoon was to survey one of the modern detached houses for a prospective purchaser.
Before I had switched off the engine I could sense that the neighbourhood watch had activated. A few curtains and Roman blinds twitched. An army of homeworkers, child minding grandparents and young mothers had found a bit of excitement for a few minutes. By the time I had unloaded the trademark tools and equipment of an obvious Surveyor, ladders, torch and filled the pockets of my coat with sonic tape and miscellaneous equipment they had mentally disregarded me as a threat or ne'er do well.
Out of mischief the last piece of my kit to be pulled out of the back of the car is a classic crow bar and I wield this menacingly and with intent but have yet to excite any interest or challenge.
There can be one persistent neighbour in every group of ten or so houses who, under the pretence of relocating their recycled materials from the brown bin to the blue bin in fear of receiving a warning notice form the Council, may try to strike up a conversation. "Is it sold then?, or "Are you doing a survey?" are common opening lines. There is considerable scope, on my part, to allude to a potentially undesirable client profile in answer to the first query or just a "You think, derrrrrrrr!" to the second.
I, however, maintain my professionalism and engage in just enough dialogue to attain a satisfied look on their faces. The basic facts but not betraying any confidences will subsequently be spread like wildfire amongst the residents before tea time.
The Show begins. I have often toyed with the idea of fixing a pedometer to one of my socks and measuring the distance covered in any one survey job. Even in the case of a compact detached house I find myself crossing and re-crossing the frontage many times and passing between the boundaries of its depth to get that definitive view of the structure and jot down my observations. Perhaps my fee scale could be based on distance covered in the future although given the trend in New Build Developments for shrinking floor areas and gardens I may be diddling myself out of a reasonable rate for the job.
The tight arrangement of a typical cul de sac housing stock inevitably involves my having to ask permission of an adjacent owner to trespass on their land to get a better view. This is willingly given in most cases or I just stray over if the owners are absent. In returning to my commissioned job I have to be careful that I am again looking at the correct house because a momentary lack of concentration and I can be facing the wrong, but very similar looking property. Talk about disorientation in a small space. There is little scope to personalise and customise the exterior of modern box-like houses but owners really go to town on the interiors.
It is a fact, and one which I can substantiate from 25 years experience, that those who have new houses intentionally try to create an old, traditional style whereas those with old properties try to achieve a contemporary and modern style. I find this baffling and confusing.
Strikingly similar exteriors can therefore be dramatically different internally.
The trend for a through lounge has disappeared in favour of family room and combined kitchen. This involves insertion of new partitions and knocking through of load bearing walls. Such features are a challenge to a surveyor in terms of checking adequacy and suitability of such works. If I see a plaster or paint streaked copy of The Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements in a property I go completely cold all over. This spells potential trouble in encouraging an enthusiastic DIY'er to have a go at something well beyond capabilities and knowledge.
Latest trends also include Travertine Tiling to every surface in a cloakroom or bathroom, resin floors and underfloor heating. These give further causes for concern in that everything becomes concealed or just plain buried. Give it about 20 years and this type of feature will go the same way as melamine worktops, York-stone TV shelving and light ash coloured laminate flooring. I await the next wave of domestic must-have's. Damn You, again, Phil and Kirstie.
In the blink of a practiced eye, but actually approaching two hours later, I am satisfied that I have fathomed the condition of the house and gather my things to leave. My summary is of an unremarkable property, indistinct character, basic construction and finishing, cramped rooms and brow-beating low ceilings, bland and soulless in the extreme. A surprisingly good one then. Enjoy.
Friday 22 March 2013
The Ice Age Cometh
It is cold enough to snow but it won't.
The weather forecast includes severe weather warnings and we are all getting a bit on edge about whether to replenish the fossilised Kendal Mint Cake in the glove box of the car, pack an aluminium foil survival blanket, welly boots, least favourite in style but dispensable hat and a supply of screen wash.
I appreciate that some motorists are intensely nervous on the news of a cold front approaching and will take to heart the advice of the authorities not to make a journey unless it is absolutely necessary.
It is left to us and our conscience to decide whether a day at work qualifies for such prudent absence.
A few years ago one of my colleagues phoned in on a snowy morning to report that he was stranded at his home and would not be in that day, although he would gracefully and diligently review the situation on an hourly basis.
His, and mine, Superiors regarded this as perfectly reasonable and indeed were heard talking aloud that it displayed responsibility, maturity and polite consideration.
The status of the employee, whom we referred to as 'The Golden Boy' was not under threat of contradiction.
This was apart from the fact that when the message was relayed to me I was just passing his house with only the faintest dusting of snow, or even just a hoary frost on the ground. His car on the driveway showed no signs of attempted movement or even scraping away of the thin layer of ice from the windscreen. Even though 10am in the morning the bedroom and downstairs curtains were firmly drawn.
I did not comment although I did catch a fearful expression on his face when, the next day upon his return to the office. he was looking at my job diary and realised that between my appointments at Place A and Place B I will surely have had to drive through his village.
The weather forecast includes severe weather warnings and we are all getting a bit on edge about whether to replenish the fossilised Kendal Mint Cake in the glove box of the car, pack an aluminium foil survival blanket, welly boots, least favourite in style but dispensable hat and a supply of screen wash.
I appreciate that some motorists are intensely nervous on the news of a cold front approaching and will take to heart the advice of the authorities not to make a journey unless it is absolutely necessary.
It is left to us and our conscience to decide whether a day at work qualifies for such prudent absence.
A few years ago one of my colleagues phoned in on a snowy morning to report that he was stranded at his home and would not be in that day, although he would gracefully and diligently review the situation on an hourly basis.
His, and mine, Superiors regarded this as perfectly reasonable and indeed were heard talking aloud that it displayed responsibility, maturity and polite consideration.
The status of the employee, whom we referred to as 'The Golden Boy' was not under threat of contradiction.
This was apart from the fact that when the message was relayed to me I was just passing his house with only the faintest dusting of snow, or even just a hoary frost on the ground. His car on the driveway showed no signs of attempted movement or even scraping away of the thin layer of ice from the windscreen. Even though 10am in the morning the bedroom and downstairs curtains were firmly drawn.
I did not comment although I did catch a fearful expression on his face when, the next day upon his return to the office. he was looking at my job diary and realised that between my appointments at Place A and Place B I will surely have had to drive through his village.
Thursday 21 March 2013
Tepid Tub
First published in 1985 the wonderful 'Bathwater's Hot' by Shirley Hughes, was a bedtime favourite of my children.
It is one of the few stories that I can still recite word for word nearly twenty years later.
Our, now worn and dog-eared version is a small, slim, square paperback often lost in the folds of larger books or down the side of the bed but always the subject of a great and determined search to relocate and repatriate with its greatest fans.
The text is about 109 words in length, and if delivered by a tired and work-weary parent at about 7.30pm, it represents that perfection in being the precise amount of time required for infants to become bleary eyed and fall asleep. I admit that I was often found dozing with the final page open and a happy, peaceful expression on my face.
