A certain association can play tricks with the mind and senses.
I drove past the Nestle Factory in York today and although I am not really sure if they still have a production line for the chocolate goodies on which part of their Empire was built I was convinced that I could smell cocoa, wafer and caramel on the air.
I got a bit lost heading out northwards and passed through New Earswick, a model village founded by the sweet and confectionery manufacturer Joseph Rowntree. Model in this context does not refer to things in miniature but in the laudable intentions of creating a pleasant living and social environment for his workforce but not in the name, he was adamant to state, of charity.
Rowntree, now that is an evocative name first established in a special place in memories of my childhood.
They had a wide and tantalising product range that was willingly subscribed to in small pocket money increments but all adding up to a huge profit over the decades. It was the sheer heritage of the Rowntree or as it was called Rowntree Mackintosh brand that attracted the attentions of the Nestle Corporation in 1988 after a hum-dinger of a battle for control with Jacobs Suchard.
The Rowntree familiars included Rolo's, Smarties, Caramac bars, Quality Street and the Kit Kat. These were iconic items and although still surviving under the new livery they are somehow tainted and diminished.
Ask anyone in the 40 plus age range.
There was nothing more comforting, exciting and satisfying than the purchase of, in my case, a Caramac Bar from Tierneys Sweet Shop in the High Street. First intentions were to break off and suck each of the segments into a soft gooey mass before digestion but this was never an actual achievement for me and the whole thing would be scoffed in one go, on the move on foot or bike and trying not to lose any of the caramel through dribbling, coughing or that unfortunate occurrence of when it inadvertently somehow found its way into the space between eyes and nose before exiting in a most uncomfortable way through the nostrils like a khaki coloured nose bleed.
In each of my subsequent decades I drifted in and out of my secret love affair with the Caramac Bar.
For a time I was heavily into Tunnocks Snowballs, a delicacy from Scotland of a coconut dipped crispy thin chocolate shell around a soft and sticky marshmallow centre. Our local shopkeeper was regularly harassed and harangued by me as his best sweet buying customer to bring back a full box from the wholesalers whenever it was time for him to stock the shelves in his modest village shop. He pleaded amnesia over ever being asked on a couple of occasions when I had spied his car being unloaded after a trip to the Cash and Carry. I helped him unload in case he was just teasing, but often as not he did just forget. When a large bulk box was presented he charged me full retail price for the lot which was a bit mean but then again being an addict for a Tunnocks Snowball even that was cheap at the price in my sugar starved and semi delirious condition.
There has, for many years, been a bit of a standing joke with my friends that if any group activity is planned then you can rely on me to bring the Mars Bars. This arose after the unfortunate discovery, for me, of a dense layer of sweet wrappers in the footwells of my company car. This was regarded as being hilarious by my acquaintances and thereafter the association of me with the mighty Mars Bar stuck.
Other favourites have included mint Aero's, the exotic Bounty, Snickers and Yorkie.
It was just today that I came across a new product from Nestle and their Yorkie research team. On my multiple passings of the factory as a consequence of trying to master the York inner ring road, I did notice the large complex dedicated to product development but it was purely coincidental that I stumbled across their newest offering, giant Yorkie chocolate buttons.
My own experience has for years led me to suspect there to be an opening for a new sphere based chocolate goodie. Cadbury buttons are ok but very unsatisfying. There is currently a designated giant version but this has been put into perspective by the truly awesome Yorkie version. At £1.65 a packet it is a premium product. obviously. The first grasp of the bag from the shelf was disappointing as I had fully expected to fall to the ground under the sheer weight of the advertised product. The packet was light and after feeling around through the foil packaging it was evident that, possibly the number of giant buttons were in single figures.
Yorkie has always been aggressively marketed at us impressionable and fickle males. I am not sure how the Company Lawyers for Nestle have permitted somewhat of a sexist and discriminatory campaign for the Yorkie portfolio particularly as chocolate is often cited as being more pleasurable than sex amongst the females in our midst and lets face it, women know what is good don't they, and about chocolate as well.
The ripping open and reveal of the buttons fulfilled the mantra of the advertising. They were truly solid milk chocolate like a discus, crunchy and sweet yet swift to melt on the tongue and affix to the roof of the mouth. The dessert bowl did nearly crack in half when I poured out the contents. I offered them around the room but only the men present felt that they could take one and do it justice.
So, I have my latest favourite for what I confidently predict to maintain an unassailable position a couple of decades. Well, at least until I have investigated that new confectionery phenomena of the cake pop.
Tuesday 30 April 2013
Monday 29 April 2013
Brock Back Mountain
I do not mean to stare or be disrespectful but I am now at the stage of going well out of my reasonable route from the office to home just to get another look at the dead badger on the verge just near the Humber Bridge slip road.
It is not that I am morbid or creepy.
It is just that such a creature, rarely seen nowadays apart from by those out and about at unnatural hours, in waxed coat, combats, green welly boots and ski mask, still retains some aura and majesty even in an undignified heap, bottom out to the road and head buried in it's front paws as though it was resigned to the impact following what must have been blind panic in the glare of a pair or more of vehicle headlights.