I know it may be regarded as treasonable but I have been tempted to update this classic now that my children are young adults......
Facebook's hot,
Texting's cold,
Friends parents look very young,
But Our's are getting old.
Some things you can E-bay away,
If they're nice and cheap
Here's something that looks cool
Shit, it sold last week
Some things are hard to do
Some which make us proud
Twitter very quietly
PLAY MUSIC LOUD!
It's fun to live very fast
What is this slow?
The aching head says stop
But the party crowd says go
Best efforts to be solvent
Never thought we'd say
Rather wise to skimp and save
Pensions, Tax, PAYE
Night time means sleep
Day Time's so bright
The boss says good morning
And childhood says 'good night'
I have an overwhelming sense of sadness and I apologise to my children for this seditious act.
It is one of the few stories that I can still recite word for word nearly twenty years later.
Our, now worn and dog-eared version is a small, slim, square paperback often lost in the folds of larger books or down the side of the bed but always the subject of a great and determined search to relocate and repatriate with its greatest fans.
The text is about 109 words in length, and if delivered by a tired and work-weary parent at about 7.30pm, it represents that perfection in being the precise amount of time required for infants to become bleary eyed and fall asleep. I admit that I was often found dozing with the final page open and a happy, peaceful expression on my face.
I know it may be regarded as treasonable but I have been tempted to update this classic now that my children are young adults......
Facebook's hot,
Texting's cold,
Friends parents look very young,
But Our's are getting old.
Some things you can E-bay away,
If they're nice and cheap
Here's something that looks cool
Shit, it sold last week
Some things are hard to do
Some which make us proud
Twitter very quietly
PLAY MUSIC LOUD!
It's fun to live very fast
What is this slow?
The aching head says stop
But the party crowd says go
Best efforts to be solvent
Never thought we'd say
Rather wise to skimp and save
Pensions, Tax, PAYE
Night time means sleep
Day Time's so bright
The boss says good morning
And childhood says 'good night'
I have an overwhelming sense of sadness and I apologise to my children for this seditious act.
Wednesday 20 March 2013
Walkabout
We were brought up as children of nature.
This does not mean that we wandered about semi-naked, holding sunbeams in our hands, chasing butterflies or wearing flowers in our hair but just to appreciate the natural world around us.
It was, on reflection, a privileged upbringing in that we always lived in houses with a garden or with the open countryside fully available just the other side of a timber gate or at the end of the street. Our parents encouraged us to play out, in their sight in our earliest of years and then on a bit more of a far ranging basis.
We would think nothing of leaving the house and staying out all day walking or riding bikes across a farmers newly sown field, dismantling and reassembling piles of straw bales, throwing stones at increasingly dilapidated old buildings or shouting at livestock in a manic attempt to impersonate their mooing, bleating or neighing.
Trees were there as a challenge to clamber up with no real thought as to how to get back down. Streams and ditches could be jumped, bridged with a cast off bough or fallen into up to your knees or worse.
A favourite activity was excavating the steep sides of the railway cutting whose thick and heavy clay was a good source of large fossils. We stopped this after watching the landslide scene in the film of The Railway Children.
We were skilled in the manufacture of weapons from whatever we could scavenge and would make very effective bows and arrows from springy willows or saplings. There is a lot of fun and perhaps some risk of injury in a full blown battle between rival gangs of 10 year olds with the sky full of projectiles and the whack-whack of stick fights. The victory, which was hard to define, was usually claimed by each side but only after a strategic retreat to the safety and security of your own back garden or home when the bravado really kicked in.
Bike rides took us even further afield. In the search for a good fast downhill we would travel to reach the distant hills, at least 5 miles but totally unprepared for any mechanical problems or punctures with our town bikes, big sisters shopper bike and Raleigh Choppers.
We learnt by this innocent route a lot about the sometimes harsh realities of the world.
In this manner I saw my first drowned dog in a stretch of the canal. It was bloated and puffy but we dare not prod it with our ever present sharp sticks in case it burst. In another incident down by a sharp bend on the river path a car travelling too fast skidded and careered down the bank into the water. Fortunately there were following motorists and a few anglers around to rescue the distressed occupants but it could have been nasty.
We would come across squashed animals on the country roads or find a small bird, injured and helpless and at the mercy of its predators.
I clearly remember walking in Scotland with my family when we were caught up by a slow moving, unattended car whose handbrake had slipped out of hold on a gentle slope down the harbour. We rallied round and stopped its progress until the owner, red faced and embarrassed was found.
A man, obviously well drunk, decided unwisely to cross the busy main road at the traffic light junction by walking between the back of my Father's car and our caravan and was temporarily transported whilst straddling the tow-bar.
Sat cosily under a large fishing umbrella I was disappointed to hear a steady stream of rain only to realise that it was someone urinating on our camouflaged position on the way back from the pub.
I was, even as a small child, fascinated by human behaviour. On the beach in Norfolk two women were engaged in a full blown fight for the affection and favour of the man who drove the visitors in an amphibious vehicle across the low tide sands.
On our countryside adventures we would often see courting couples emerging from the undergrowth re-arranging their dishevelled clothes. I could sympathise as brambles and thorns could wreak havoc and even penetrate through to your pants in pursuit of that concealed den or short-cut.
We would return to our respective homes happy, tired and grubby. In answer to our parents casual enquiries about what we had got up to we would always mutter, 'not a lot really, it's quite boring 'round here'.
This does not mean that we wandered about semi-naked, holding sunbeams in our hands, chasing butterflies or wearing flowers in our hair but just to appreciate the natural world around us.
It was, on reflection, a privileged upbringing in that we always lived in houses with a garden or with the open countryside fully available just the other side of a timber gate or at the end of the street. Our parents encouraged us to play out, in their sight in our earliest of years and then on a bit more of a far ranging basis.
We would think nothing of leaving the house and staying out all day walking or riding bikes across a farmers newly sown field, dismantling and reassembling piles of straw bales, throwing stones at increasingly dilapidated old buildings or shouting at livestock in a manic attempt to impersonate their mooing, bleating or neighing.
Trees were there as a challenge to clamber up with no real thought as to how to get back down. Streams and ditches could be jumped, bridged with a cast off bough or fallen into up to your knees or worse.
A favourite activity was excavating the steep sides of the railway cutting whose thick and heavy clay was a good source of large fossils. We stopped this after watching the landslide scene in the film of The Railway Children.
We were skilled in the manufacture of weapons from whatever we could scavenge and would make very effective bows and arrows from springy willows or saplings. There is a lot of fun and perhaps some risk of injury in a full blown battle between rival gangs of 10 year olds with the sky full of projectiles and the whack-whack of stick fights. The victory, which was hard to define, was usually claimed by each side but only after a strategic retreat to the safety and security of your own back garden or home when the bravado really kicked in.
Bike rides took us even further afield. In the search for a good fast downhill we would travel to reach the distant hills, at least 5 miles but totally unprepared for any mechanical problems or punctures with our town bikes, big sisters shopper bike and Raleigh Choppers.
We learnt by this innocent route a lot about the sometimes harsh realities of the world.
In this manner I saw my first drowned dog in a stretch of the canal. It was bloated and puffy but we dare not prod it with our ever present sharp sticks in case it burst. In another incident down by a sharp bend on the river path a car travelling too fast skidded and careered down the bank into the water. Fortunately there were following motorists and a few anglers around to rescue the distressed occupants but it could have been nasty.
We would come across squashed animals on the country roads or find a small bird, injured and helpless and at the mercy of its predators.
I clearly remember walking in Scotland with my family when we were caught up by a slow moving, unattended car whose handbrake had slipped out of hold on a gentle slope down the harbour. We rallied round and stopped its progress until the owner, red faced and embarrassed was found.
A man, obviously well drunk, decided unwisely to cross the busy main road at the traffic light junction by walking between the back of my Father's car and our caravan and was temporarily transported whilst straddling the tow-bar.
Sat cosily under a large fishing umbrella I was disappointed to hear a steady stream of rain only to realise that it was someone urinating on our camouflaged position on the way back from the pub.
I was, even as a small child, fascinated by human behaviour. On the beach in Norfolk two women were engaged in a full blown fight for the affection and favour of the man who drove the visitors in an amphibious vehicle across the low tide sands.
On our countryside adventures we would often see courting couples emerging from the undergrowth re-arranging their dishevelled clothes. I could sympathise as brambles and thorns could wreak havoc and even penetrate through to your pants in pursuit of that concealed den or short-cut.
We would return to our respective homes happy, tired and grubby. In answer to our parents casual enquiries about what we had got up to we would always mutter, 'not a lot really, it's quite boring 'round here'.
Tuesday 19 March 2013
Footie; Boys Owen
I was really into football as a kid.
Any spare moments were taken up with playing football, reading about football, counting my football cards, talking about football. I even got an Airfix 1:32 scale box of footballers one Christmas and painted them all in the kits and strips of the time. In the days pre-sponsorship, high tech fabrics and printing techniques most teams wore either red, white or blue shirts and with matching or contrasting coloured shorts and socks. Consequently it did not take much skill, imagination or time to complete the whole set.
Of course, in the 1970's and as illustrated by the pages in my collection album there were no black players in the English Leagues and so all the small figures were Humbrol flesh coloured.
I started to follow Chelsea but only because I had blue shorts and a blue T-shirt for school PE lessons. The thin white stripe on Chelsea's real team shorts was as iconic amongst the blandness of kits generally as would later be established and monopolised by the branded images Adidas, Le Coq Sportif and Umbro.
My first proper football strip was Liverpool in about 1971. All red and with the Liver Bird badge on the breast I felt like a million pounds. Such a huge figure pales into insignificance in the modern game.
It was fully expected for me to hate Leeds United's team of the early 1970's, also Arsenal but I respected Derby County and that character of a manager that they had in Brian Clough.
My favourite player was Kevin Keegan. A pocket rocket frizzy haired lad from near Doncaster who personified athleticism and skill and all in a frame at about five and a half feet tall. He really stood out in a crop of otherwise pretty good home grown British players and this was endorsed by the accolade of European Player of the Year and a distinguished playing career with Hamburg in the Bundesliga. He was certainly one of the first really merchantable assets in the game but I expect that even today he has to count the pennies as although well reimbursed for his effort his annual wage would be the equivalent of a weekly wage for current top flight players.
A few years ago I got to meet a professional player from the 1960's. As with many of his peer group his career path after leaving the game included stints running pubs, clubs, racing stables or just any business that could sustain a lifestyle. One of his contemporaries ended up in prison for unwittingly or otherwise running a brothel behind the façade of a nightclub. I was too young to have seen him play but his reputation for being a hard man, uncompromising but ruthless in front of goal had established him as a local hero. I even seem to think that he had been a one team man rather than hawking his services around to those who could better his current wage. The stooping, arthritic figure who struggled to get across the hallway of his house was a sad sight. As he remarked, you had to be tough in his day because there was nothing like the level of support services, dietary, medical, psychological and financial as there are now. I was pleased to see him next at the newly built stadium of his beloved team in his club blazer, lording it up in an official capacity as a match-day host for the guests and visiting dignitaries. He looked fit, healthy, upright and positively sprightly. He had obviously taken a drink before his duties but then again nothing will have changed over 40 years or so with the public bar being an extension of the training ground..
These reminiscences are stronger today with the announcement by Michael Owen that he is to retire at the end of the 2013 season.
I had lost interest in football by the time he burst onto the scene, debuting for Liverpool in 1997, at the age of 17 years old. The big business domination, sponsorship and above all the disproportionate levels of incomes for the top players compared to their fans were massive disincentives for me to discontinue my obsession with football. It was the loss of innocence in the beautiful game as though even my diminutive Airfix footballers had sold out.
Michael Owen was, don't get me wrong, in the team on merit. He was of quicksilver pace, lighting reflexes, first touch perfect and predatory in the penalty area. All of these attributes in someone who looked like a choir boy.
He endeared himself to the followers of the English style. His ascent in the league and a debut goal against Wimbledon in May 1997 soon had him earmarked for the National team and he became, at that time, the youngest to play for his country and also score. Two matches are cited as his best. A hat trick in the 5-1 away win over Germany in September 2001 and, three years earlier, that mesmerising, mazey run and goal in the World Cup versus Argentina. Many recall that goal and forget the misery of losing the actual game.
Riches cascaded down with a reputed, possibly minimum, wage of £70,000 a week, the purchasing power to acquire a cul de sac of houses for his family and close relatives, race-horses and prestigious and classic cars. Owen did remain in sight of his roots and married his school sweetheart. He was popular in the tabloids but thankfully only for his sporting prowess although childrens BBC TV did run a story about his love of gambling and alleged losses.
He managed to retain his role model status throughout. His roll of honour is impressive but rather fizzled out through injury and being sidelined at Barcelona, Newcastle, Manchester United and Stoke City. Extra-curricula activities involved TV adverts for a Nestle cereal, Persil wash powder, Jaguar and Tissot watches. He is knowledgeable about his sport but a bit wooden in his presentation when summoned as a pundit and expert.
In retirement, at 34, he has potential to do great things if he wants to. He may be spared the role of managing a club side which does not suit all ex-players. Not for him running a public house, sports bar or nightclub as befell many of his predecessors out of necessity rather than choice. I do hope that he does not find himself at the beck and call of celebrity agents to open a supermarket, eat grubs in the jungle or other menial tasks which that relentless stream of 'B' Listers have turned down as being cheap and beneath them. He might be quite good coming in from the wings in the Pantomime season.