I first noticed the corpse a couple of days ago. It pays to keep an eye out on the margins of the highway when driving along because that narrow strip is often the repository of bits that have fallen off lorries, shredded re-treaded tyres, deep holes and more recently I have learned it is also a popular resting place for builder's consumables.
Take exhibit number 1.
My rear inside tyre, a nice, hardly worn premium price Goodyear but punctured relentlessly by one flat head nail and a collection of galvanised tacks. No doubt the consequence of a contractors flat bed or pick-up truck cutting someone up in the race for the slip road and the violent movement of the swerve and braking dislodging the loosely stowed items and jettisoning them up and out onto the carriageway.
The verge is pretty grubby and mucky anyway and although we may curse those coned off inside lanes, invariably at weekends, this is the vital period for recovery of the accumulated hazards, such as McDonalds Drive-Thru wrappers, cigarette butts, bottles, cans, soiled nappies, packaging and of course the road killed wildlife.
The badger will have simply ambled out of the relative safety of its expansive underground home, amongst the greenspace which occupies a sizeable area in the middle of the clover leaf junction, in search of food.
There must be acre upon acre of such green space arranged in geometric shape parcels throughout the UK road network. If you too have a favourite convergence of roads just visualise the pattern and you will see that indeed I am right in my assumption.
It is rarely trespassed upon by humans because we are too busy hurtling along at 70mph or if we are unfortunate to puncture or break down we do not like to venture too far into that wilderness. The bravest souls amongst us may find it necessary to crest the slope for a secret wee-wee or number two on occasion. Otherwise it is a case of just enough of a clamber up the embankment to be a safe distance from the hard shoulder and that's it.
I have often negotiated a large roundabout or traffic island which is densely planted with the thought that a shelter, bivouac or even a small shed in the midst of that greenery would be quite a good refuge although ear plugs and a fine gauze mask would be an essential part of any attire.
I do keep half an eye out for any tell tale trails of smoke in the tops of the trees on the biggest interchanges in case someone has stolen my idea. It would take quite a desperate person really to resort to such a lifestyle change but who knows, if land becomes short in supply and pricey we may soon be looking to buy up bits under and around Spaghetti Junction or at the intertwining of other main motorway and trunk road routes.
There is a relatively new complex of slip roads and flyovers about 2 miles west of the Humber Bridge badger culling site and in the early mornings, on the way to a car boot sale, I have seen a multitude of wildlife from deer to foxes, stoats and weasels, rats and other creatures too small and swift to accurately identify or even focus on for more than a second. Blink and they're gone like a ferret up a drainpipe jean leg.
The junction is built into a south facing slope and would in any other setting represent a prime piece of building land. My dreams of one day constructing a partially underground house would eminently suit just that type of location, orientation and layout of contours. The wildlife have known this for centuries or millenium of course. Ironically and cruelly, each time one of the natural residents is killed in the process of leaving and re-entering that paradise my own dream comes closer to actuality. Does that sound a bit mad? Just move on......
Within the space of a week I had to weave around the prone carcasses of two roe deer on another nearby main road. They were freshly killed as evidenced by an anxious motorist on their mobile trying to get a recovery vehicle to attend and remove a badly battered front end and wing of their car. The contents of the radiator were still spilling out under the damaged bodywork as much as the lifeblood was ebbing away from Bambi.
Other motorists could be seen calculating what their reactions would have been if they had been but a split second earlier on the off-ramp or had been tempted to overtake the now battered hatchback within the green and white chevron countdown boards. A small number of motorists, alternative thinkers, may have been using their smartphones to source information on how, with whom and where to arrange for half a ton of venison to be prepared for the freezer.
The badger, in its innocence and trusting that its bulk would be ample warning to be avoided by attentive drivers, will not have stood much of a chance as it attempted to cross the road. I wonder if it had the forethought to have left the equivalent of a final Will and Testament as the former owner occupier of a choice piece of real-estate.
It is not that I am morbid or creepy.
It is just that such a creature, rarely seen nowadays apart from by those out and about at unnatural hours, in waxed coat, combats, green welly boots and ski mask, still retains some aura and majesty even in an undignified heap, bottom out to the road and head buried in it's front paws as though it was resigned to the impact following what must have been blind panic in the glare of a pair or more of vehicle headlights.
I first noticed the corpse a couple of days ago. It pays to keep an eye out on the margins of the highway when driving along because that narrow strip is often the repository of bits that have fallen off lorries, shredded re-treaded tyres, deep holes and more recently I have learned it is also a popular resting place for builder's consumables.
Take exhibit number 1.
My rear inside tyre, a nice, hardly worn premium price Goodyear but punctured relentlessly by one flat head nail and a collection of galvanised tacks. No doubt the consequence of a contractors flat bed or pick-up truck cutting someone up in the race for the slip road and the violent movement of the swerve and braking dislodging the loosely stowed items and jettisoning them up and out onto the carriageway.
The verge is pretty grubby and mucky anyway and although we may curse those coned off inside lanes, invariably at weekends, this is the vital period for recovery of the accumulated hazards, such as McDonalds Drive-Thru wrappers, cigarette butts, bottles, cans, soiled nappies, packaging and of course the road killed wildlife.
The badger will have simply ambled out of the relative safety of its expansive underground home, amongst the greenspace which occupies a sizeable area in the middle of the clover leaf junction, in search of food.