If Mr Owen has a desire to put something back into the sport which has given him a very decent living, thank-you, then what better form of service than offering to take the poverty stricken, wizened, creaky and fragile of limb Old Professionals out for the occasional day trip or excursion in his helicopter?
Any spare moments were taken up with playing football, reading about football, counting my football cards, talking about football. I even got an Airfix 1:32 scale box of footballers one Christmas and painted them all in the kits and strips of the time. In the days pre-sponsorship, high tech fabrics and printing techniques most teams wore either red, white or blue shirts and with matching or contrasting coloured shorts and socks. Consequently it did not take much skill, imagination or time to complete the whole set.
Of course, in the 1970's and as illustrated by the pages in my collection album there were no black players in the English Leagues and so all the small figures were Humbrol flesh coloured.
I started to follow Chelsea but only because I had blue shorts and a blue T-shirt for school PE lessons. The thin white stripe on Chelsea's real team shorts was as iconic amongst the blandness of kits generally as would later be established and monopolised by the branded images Adidas, Le Coq Sportif and Umbro.
My first proper football strip was Liverpool in about 1971. All red and with the Liver Bird badge on the breast I felt like a million pounds. Such a huge figure pales into insignificance in the modern game.
It was fully expected for me to hate Leeds United's team of the early 1970's, also Arsenal but I respected Derby County and that character of a manager that they had in Brian Clough.
My favourite player was Kevin Keegan. A pocket rocket frizzy haired lad from near Doncaster who personified athleticism and skill and all in a frame at about five and a half feet tall. He really stood out in a crop of otherwise pretty good home grown British players and this was endorsed by the accolade of European Player of the Year and a distinguished playing career with Hamburg in the Bundesliga. He was certainly one of the first really merchantable assets in the game but I expect that even today he has to count the pennies as although well reimbursed for his effort his annual wage would be the equivalent of a weekly wage for current top flight players.
A few years ago I got to meet a professional player from the 1960's. As with many of his peer group his career path after leaving the game included stints running pubs, clubs, racing stables or just any business that could sustain a lifestyle. One of his contemporaries ended up in prison for unwittingly or otherwise running a brothel behind the façade of a nightclub. I was too young to have seen him play but his reputation for being a hard man, uncompromising but ruthless in front of goal had established him as a local hero. I even seem to think that he had been a one team man rather than hawking his services around to those who could better his current wage. The stooping, arthritic figure who struggled to get across the hallway of his house was a sad sight. As he remarked, you had to be tough in his day because there was nothing like the level of support services, dietary, medical, psychological and financial as there are now. I was pleased to see him next at the newly built stadium of his beloved team in his club blazer, lording it up in an official capacity as a match-day host for the guests and visiting dignitaries. He looked fit, healthy, upright and positively sprightly. He had obviously taken a drink before his duties but then again nothing will have changed over 40 years or so with the public bar being an extension of the training ground..
These reminiscences are stronger today with the announcement by Michael Owen that he is to retire at the end of the 2013 season.
I had lost interest in football by the time he burst onto the scene, debuting for Liverpool in 1997, at the age of 17 years old. The big business domination, sponsorship and above all the disproportionate levels of incomes for the top players compared to their fans were massive disincentives for me to discontinue my obsession with football. It was the loss of innocence in the beautiful game as though even my diminutive Airfix footballers had sold out.
Michael Owen was, don't get me wrong, in the team on merit. He was of quicksilver pace, lighting reflexes, first touch perfect and predatory in the penalty area. All of these attributes in someone who looked like a choir boy.
He endeared himself to the followers of the English style. His ascent in the league and a debut goal against Wimbledon in May 1997 soon had him earmarked for the National team and he became, at that time, the youngest to play for his country and also score. Two matches are cited as his best. A hat trick in the 5-1 away win over Germany in September 2001 and, three years earlier, that mesmerising, mazey run and goal in the World Cup versus Argentina. Many recall that goal and forget the misery of losing the actual game.
Riches cascaded down with a reputed, possibly minimum, wage of £70,000 a week, the purchasing power to acquire a cul de sac of houses for his family and close relatives, race-horses and prestigious and classic cars. Owen did remain in sight of his roots and married his school sweetheart. He was popular in the tabloids but thankfully only for his sporting prowess although childrens BBC TV did run a story about his love of gambling and alleged losses.
He managed to retain his role model status throughout. His roll of honour is impressive but rather fizzled out through injury and being sidelined at Barcelona, Newcastle, Manchester United and Stoke City. Extra-curricula activities involved TV adverts for a Nestle cereal, Persil wash powder, Jaguar and Tissot watches. He is knowledgeable about his sport but a bit wooden in his presentation when summoned as a pundit and expert.
In retirement, at 34, he has potential to do great things if he wants to. He may be spared the role of managing a club side which does not suit all ex-players. Not for him running a public house, sports bar or nightclub as befell many of his predecessors out of necessity rather than choice. I do hope that he does not find himself at the beck and call of celebrity agents to open a supermarket, eat grubs in the jungle or other menial tasks which that relentless stream of 'B' Listers have turned down as being cheap and beneath them. He might be quite good coming in from the wings in the Pantomime season.
If Mr Owen has a desire to put something back into the sport which has given him a very decent living, thank-you, then what better form of service than offering to take the poverty stricken, wizened, creaky and fragile of limb Old Professionals out for the occasional day trip or excursion in his helicopter?
Monday 18 March 2013
Hare Raising
There is a first time for everything and I have been very privileged to have seen an ancient, primeval ritual in progress that puts a true perspective on nature, life, existence and being.
Yesterday, according to my office work appointments diary was the first day of Spring. The consensus is that it could even be today. Some will not accept the change of season until the clocks change to British Summer Time. The diary announcement may have just been a page header required by the editor because it appears that nothing momentous or remarkable happened on the 19th March in history apart from Winnie and Nelson, Andrew and Fergie getting divorced , Phoenix in Arizona got its own area code and the Japanese cooked the largest omelette made out of 160,000 eggs. It is not that sort of diary, to encourage gossipy speculation, tittle-tattle and to give recipe ideas.
The arrival of Spring is represented by many things. New green shoots also symbolic of optimism and hope for the economy, yellow headed daffodils, catkins and early blossom amongst the otherwise dormant looking treelines, Council Tax Bills, the next personal commitment to exercise and healthy living, a thorough purge of homes, material possessions and clutter in a frenzy of cleaning.
The first alleged day of Spring as we shall call it started quite normally. The early mornings are much better in mid to late March with the emergence of natural light at around 6am. It is now more likely to leave for work and return home still in daylight although dependant on the brightness of the sky, cloud cover and prevailing weather. This extension to our perception of the day gives energy and determination to do more after the dismal and depressing days of the two preceding months.
Moving about the house in the early hours so as not to wake the rest of the family is so much easier. Given a general increase in temperature I look forward soon to starting my day with that first and best cup of coffee sat with the patio doors open and with a view down the garden. I can well imagine the same reception being given to the new season by our very distant ancestors. Perhaps more from a viewpoint of not being afraid any more of the dark , foreboding times when even a solar eclipse or strange shade of colour or size of moon would cause much anxiety and thoughts of doom. Just substitute the mouth of a cave and primitive landscape for my more comfortable, sheltered and heated back living room.
Everything has more optimism in the Spring- I am writing this just before the UK Budget announcement so reserve the right to change my mind- and this is no more apparent than in nature.
As I completed my work appointments in the City Centre and suburbs I looked forward to a nice long drive up through the rolling Wolds countryside to a job in Malton. The route is one where it is quite possible and indeed normal to meet or catch up with very little other traffic apart from large leather clad bikers and a few army driving school lorries. With no significant disturbance or perceived threat from humans you do tend to come across unsuspecting wildlife enjoying the freedom of the open fields, verges and country roads. My favourites are the stoats which shoot out of the hedgerows as though attached to a piece of elastic stretched across the carriageway from the opposite side. In recent days a fox has stared me out from it’s vantage point on a traffic island, a deer has been caught briefly in my headlights, rabbits have grazed on the verges nonchalantly as though they feel they are invisible to man.
Just north of Wetwang I came across the wonderfully stirring sight of three large Hares cavorting about towards the middle of a cultivated field. As one of their number separated from the group the other two stood up on their hind legs and started to throw punches at each other. They were wholly engrossed in the combat , not knowing why but assured that it was something they just must do. I was shocked to learn that the life expectancy of a Hare is only 3 to 4 years. In March they are perfectly entitled to be understandably mad.
(All of this happened 12 months ago ......................busy, busy, busy...........)
(All of this happened 12 months ago ......................busy, busy, busy...........)
Sunday 17 March 2013
Lego that Dream
There is a deeply engrained instinct amongst mankind and in the natural world to build something to call a home.
This starts off in our earliest years when we are comforted and reassured by being swaddled in a tightly wrapped blanket.
As toddlers there is a thrill to make a den in a cardboard box or under a bed sheet stretched between the living room armchairs. Great play value can be had from setting up home under a table in the great outdoors under a bush or in the sturdy boughs of a tree.
After moving into a brand new house that my parents had bought in 1973 the clearance and levelling of the former building site to create a back garden yielded forth enough bricks and planks to fashion a hideout that the Vietcong would have been proud of. There were no thoughts of how unstable a structure it was as a consequence of loosely laid bricks and precariously spanned and unbalanced scraps of salvaged timber. You do read about unfortunate deaths from crushing under tumbling walls so I count myself blessed to have survived such a fate.
On an Outward Bound Course in the English Lakes I had to spend a damp, cold spring night in my home made bivouac which was nothing more than clear plastic sheet held in place above my head by a straggling line of rocks on a boulder edge and at my feet by short pine branches skewered into the peaty ground. The lean-to shelter was largely ineffective against the weather being fully open at both ends. It's transparency did not really assist in trying to get to sleep.
Teenage years and the inevitable indoor lethargy that comes with it meant that the urge to build was confined to playing with Lego bricks. The 1970's version of Lego was basic in choice of brick size and detail and so far detached from the latest creations which include famous architectural landmarks such as Frank Lloyd Wright's own designs and large scale streetscapes with multi-storey shops, hotels, restaurants and municipal buildings.
I partook in all of the aforementioned pursuits and activities.
This aspect of my nurturing and upbringing certainly had an impact and influence on me because for the last 30 years the Built Environment, not so much bed sheets, boxes and plastic sheets, but out in the real world of bricks and mortar has been my career and livelihood.
I am therefore able to pass on my knowledge and experience to those who have compelling and burgeoning thoughts to take the nesting instinct to the highest possible level in building their own new home from scratch.
My best advice is just don't even think about it if any of your answers to the following questions are YES.
1) Do you currently live in a perfectly good house?
2) Are you married with dependants?
3) Do you have a full time job?
4) Are you evenings and weekends quite busy at the moment?
5) Would you knowingly jeopardise your own and your financial health?
6) Would you consider that living in a caravan for a year or more would be a backward step?
You may feel that I am being a bit ridiculous in formulating my Self-Build Affinity Test but I can validate all of the questions from having dealt with individuals who were seduced by the theory of a Grand Design but found the reality to be really something quite different.
Three specific cases come to mind amongst many others.
That first tentative sketch of what would constitute your dream house could have been a doodle on a fag packet, in the margin of a notepad during a boring business meeting or drawn in the steamy residue on a window pane when deep in thought in the car in a traffic jam.
Savour that moment. Your idea will be pure. Simplistic but beautiful in concept. It can be built and it will serve you and your family well for more than just your time on the planet.
Unfortunately, in the subsequent phase of being passed to an Architect and other meddlers all innocence, practicality and sense will evaporate.
That was certainly the reality for one Client of mine and some 10 years after digging out the foundations he has yet to move into the property. It is unfinished and he resides in the static caravan on the site as he has done for a decade when initial expectations for the build were 12 to 15 months, tops.
The main problem was in the design.
Quite a futuristic fusion of traditional and conventional methods and materials with outrageous glass atriums, facades, ramparts, finials and parapets. Neither my client nor his experienced main contractor could make the contrasting elements join and connect together in a waterproof and weatherproof form. The impasse eventually came down to a fist fight, on the rubble strewn frontage, between the builder and the architect in a matter or professional disagreement. Things went downhill from there and to the present day have remained firmly entrenched in the valley of despair.
The motivation to self build may be out of a character trait to always achieve perfection and in every miniscule detail. This can cause a project to overrun significantly in time and costs.
The next house in question does remain as a personal favourite- a Cube House- and I regularly take any work experience students to see it because of its uniqueness and wow-factor.
If it was actually finished and capable of being lived in it would tick all the boxes.
It is now 6 years since I first visited the red oxide metal superstructure. It has subsequently been clad to two elevations wholly in glass blocks and in composite panels around the other main openings. In true self build style it has only been worked on during evenings, weekend , academic vacations and main Holy Days. Every part of the house has been skilfully crafted by the individual concerned , sporadically assisted by a family friend in the heavier and labour intensive jobs.
Each of the glass blocks had to be sanded to an opaque surface finish out of modesty for any late night back-lit naked lurch to the bathroom and to minimise the hazard of being incinerated, like an ant under a magnifying glass , from the rays of the sun. Internal finishes are to an unprecedented tolerance in the modern era. Mitre joints tight and snug. Cabling and pipework are meticulously arranged like a work of art or a schematic representation of an urban mass transit system.
I did comment to my Client, and I accept that it was a bit facetious, that Barratt Homes had built an entire estate of 140 houses in the time it had taken for the Cube House to reach its current and still unfinished stage. It was meant to be a compliment to his attention to detail but he did not take it as such. I will have a work in progress to show my students for a few more years to come as long as he does not see me down his street as I am no longer welcome.
A golden rule is do not be too ambitious.