There must be acre upon acre of such green space arranged in geometric shape parcels throughout the UK road network. If you too have a favourite convergence of roads just visualise the pattern and you will see that indeed I am right in my assumption.
It is rarely trespassed upon by humans because we are too busy hurtling along at 70mph or if we are unfortunate to puncture or break down we do not like to venture too far into that wilderness. The bravest souls amongst us may find it necessary to crest the slope for a secret wee-wee or number two on occasion. Otherwise it is a case of just enough of a clamber up the embankment to be a safe distance from the hard shoulder and that's it.
I have often negotiated a large roundabout or traffic island which is densely planted with the thought that a shelter, bivouac or even a small shed in the midst of that greenery would be quite a good refuge although ear plugs and a fine gauze mask would be an essential part of any attire.
I do keep half an eye out for any tell tale trails of smoke in the tops of the trees on the biggest interchanges in case someone has stolen my idea. It would take quite a desperate person really to resort to such a lifestyle change but who knows, if land becomes short in supply and pricey we may soon be looking to buy up bits under and around Spaghetti Junction or at the intertwining of other main motorway and trunk road routes.
There is a relatively new complex of slip roads and flyovers about 2 miles west of the Humber Bridge badger culling site and in the early mornings, on the way to a car boot sale, I have seen a multitude of wildlife from deer to foxes, stoats and weasels, rats and other creatures too small and swift to accurately identify or even focus on for more than a second. Blink and they're gone like a ferret up a drainpipe jean leg.
The junction is built into a south facing slope and would in any other setting represent a prime piece of building land. My dreams of one day constructing a partially underground house would eminently suit just that type of location, orientation and layout of contours. The wildlife have known this for centuries or millenium of course. Ironically and cruelly, each time one of the natural residents is killed in the process of leaving and re-entering that paradise my own dream comes closer to actuality. Does that sound a bit mad? Just move on......
Within the space of a week I had to weave around the prone carcasses of two roe deer on another nearby main road. They were freshly killed as evidenced by an anxious motorist on their mobile trying to get a recovery vehicle to attend and remove a badly battered front end and wing of their car. The contents of the radiator were still spilling out under the damaged bodywork as much as the lifeblood was ebbing away from Bambi.
Other motorists could be seen calculating what their reactions would have been if they had been but a split second earlier on the off-ramp or had been tempted to overtake the now battered hatchback within the green and white chevron countdown boards. A small number of motorists, alternative thinkers, may have been using their smartphones to source information on how, with whom and where to arrange for half a ton of venison to be prepared for the freezer.
The badger, in its innocence and trusting that its bulk would be ample warning to be avoided by attentive drivers, will not have stood much of a chance as it attempted to cross the road. I wonder if it had the forethought to have left the equivalent of a final Will and Testament as the former owner occupier of a choice piece of real-estate.
Sunday 28 April 2013
Dune and Dusted
The Boy likes the rain.
He told me or at least I think it was him who spoke through the humid misty deluge which had enveloped us.
The prospect of a shower had threatened to spoil our bike ride earlier on in the afternoon but had thankfully held off until the last bit of the journey home.
It was that quite fine, light rain which does not throw up a physical obstacle but does still dribble down your neck and through as many layers of clothing as you have on to reach skin.
At that latter stage of cycling activity for a sunday we were of the same opinion that we did not mind getting a bit wet. The ambient temperature was , at about 14 Celsius, mild and the rainfall was just that little bit off-cold. It was not even worth stopping and dragging out our rain gear because of our twenty minute ahead appointment with a cup of tea and a warm dry towel.
We had been rained off fully the previous day which was the first time for quite a while that there had been any sustained precipitation to speak of. Banks of clouds had come in from the north this time and in between some bright blue patches of clear sky there had been some ugly, dense and ominous rain filled clusters. Although ending our plans for yet another epic ride the rain was certainly welcome for an already parched looking lawn and borders and it is only April.
Just a few days before we had witnessed a phenomena that I have certainly not ever seen before in this country. The roads and verges out in the countryside had filled up with sand giving an almost beach like appearance. Those fields not recently sewn or with a crop in situ could be seen with a whirling dervish of wind, a mini tornado and vortex dancing around throwing up a real dust storm.
The scene resembled the grainy black and white Pathe News films of the 1930's depression and dust bowl in the United States when farming practices and drought conditions caused the topsoil to be stripped away causing a major environmental disaster even before the accounting for the losses and consequential hardships of those whose primary income and livelihoods had come from the land now upped and gone.
The strange thing about the maelstrom, Yorkshire style, was that it did not affect every field.
The gossamer nature of the aerated soil must have made it very sensitive to a breeze, any slight funnelling of the warm air between tree lined headlands, flanking buildings or even along the ploughed furrows themselves.
The suspended powder was then sifted through the hedgerows and in miniscule particulate form deposited on the side of the road.
In some places usually corresponding to a dip in the topography there was a proper drift and it was necessary for traffic to slow to a crawl to negotiate through the newly formed dunes.
On a ride out in the previous week me and The Boy had been whipped almost raw in one of these abrasive flurries and it was a most unpleasant experience. It was necessary to turn our faces away from the wind whilst still trying to keep a look out for any holes or obstructions in the road. We must have looked like swimmers doing the crawl and gasping for air.
Almost as soon as the sand storm hit us did it seemed to abate. We had also by then turned a corner to have the full advantage of whatever strength of wind had previously caused such discomfort. It took a few forced blinks and attempts to squeeze out a crocodile tear for any stubborn grains to be coaxed out of our eyes and a bit of salivating and snorting to free up the mucus membranes. We must have looked quite freak show to any onlookers in the performance of these actions
So in the course of a few days we had been both sand blasted and steam cleaned. Such is the lot of enthusiastic cyclists. Whatever next?
He told me or at least I think it was him who spoke through the humid misty deluge which had enveloped us.
The prospect of a shower had threatened to spoil our bike ride earlier on in the afternoon but had thankfully held off until the last bit of the journey home.
It was that quite fine, light rain which does not throw up a physical obstacle but does still dribble down your neck and through as many layers of clothing as you have on to reach skin.
At that latter stage of cycling activity for a sunday we were of the same opinion that we did not mind getting a bit wet. The ambient temperature was , at about 14 Celsius, mild and the rainfall was just that little bit off-cold. It was not even worth stopping and dragging out our rain gear because of our twenty minute ahead appointment with a cup of tea and a warm dry towel.
We had been rained off fully the previous day which was the first time for quite a while that there had been any sustained precipitation to speak of. Banks of clouds had come in from the north this time and in between some bright blue patches of clear sky there had been some ugly, dense and ominous rain filled clusters. Although ending our plans for yet another epic ride the rain was certainly welcome for an already parched looking lawn and borders and it is only April.
Just a few days before we had witnessed a phenomena that I have certainly not ever seen before in this country. The roads and verges out in the countryside had filled up with sand giving an almost beach like appearance. Those fields not recently sewn or with a crop in situ could be seen with a whirling dervish of wind, a mini tornado and vortex dancing around throwing up a real dust storm.
The scene resembled the grainy black and white Pathe News films of the 1930's depression and dust bowl in the United States when farming practices and drought conditions caused the topsoil to be stripped away causing a major environmental disaster even before the accounting for the losses and consequential hardships of those whose primary income and livelihoods had come from the land now upped and gone.
The strange thing about the maelstrom, Yorkshire style, was that it did not affect every field.
The gossamer nature of the aerated soil must have made it very sensitive to a breeze, any slight funnelling of the warm air between tree lined headlands, flanking buildings or even along the ploughed furrows themselves.
The suspended powder was then sifted through the hedgerows and in miniscule particulate form deposited on the side of the road.
In some places usually corresponding to a dip in the topography there was a proper drift and it was necessary for traffic to slow to a crawl to negotiate through the newly formed dunes.
On a ride out in the previous week me and The Boy had been whipped almost raw in one of these abrasive flurries and it was a most unpleasant experience. It was necessary to turn our faces away from the wind whilst still trying to keep a look out for any holes or obstructions in the road. We must have looked like swimmers doing the crawl and gasping for air.
Almost as soon as the sand storm hit us did it seemed to abate. We had also by then turned a corner to have the full advantage of whatever strength of wind had previously caused such discomfort. It took a few forced blinks and attempts to squeeze out a crocodile tear for any stubborn grains to be coaxed out of our eyes and a bit of salivating and snorting to free up the mucus membranes. We must have looked quite freak show to any onlookers in the performance of these actions
So in the course of a few days we had been both sand blasted and steam cleaned. Such is the lot of enthusiastic cyclists. Whatever next?
Saturday 27 April 2013
Penultimatum
I am always nervous at this stage in the year, more specifically the closing weeks of the English football season.
There are two games left for my team, Hull City and after relegation from their two seasons in the Premier League and a couple of years recovering from that ordeal in the upper half of what is a very, very competitive Division they find themselves, entirely on merit in second position, an automatic promotion place.
Their last ascent to the lofty heights of the Premier League was through the play-offs at the end of the 2008 season which provided me, my Father , Peter H and Phil with an unforgettable day out at Wembley with the other 40,000 followers of the team ,followed by a very quiet drive back in disbelief that our team had triumphed.
It has been a nervous few weeks up until today. A big fat and plump cushion, almost a duvet, of seven points over third place Watford has been whittled away to just the one ahead of City's last but one game today against another Yorkshire club, Barnsley. They, themselves are at a critical stage in their season being equidistant to the bottom of the league as Hull are to the top. They desperately need the full six points from their last two games and other results amongst 9 other clubs to go their way to be assured of escaping the drop to League One.
So, after the passage of the 44 previous fixtures played since last August it all comes down to the fact that a tremendous amount is at stake from 3pm this afternoon.
At 78 points to date Hull City need 3 more to master the possible total of 80 that Watford seem highly likely to get following a good win last night away at Leicester City.
It would be nice to think that this could be achieved away at Barnsley although I do have mixed feelings about being promoted at the expense of another Yorkshire club especially as the County has very much under performed this season with Leeds United, Sheffield Wednesday and Huddersfield occupying the bottom 12 places.