Take the Ikea Principle as a warning. You may only intend to go to that Swedish Emporium to pick up a catalogue and browse but you are highly likely to come away with a big blue shoulder-slung bag full of light fittings, assorted picture frames, Daim Bars, a patterned cotton throw for a settee, a Survivalists supply of tea lights and a lot of stunted lead pencils.
In much the same way the budding Self Build-er may attend one of those Homes Exhibitions with the thought of just getting a few ideas, picking up a few trade leaflets and speaking with like minded persons and experts.
The terms eco-friendly, energy efficiency, thermal insulation, 'U' Values and sustainability are bandied about in polite company and like Chinese whispers they become the "must have" components of a new build scheme.
For the last 2 years I have been inspecting a house slowly emerging out of a hillside up in North Yorkshire. I inherited the job from a former colleague whose own involvement covered a similar period before me.
The house will be fantastic if it is ever finished. It is made from Polystyrene insulated concrete forms which, prior to being encapsulated in natural stone, resembled a large box in which an industrial sized washing machine might be delivered. High tech wizardry will control an air source heat pump, re-circulation of air, under floor heating, piped music and wireless broadband. Rainwater will be harvested in an underground tank for the laundry room. Solar panels will reduce energy bills to single figures per week.
This blend of ideas is however expensive and it has proven difficult to manage the build and carry out the project in the strict progression it requires.
The hillside from which the house protrudes has also been problematic to stabilise and drain effectively and that has also been a surprising money pit for the original budget. I admire what the husband and wife team are trying to create but they have physically aged, become mentally fatigued and almost skint in the process to date. I do enjoy the prospect of driving up to see the latest small incremental works but have great sympathy for what must be a spiralling sense of pressure on a couple doing their bit for their family and to save the Planet generally.
In conclusion, appreciate and embrace what you live in now and if you have an urge to build a dream house I can recommend the current product range to be found in the building blocks aisle at your nearest toy store. Enjoy........
This starts off in our earliest years when we are comforted and reassured by being swaddled in a tightly wrapped blanket.
As toddlers there is a thrill to make a den in a cardboard box or under a bed sheet stretched between the living room armchairs. Great play value can be had from setting up home under a table in the great outdoors under a bush or in the sturdy boughs of a tree.
After moving into a brand new house that my parents had bought in 1973 the clearance and levelling of the former building site to create a back garden yielded forth enough bricks and planks to fashion a hideout that the Vietcong would have been proud of. There were no thoughts of how unstable a structure it was as a consequence of loosely laid bricks and precariously spanned and unbalanced scraps of salvaged timber. You do read about unfortunate deaths from crushing under tumbling walls so I count myself blessed to have survived such a fate.
On an Outward Bound Course in the English Lakes I had to spend a damp, cold spring night in my home made bivouac which was nothing more than clear plastic sheet held in place above my head by a straggling line of rocks on a boulder edge and at my feet by short pine branches skewered into the peaty ground. The lean-to shelter was largely ineffective against the weather being fully open at both ends. It's transparency did not really assist in trying to get to sleep.
Teenage years and the inevitable indoor lethargy that comes with it meant that the urge to build was confined to playing with Lego bricks. The 1970's version of Lego was basic in choice of brick size and detail and so far detached from the latest creations which include famous architectural landmarks such as Frank Lloyd Wright's own designs and large scale streetscapes with multi-storey shops, hotels, restaurants and municipal buildings.
I partook in all of the aforementioned pursuits and activities.
This aspect of my nurturing and upbringing certainly had an impact and influence on me because for the last 30 years the Built Environment, not so much bed sheets, boxes and plastic sheets, but out in the real world of bricks and mortar has been my career and livelihood.
I am therefore able to pass on my knowledge and experience to those who have compelling and burgeoning thoughts to take the nesting instinct to the highest possible level in building their own new home from scratch.
My best advice is just don't even think about it if any of your answers to the following questions are YES.
1) Do you currently live in a perfectly good house?
2) Are you married with dependants?
3) Do you have a full time job?
4) Are you evenings and weekends quite busy at the moment?
5) Would you knowingly jeopardise your own and your financial health?
6) Would you consider that living in a caravan for a year or more would be a backward step?
You may feel that I am being a bit ridiculous in formulating my Self-Build Affinity Test but I can validate all of the questions from having dealt with individuals who were seduced by the theory of a Grand Design but found the reality to be really something quite different.
Three specific cases come to mind amongst many others.
That first tentative sketch of what would constitute your dream house could have been a doodle on a fag packet, in the margin of a notepad during a boring business meeting or drawn in the steamy residue on a window pane when deep in thought in the car in a traffic jam.
Savour that moment. Your idea will be pure. Simplistic but beautiful in concept. It can be built and it will serve you and your family well for more than just your time on the planet.
Unfortunately, in the subsequent phase of being passed to an Architect and other meddlers all innocence, practicality and sense will evaporate.
That was certainly the reality for one Client of mine and some 10 years after digging out the foundations he has yet to move into the property. It is unfinished and he resides in the static caravan on the site as he has done for a decade when initial expectations for the build were 12 to 15 months, tops.
The main problem was in the design.
Quite a futuristic fusion of traditional and conventional methods and materials with outrageous glass atriums, facades, ramparts, finials and parapets. Neither my client nor his experienced main contractor could make the contrasting elements join and connect together in a waterproof and weatherproof form. The impasse eventually came down to a fist fight, on the rubble strewn frontage, between the builder and the architect in a matter or professional disagreement. Things went downhill from there and to the present day have remained firmly entrenched in the valley of despair.
The motivation to self build may be out of a character trait to always achieve perfection and in every miniscule detail. This can cause a project to overrun significantly in time and costs.
The next house in question does remain as a personal favourite- a Cube House- and I regularly take any work experience students to see it because of its uniqueness and wow-factor.
If it was actually finished and capable of being lived in it would tick all the boxes.
It is now 6 years since I first visited the red oxide metal superstructure. It has subsequently been clad to two elevations wholly in glass blocks and in composite panels around the other main openings. In true self build style it has only been worked on during evenings, weekend , academic vacations and main Holy Days. Every part of the house has been skilfully crafted by the individual concerned , sporadically assisted by a family friend in the heavier and labour intensive jobs.
Each of the glass blocks had to be sanded to an opaque surface finish out of modesty for any late night back-lit naked lurch to the bathroom and to minimise the hazard of being incinerated, like an ant under a magnifying glass , from the rays of the sun. Internal finishes are to an unprecedented tolerance in the modern era. Mitre joints tight and snug. Cabling and pipework are meticulously arranged like a work of art or a schematic representation of an urban mass transit system.
I did comment to my Client, and I accept that it was a bit facetious, that Barratt Homes had built an entire estate of 140 houses in the time it had taken for the Cube House to reach its current and still unfinished stage. It was meant to be a compliment to his attention to detail but he did not take it as such. I will have a work in progress to show my students for a few more years to come as long as he does not see me down his street as I am no longer welcome.