Leeds are safe from the relegation battle by the one point. They play Watford in the final match of the season and cannot be relied upon, on the basis of bad blood and history with Hull City to do them a favour and get result if the outcome at Barnsley today is not as hoped for.
City's last game is at home to the League Champions, Cardiff next Saturday. I cannot say who the Bluebirds will send to play, hopefully the office and administrative staff or alternatively they could come at full strength and wholly obliterate my team in order to close off their successful campaign in the best style possible.
I have written this just before 1pm, with 2 hours or so to go before the City v Barnsley match. In true faithful fan style I will go out on my pushbike and avoid any news bulletins and latest scores until 5pm. I will then log on to Sky Sports Score Centre and on the Championship Results page slowly draw my hand across from left to right to reveal the result from the game. I don't really know why I do it in this way. Force of habit in my 34 years of being put through the emotional stresses by a team who never tend to do things the easy way.
The subsequent reveal will make my baked beans on toast for Saturday's tea either taste like a banquet if Hull City win or like swallowing pebbles if everything has to come down to the last game of the season.
Most supporters of a team will sympathise with the great Bill Shankly in saying "that some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that".
If the worst case scenario unfolds and Hull City fail to get automatic promotion then the fallback of the Play Offs is still there but I am already sufficiently stressed to not be able to entertain or contemplate what is still a significant achievement. So here goes, less than two hours now to kick off. Up the Tigers, please Up.
(Postscript- oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Barnsley 2 Hull City 0. Never mind, still next week and fixture 46)
There are two games left for my team, Hull City and after relegation from their two seasons in the Premier League and a couple of years recovering from that ordeal in the upper half of what is a very, very competitive Division they find themselves, entirely on merit in second position, an automatic promotion place.
Their last ascent to the lofty heights of the Premier League was through the play-offs at the end of the 2008 season which provided me, my Father , Peter H and Phil with an unforgettable day out at Wembley with the other 40,000 followers of the team ,followed by a very quiet drive back in disbelief that our team had triumphed.
It has been a nervous few weeks up until today. A big fat and plump cushion, almost a duvet, of seven points over third place Watford has been whittled away to just the one ahead of City's last but one game today against another Yorkshire club, Barnsley. They, themselves are at a critical stage in their season being equidistant to the bottom of the league as Hull are to the top. They desperately need the full six points from their last two games and other results amongst 9 other clubs to go their way to be assured of escaping the drop to League One.
So, after the passage of the 44 previous fixtures played since last August it all comes down to the fact that a tremendous amount is at stake from 3pm this afternoon.
At 78 points to date Hull City need 3 more to master the possible total of 80 that Watford seem highly likely to get following a good win last night away at Leicester City.
It would be nice to think that this could be achieved away at Barnsley although I do have mixed feelings about being promoted at the expense of another Yorkshire club especially as the County has very much under performed this season with Leeds United, Sheffield Wednesday and Huddersfield occupying the bottom 12 places.
Leeds are safe from the relegation battle by the one point. They play Watford in the final match of the season and cannot be relied upon, on the basis of bad blood and history with Hull City to do them a favour and get result if the outcome at Barnsley today is not as hoped for.
City's last game is at home to the League Champions, Cardiff next Saturday. I cannot say who the Bluebirds will send to play, hopefully the office and administrative staff or alternatively they could come at full strength and wholly obliterate my team in order to close off their successful campaign in the best style possible.
I have written this just before 1pm, with 2 hours or so to go before the City v Barnsley match. In true faithful fan style I will go out on my pushbike and avoid any news bulletins and latest scores until 5pm. I will then log on to Sky Sports Score Centre and on the Championship Results page slowly draw my hand across from left to right to reveal the result from the game. I don't really know why I do it in this way. Force of habit in my 34 years of being put through the emotional stresses by a team who never tend to do things the easy way.
The subsequent reveal will make my baked beans on toast for Saturday's tea either taste like a banquet if Hull City win or like swallowing pebbles if everything has to come down to the last game of the season.
Most supporters of a team will sympathise with the great Bill Shankly in saying "that some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that".
If the worst case scenario unfolds and Hull City fail to get automatic promotion then the fallback of the Play Offs is still there but I am already sufficiently stressed to not be able to entertain or contemplate what is still a significant achievement. So here goes, less than two hours now to kick off. Up the Tigers, please Up.
(Postscript- oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Barnsley 2 Hull City 0. Never mind, still next week and fixture 46)
Friday 26 April 2013
Home from Home
Leafing through the pages of a brochure for Holiday Cottages gives a false sense of wealth and status.
The beauty of it is that a picturesque country house or a quaint Cliffside fishermans residence, whilst likely to cost up to six figures for purchase can be had for a brief period for, by comparison, affordable pennies.
Such a vacation has been a favourite of our family.
A home from home for a fortnight, a week or just a few days stolen during school term time which increasingly has been a necessity to get anywhere booked at all. The demand for a UK based cottage rental has been phenomenal in recent years and although numbers of places and companies offering this service has certainly increased so has the clamour for the best weeks and the best locations.
Leave the booking process too late and there can be a few odd looking choices only. A small flat over a chip shop, the hayloft above a working milking parlour or a converted bunker on an old RAF base, long since mothballed.
Of course, you get what you are prepared to pay for as a general rule.
The glossy brochures have a colour coding or alphabetical lettering system to classify the number of beds and the level of tariff. There are quite significant variations in the weekly rates as the industry is driven on seasonal demand. A heaving and populous seaside resort in August commands peak rates but the same venue in a windswept and sandstorm abraded February when nothing is open for business has to be heavily discounted to get any sniff of interest from the public.
We have had the pleasure of giving the impression of being the owners of some very nice holiday lets. We have breezed up to the door as though just arriving from one of our other imaginary homes in Verbier, Cannes or Los Angeles when in fact we have had a relatively short journey from East Yorkshire.
The giveaway to any onlookers however is the evident confusion on our faces over forgetting where the Agency or the local responsible person had told us the key would be. This could be on the top of the low door jamb, under a brick or garden gnome figure or we could be frantically scouring and plundering potential hiding places before one of the children tries the handle and the door swings open, unlocked after all.
Us townies always lock our doors but in a small hamlet or fishing village everyone knows everyone else and crime is neither a regular conversational subject or a fearsome perception. Perhaps the payment of the rent for the holiday venue is partly in return for that sense of old worldliness and trust.
The take over of someone else's property can be a swift process. The contents of the car, when transferred down the 1 in 4 cobbled roadway or across the field or along the frontage of the terraced block by human relay, immediately stamp our identity on the place. The children always disappeared when it was time to unpack and expand into the accommodation, such was there keenness to explore and return excited and enthusiastic about the forthcoming vacation.
Our first cottage rental was on the Isle of Skye. Cheap and cheerful are often bandied about in tandem but in this case only 50 percent of the wording applied. A squat, white painted croft (or as we called it- a bungalow) set on a shelf on a steep hillside and with a clear view over a seaweed shored loch inlet. Well, by clear view I actually mean that we had to lift our gaze over the roof of the owners house which had been built directly in front. The old couple were like keepers of the gate and our comings and goings on foot or in the car were through a guard of honour, almost, and with frequent invitations to come in for a Gin and Tonic. They were kindly souls but heavy drinking before 10am in the morning would have made us grumpy and intolerant towards the demanding children and we gracefully declined. The dirty rusty red water that spewed from the sink and bath taps was, I understand, a natural phenomena for the island and not a spiteful action on behalf of our spurning the hospitality of our hosts.
As a starter cottage we were confident that in subsequent years we would not experience something as basic again.
We were wrong.
The brochure for a gatehouse lodge in the Scottish Borders within short distance of Edinburgh stated that it slept 6. After a quick tally up of dead mice and flies the occupancy level was considerably higher. It was a miserable place only made tolerable by two factors, one being a full sized ping pong table in an outhouse and the other a subscription to all Sky Channels. We in fact spent little time there as we shuttled back and forth to the Festival Venues.
The return from a day out was always a bit of an anxious moment in case anything ran out of the door as we made our way in. The children, a bit older now, likened it to the home of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves on the basis of the wildlife in the living room. I am not sure what was the worst aspect of the overnight period. It was a close run thing between the static of the nylon bed sheets or the frizzle frazzle sound of the ultrasonic based rodent deterrent.
In contrast and about as far away as could be imagined was our week in the palatial and well appointed rooms and grounds of Kingairloch House.
What we thought was the main road turned out to be the private driveway. We expected to be lodging in something attached to the large and pleasing country house or would have quite happily taken a static caravan to be in the same tranquil location of pine trees, calm loch inlet waters and the backdrop of huge mountains.
We fell over upon realising that the house itself was ours.
It had an interesting back story. Originally built as a hunting lodge it had been discovered by a quarrying company who were blasting and exporting the heart of a hillside over the nearest peak. It was bought to remove any local opposition to their activities but sat well in the balance sheet as an asset for corporate entertaining and at the disposal and whims of the Directors. It was sumptuous in décor and fittings. The main living rooms looked east over private parkland which would be grazed by the wild deer coming down from the mountain when feeling safe, out of season, from being shot by tubby businessmen in tweed suits.
In the far distance was a chocolate box Castle and in between the black, cool waters of a sea loch.
The kitchen was straight out of the pages of Hello Magazine and to cater for damp hunters and walkers a huge laundry room had been equipped with an all in one washer and hot air dryer. It was proper heavy duty and with a full cycle from dirty to iron-dry in one hour.
Our complete feeling of ease in such luxurious surroundings was only tempered by a phone call that our own home had just been burgled. I momentarily contemplated the 300 mile drive back to check things out but with the news that only a Video Recorder had gone missing decided to stay put and fill up the Maytag Industrial appliance with another unnecessary load of clothes.
That property was, I acknowledge representative of the ultimate in a holiday letting.
There were some downsides. The nearest shops in Fort William involved a three hour round trip on narrow rockfall pitted roads and a ferry crossing. Similarly the sourcing of fuel for the car was problematic and at a significant mark up over the prices we normally tolerated. What was most annoying was our mistiming of the car ferry trip from a day visit to Mull and Iona which saw us having to sleep in a steamed up car overnight on the slipway and within only a few miles, as the eagle flies, from those privileged surroundings.