A golden rule is do not be too ambitious.
Take the Ikea Principle as a warning. You may only intend to go to that Swedish Emporium to pick up a catalogue and browse but you are highly likely to come away with a big blue shoulder-slung bag full of light fittings, assorted picture frames, Daim Bars, a patterned cotton throw for a settee, a Survivalists supply of tea lights and a lot of stunted lead pencils.
In much the same way the budding Self Build-er may attend one of those Homes Exhibitions with the thought of just getting a few ideas, picking up a few trade leaflets and speaking with like minded persons and experts.
The terms eco-friendly, energy efficiency, thermal insulation, 'U' Values and sustainability are bandied about in polite company and like Chinese whispers they become the "must have" components of a new build scheme.
For the last 2 years I have been inspecting a house slowly emerging out of a hillside up in North Yorkshire. I inherited the job from a former colleague whose own involvement covered a similar period before me.
The house will be fantastic if it is ever finished. It is made from Polystyrene insulated concrete forms which, prior to being encapsulated in natural stone, resembled a large box in which an industrial sized washing machine might be delivered. High tech wizardry will control an air source heat pump, re-circulation of air, under floor heating, piped music and wireless broadband. Rainwater will be harvested in an underground tank for the laundry room. Solar panels will reduce energy bills to single figures per week.
This blend of ideas is however expensive and it has proven difficult to manage the build and carry out the project in the strict progression it requires.
The hillside from which the house protrudes has also been problematic to stabilise and drain effectively and that has also been a surprising money pit for the original budget. I admire what the husband and wife team are trying to create but they have physically aged, become mentally fatigued and almost skint in the process to date. I do enjoy the prospect of driving up to see the latest small incremental works but have great sympathy for what must be a spiralling sense of pressure on a couple doing their bit for their family and to save the Planet generally.
In conclusion, appreciate and embrace what you live in now and if you have an urge to build a dream house I can recommend the current product range to be found in the building blocks aisle at your nearest toy store. Enjoy........
Saturday 16 March 2013
Lofty Ideals
One of my favourite daily-work pursuits is going into a roof space.
This can involve a full upper body workout in scaling near vertical loft ladders, a breath-intake squeeze through a hatch which may not be compatible to your natural body shape, a dusty crawl through the back of a cupboard in a dormer bedroom or a balancing act and a leap of faith from the top of my own portable ladders.
These activities are normally undertaken in an empty property and I have often felt it necessary to let my office know that I am entering the void and to contact the authorities if they do not hear from me in about 20 minutes. If I forget to let them know I have reached the landing again it can be interesting.
The initial stare into the dark can be intimidating but also very exciting. A fumble around the edge of the hatch under torchlight may reveal the luxury of an electric light switch and even better if it is wired up to a working bulb or fluorescent strip. Otherwise, it is just a concentrated beam that sweeps the far extremities to determine whether I stray beyond the comfort zone of the top rungs.
In our very materialistic world the recesses of a loft provide a very useful storage facility for redundant technology, vinyl records, boxes of surplus clothes and books, indeed all the now unwanted trappings of a functional 21st Century family life.
Go back, even just 30 years and many homeowners will not have required to go into the roof space other than to lag the water tanks, lay some insulation, chase the trail of a mouse or fetch down the Christmas decorations. A further 20 years back and most households probably boarded up the hatch opening altogether as they had nothing to put in it.
It can often as not be the domain of the man of the house. In asking the lady of the house about the whereabouts of the roof access this is usually met with the response that it is upstairs somewhere and that she has never ever been up there as her husband looks after it. This is a prompt for me to expect a potential stash of pornographic or car magazines, a fully functioning and landscaped train set, mini-bar and a beloved collection of old love poems or letters from former girlfriends.
My colleagues in London tell me that they do not bother to drag around ladders for loft inspections because in the expensive real estate market of the Capital just about every such space has been converted for residential occupation. I am sorry for them as they will not be party to that excruciating pain of ascending an aluminium ladder in stockinged feet following the insistence of the property owners that shoes must be removed upon entering to protect the carpets. I tolerate it as a form of self-inflicted foot massage but with no commercial or therapeutic applications whatsoever. In fact, having glimpsed one of those physiological diagrams of the pressure points on a sole of the foot I am probably, unwittingly condemning my kidney and spleen to unwanted attention.
Where the loft is in use on a more regular basis for storage or even a leisure pursuit there is a stowaway ladder to tease into a down position.
Releasing the spring action or magnetic hatch gives a couple of seconds in which to decide whether to run for your life to avoid being skewered to the floor by a tarnished metal extending spike or to work out what make, model and type of action is required to get it to work. I have come across some marvellously intricate versions in 1950's houses and bungalows. These would not look out of place extending from the fuselage of the First Class section of a De Haviland Comet. A smooth, hinged, articulated movement, somewhat creaky from lack of lubrication of key points but a quality piece of equipment. The whole contraption slides down effortlessly and is custom made for the ceiling to floor clearance. It is a pleasure to feel a good solid footfall.
In contrast the B&Q or Wickes two section ladder could be made out of recycled Pukka Pie trays. In between these two extremes there can be a real cause for concern. A hybrid ladder, part Empire Exhibition and part DIY once trapped my fingers above head height and I had to twist and contort my body to get above the pinch point to release myself. Another light and flimsy ladder just folded at the mid point when I was at the mid point which was, some months later, still not amusing.
The step off from the top of the ladder is critical. If there are roof timbers to grab onto that is helpful but this is not always possible. An original loft space does not present too many problems in that the ceiling joists are all visible and in a pre 1960's property of reasonable and sturdy cross section of wood. Cover up the same with thick quilted insulation, chipboard sheeting or the formica panels from old wardbrobes and conditions resemble a minefield.
Touch rafter but I have not, yet, in all my loft excursions had the misfortune to fall through a ceiling or put my foot through but statistically I am well overdue. Caution is the key word and to be aware of a faint creak, a springiness or an unexpected lower level on the chosen path.
Obstacles are many through the roof space either loose or stack-boxed personal belongings or the regular horizontal cross collars which can be hurdled over in slow motion or limbo-danced under. The former can result in splinters in the groin area, the latter a complete covering of dirt and grime and abrasion of my bald patch.
The main aim of the activity is to get to the far end of the void and work back through the mental checklist of inspecting the structural pieces that make up the frame and covering of the roof. Torch in one hand and the other seeking handholds in a shuffling motion gives no scope to avoid the full facial attack by cobwebs, some active, some just in use as a longer term larder of flies and moths. A most unpleasant feeling.
In one rural cottage I was mystified by a sense of something else with me in the roof space.
I turned off my torch and there was a faint disturbance of the stagnant, dust laden atmosphere but when swept with the beam there was nothing to see.
This went on for a few minutes. Dark and there was movement, lit up just still. I speeded up the frequency of on/off lighting and finally caught sight of the bat. I had not been up close to one before. A black, leathery winged mouse. Cute really.