Friends, touring the Highlands, came for tea and we played or rather tried to work out how to play a game of croquet on the lawn. It was an idyllic existence and for a moment in time, and for a weekly rent, we were the Monarchs of the Glen.
The beauty of it is that a picturesque country house or a quaint Cliffside fishermans residence, whilst likely to cost up to six figures for purchase can be had for a brief period for, by comparison, affordable pennies.
Such a vacation has been a favourite of our family.
A home from home for a fortnight, a week or just a few days stolen during school term time which increasingly has been a necessity to get anywhere booked at all. The demand for a UK based cottage rental has been phenomenal in recent years and although numbers of places and companies offering this service has certainly increased so has the clamour for the best weeks and the best locations.
Leave the booking process too late and there can be a few odd looking choices only. A small flat over a chip shop, the hayloft above a working milking parlour or a converted bunker on an old RAF base, long since mothballed.
Of course, you get what you are prepared to pay for as a general rule.
The glossy brochures have a colour coding or alphabetical lettering system to classify the number of beds and the level of tariff. There are quite significant variations in the weekly rates as the industry is driven on seasonal demand. A heaving and populous seaside resort in August commands peak rates but the same venue in a windswept and sandstorm abraded February when nothing is open for business has to be heavily discounted to get any sniff of interest from the public.
We have had the pleasure of giving the impression of being the owners of some very nice holiday lets. We have breezed up to the door as though just arriving from one of our other imaginary homes in Verbier, Cannes or Los Angeles when in fact we have had a relatively short journey from East Yorkshire.
The giveaway to any onlookers however is the evident confusion on our faces over forgetting where the Agency or the local responsible person had told us the key would be. This could be on the top of the low door jamb, under a brick or garden gnome figure or we could be frantically scouring and plundering potential hiding places before one of the children tries the handle and the door swings open, unlocked after all.
Us townies always lock our doors but in a small hamlet or fishing village everyone knows everyone else and crime is neither a regular conversational subject or a fearsome perception. Perhaps the payment of the rent for the holiday venue is partly in return for that sense of old worldliness and trust.
The take over of someone else's property can be a swift process. The contents of the car, when transferred down the 1 in 4 cobbled roadway or across the field or along the frontage of the terraced block by human relay, immediately stamp our identity on the place. The children always disappeared when it was time to unpack and expand into the accommodation, such was there keenness to explore and return excited and enthusiastic about the forthcoming vacation.
Our first cottage rental was on the Isle of Skye. Cheap and cheerful are often bandied about in tandem but in this case only 50 percent of the wording applied. A squat, white painted croft (or as we called it- a bungalow) set on a shelf on a steep hillside and with a clear view over a seaweed shored loch inlet. Well, by clear view I actually mean that we had to lift our gaze over the roof of the owners house which had been built directly in front. The old couple were like keepers of the gate and our comings and goings on foot or in the car were through a guard of honour, almost, and with frequent invitations to come in for a Gin and Tonic. They were kindly souls but heavy drinking before 10am in the morning would have made us grumpy and intolerant towards the demanding children and we gracefully declined. The dirty rusty red water that spewed from the sink and bath taps was, I understand, a natural phenomena for the island and not a spiteful action on behalf of our spurning the hospitality of our hosts.
As a starter cottage we were confident that in subsequent years we would not experience something as basic again.
We were wrong.
The brochure for a gatehouse lodge in the Scottish Borders within short distance of Edinburgh stated that it slept 6. After a quick tally up of dead mice and flies the occupancy level was considerably higher. It was a miserable place only made tolerable by two factors, one being a full sized ping pong table in an outhouse and the other a subscription to all Sky Channels. We in fact spent little time there as we shuttled back and forth to the Festival Venues.
The return from a day out was always a bit of an anxious moment in case anything ran out of the door as we made our way in. The children, a bit older now, likened it to the home of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves on the basis of the wildlife in the living room. I am not sure what was the worst aspect of the overnight period. It was a close run thing between the static of the nylon bed sheets or the frizzle frazzle sound of the ultrasonic based rodent deterrent.
In contrast and about as far away as could be imagined was our week in the palatial and well appointed rooms and grounds of Kingairloch House.
What we thought was the main road turned out to be the private driveway. We expected to be lodging in something attached to the large and pleasing country house or would have quite happily taken a static caravan to be in the same tranquil location of pine trees, calm loch inlet waters and the backdrop of huge mountains.
We fell over upon realising that the house itself was ours.
It had an interesting back story. Originally built as a hunting lodge it had been discovered by a quarrying company who were blasting and exporting the heart of a hillside over the nearest peak. It was bought to remove any local opposition to their activities but sat well in the balance sheet as an asset for corporate entertaining and at the disposal and whims of the Directors. It was sumptuous in décor and fittings. The main living rooms looked east over private parkland which would be grazed by the wild deer coming down from the mountain when feeling safe, out of season, from being shot by tubby businessmen in tweed suits.
In the far distance was a chocolate box Castle and in between the black, cool waters of a sea loch.
The kitchen was straight out of the pages of Hello Magazine and to cater for damp hunters and walkers a huge laundry room had been equipped with an all in one washer and hot air dryer. It was proper heavy duty and with a full cycle from dirty to iron-dry in one hour.