More damaging visitors are squirrels who can nest and wreak having by chewing through electrical cables, insulation and laggings as well as leaving half a forest in the eaves. The droppings of mice are to be avoided but it may take a handful and an inquisitive sniff to realise that infestation is present.
Many things can be completely forgotten if placed in a loft.
I have mentioned discoveries to the homeowners who have been fascinated by such things as old newpapers from the year the house was built, six bottles of vintage wine, shop signs from their old family business, a bicycle, mannequins, ancient suitcases and shipping trunks and those now rarely seen Tea Chests.
I hesitated to retrieve a dusty diary whose contents did appear to confirm that the writer knew that their Uncle Jack was carrying on with his brother's wife and was anguished about it being too much of a damaging family secret to disclose.
I left the diary concealed behind the water storage tank where I had found it. In due time and after that house had changed hands a few times it would be discovered and simply regarded as a memento of personal lives in more innocent times and not at all worthy of a thirty minute, shouty and confrontational feature on the Jeremy Kyle Show
This can involve a full upper body workout in scaling near vertical loft ladders, a breath-intake squeeze through a hatch which may not be compatible to your natural body shape, a dusty crawl through the back of a cupboard in a dormer bedroom or a balancing act and a leap of faith from the top of my own portable ladders.
These activities are normally undertaken in an empty property and I have often felt it necessary to let my office know that I am entering the void and to contact the authorities if they do not hear from me in about 20 minutes. If I forget to let them know I have reached the landing again it can be interesting.
The initial stare into the dark can be intimidating but also very exciting. A fumble around the edge of the hatch under torchlight may reveal the luxury of an electric light switch and even better if it is wired up to a working bulb or fluorescent strip. Otherwise, it is just a concentrated beam that sweeps the far extremities to determine whether I stray beyond the comfort zone of the top rungs.
In our very materialistic world the recesses of a loft provide a very useful storage facility for redundant technology, vinyl records, boxes of surplus clothes and books, indeed all the now unwanted trappings of a functional 21st Century family life.
Go back, even just 30 years and many homeowners will not have required to go into the roof space other than to lag the water tanks, lay some insulation, chase the trail of a mouse or fetch down the Christmas decorations. A further 20 years back and most households probably boarded up the hatch opening altogether as they had nothing to put in it.
It can often as not be the domain of the man of the house. In asking the lady of the house about the whereabouts of the roof access this is usually met with the response that it is upstairs somewhere and that she has never ever been up there as her husband looks after it. This is a prompt for me to expect a potential stash of pornographic or car magazines, a fully functioning and landscaped train set, mini-bar and a beloved collection of old love poems or letters from former girlfriends.
My colleagues in London tell me that they do not bother to drag around ladders for loft inspections because in the expensive real estate market of the Capital just about every such space has been converted for residential occupation. I am sorry for them as they will not be party to that excruciating pain of ascending an aluminium ladder in stockinged feet following the insistence of the property owners that shoes must be removed upon entering to protect the carpets. I tolerate it as a form of self-inflicted foot massage but with no commercial or therapeutic applications whatsoever. In fact, having glimpsed one of those physiological diagrams of the pressure points on a sole of the foot I am probably, unwittingly condemning my kidney and spleen to unwanted attention.
Where the loft is in use on a more regular basis for storage or even a leisure pursuit there is a stowaway ladder to tease into a down position.
Releasing the spring action or magnetic hatch gives a couple of seconds in which to decide whether to run for your life to avoid being skewered to the floor by a tarnished metal extending spike or to work out what make, model and type of action is required to get it to work. I have come across some marvellously intricate versions in 1950's houses and bungalows. These would not look out of place extending from the fuselage of the First Class section of a De Haviland Comet. A smooth, hinged, articulated movement, somewhat creaky from lack of lubrication of key points but a quality piece of equipment. The whole contraption slides down effortlessly and is custom made for the ceiling to floor clearance. It is a pleasure to feel a good solid footfall.
In contrast the B&Q or Wickes two section ladder could be made out of recycled Pukka Pie trays. In between these two extremes there can be a real cause for concern. A hybrid ladder, part Empire Exhibition and part DIY once trapped my fingers above head height and I had to twist and contort my body to get above the pinch point to release myself. Another light and flimsy ladder just folded at the mid point when I was at the mid point which was, some months later, still not amusing.
The step off from the top of the ladder is critical. If there are roof timbers to grab onto that is helpful but this is not always possible. An original loft space does not present too many problems in that the ceiling joists are all visible and in a pre 1960's property of reasonable and sturdy cross section of wood. Cover up the same with thick quilted insulation, chipboard sheeting or the formica panels from old wardbrobes and conditions resemble a minefield.
Touch rafter but I have not, yet, in all my loft excursions had the misfortune to fall through a ceiling or put my foot through but statistically I am well overdue. Caution is the key word and to be aware of a faint creak, a springiness or an unexpected lower level on the chosen path.
Obstacles are many through the roof space either loose or stack-boxed personal belongings or the regular horizontal cross collars which can be hurdled over in slow motion or limbo-danced under. The former can result in splinters in the groin area, the latter a complete covering of dirt and grime and abrasion of my bald patch.
The main aim of the activity is to get to the far end of the void and work back through the mental checklist of inspecting the structural pieces that make up the frame and covering of the roof. Torch in one hand and the other seeking handholds in a shuffling motion gives no scope to avoid the full facial attack by cobwebs, some active, some just in use as a longer term larder of flies and moths. A most unpleasant feeling.
In one rural cottage I was mystified by a sense of something else with me in the roof space.
I turned off my torch and there was a faint disturbance of the stagnant, dust laden atmosphere but when swept with the beam there was nothing to see.
This went on for a few minutes. Dark and there was movement, lit up just still. I speeded up the frequency of on/off lighting and finally caught sight of the bat. I had not been up close to one before. A black, leathery winged mouse. Cute really.
More damaging visitors are squirrels who can nest and wreak having by chewing through electrical cables, insulation and laggings as well as leaving half a forest in the eaves. The droppings of mice are to be avoided but it may take a handful and an inquisitive sniff to realise that infestation is present.
Many things can be completely forgotten if placed in a loft.
I have mentioned discoveries to the homeowners who have been fascinated by such things as old newpapers from the year the house was built, six bottles of vintage wine, shop signs from their old family business, a bicycle, mannequins, ancient suitcases and shipping trunks and those now rarely seen Tea Chests.
I hesitated to retrieve a dusty diary whose contents did appear to confirm that the writer knew that their Uncle Jack was carrying on with his brother's wife and was anguished about it being too much of a damaging family secret to disclose.
I left the diary concealed behind the water storage tank where I had found it. In due time and after that house had changed hands a few times it would be discovered and simply regarded as a memento of personal lives in more innocent times and not at all worthy of a thirty minute, shouty and confrontational feature on the Jeremy Kyle Show
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