Our complete feeling of ease in such luxurious surroundings was only tempered by a phone call that our own home had just been burgled. I momentarily contemplated the 300 mile drive back to check things out but with the news that only a Video Recorder had gone missing decided to stay put and fill up the Maytag Industrial appliance with another unnecessary load of clothes.
That property was, I acknowledge representative of the ultimate in a holiday letting.
There were some downsides. The nearest shops in Fort William involved a three hour round trip on narrow rockfall pitted roads and a ferry crossing. Similarly the sourcing of fuel for the car was problematic and at a significant mark up over the prices we normally tolerated. What was most annoying was our mistiming of the car ferry trip from a day visit to Mull and Iona which saw us having to sleep in a steamed up car overnight on the slipway and within only a few miles, as the eagle flies, from those privileged surroundings.
Friends, touring the Highlands, came for tea and we played or rather tried to work out how to play a game of croquet on the lawn. It was an idyllic existence and for a moment in time, and for a weekly rent, we were the Monarchs of the Glen.
Thursday 25 April 2013
Greeks bearing gifts
I was Greek.
Well, just for the two weeks.
The country, the lifestyle, the climate, the music and above all the namesake salad overwhelmed me and I was Greek.
In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.
It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.
There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.
The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.
We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.
We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.
We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.
I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.
It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.
What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.
We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.
We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.
The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.
The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.
Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.
The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.
The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.
My assimilation into Greekness was slow.
It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.
I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.
This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.
I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.
I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.
My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.
For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.
Well, just for the two weeks.
The country, the lifestyle, the climate, the music and above all the namesake salad overwhelmed me and I was Greek.
In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.
It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.
There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.
The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.
We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.
We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.
We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.
I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.
It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.
What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.
We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.
We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.
The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.
The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.
Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.
The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.
The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.
My assimilation into Greekness was slow.
It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.
I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.
This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.
I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.
I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.
My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.
For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.
Wednesday 24 April 2013
Fitted Out, Fitted Up
I am a suit man.
I grew up in a family of suit wearers.
My Father was a Bank Manager and a black or dark navy suit with a starched detachable collar, tie and shiny shoes represented the epitome of dependability and trustworthiness. It was a uniform that went with and was expected of that responsible and lofty position in the town.
It did have it's positive spin offs for us children. When first at a new school, after a family move, the teaching staff when aware of what our Father did for a job seemed to treat us with a degree of respect. One of the senior tutors even went so far as to seat me on an unruly dinner table hoping that what he called my 'civilised' upbringing would bring peace and calm to what he obviously regarded as a bit of a rabble in my peer group.
Fortunately being a bit weird, geeky but lean and strong I was not relentlessly bullied or otherwise found strung up on the school flagpole with something permanently inked across my buttocks.
I think that I must have been the only 12 year old in the whole town in possession of a purple sports jacket. Already I can see that you are formulating images of, let's say, William Hague as a spotty 16 year old at the 1977 Tory Party Conference, Little Lord Fauntleroy or just a wholly ridiculous way for a 12 year old to dress. It was, after all, 1975 and the youth attire of the day was a tank top and very bell bottomed trousers, for the boys that is.
That jacket did me well, however, and at Butlins in Skegness I got off with a 14 year old lass. Talk about sophistication and style. I recall feeling a bit hot and bothered in that jacket when queuing up to see an age appropriate edited screening of James Bond's Diamonds are Forever and being stared at by the sons and daughters of miners and factory workers as though I was a freak.
I shamelessly flaunted that purple flecked clothing item and that led to my brief three day holiday romance with that older woman. I did recognise her some years later when she walked past me as I played Christmas Carols in the town Brass Band. I must have coloured up a bit in youthful embarrassment because, again, everyone stared at me.
As naturally happens I grew up and out a bit and the jacket no longer fitted. I am not really sure what happened to it because my much more fashion conscious younger brothers dismissed it as a bit poofy and it was not handed down.
I like to imagine that it found it's way to the Church bazaar or was bundled up and sent out to Africa or the Third World. The polyester and wool mix in a ratio of 80:20 would not be that comfortable in an Equatorial Climate. Still, it had a generous array of pockets and that can be useful in any world setting.
Father's old suits came into their own niche of fashion in the late 1970's when I wore them during my brief association with the Mod Movement. An oversized, worn at the lapels and holed at the crotch suit was ideal as a statement of my affiliation to The Jam. It was not however a good fit but with braces at tightest adjustment and the waistband drawn up to just below my sternum I could get away with the trousers as long as I kept the jacket on. The jacket itself swamped me but thanks to David Byrne and The Talking Heads that oversized look was the epitome of style and increased the longevity of the hand me down suit right into the early 1980's.
It was soon time for me to think about buying a proper suit as I got my first proper job after graduation.
My employers were celebrating their Centenary Year when I first arrived. As part of the publicity for this momentous milestone I was sent to get a formal portrait photograph at the best studio in the city.
I would need a suit for this.
My budget, based on what I had seen in Greenwoods Outfitters, Marks and Spencer and Mothers's Brian Mills Catalogue was £150. Quite a large sum to me.
In full confidence of my new position and basking in the high regard in which my employers were held in the community I went to the best suit shop. This turned out to be a bit of a Pretty Woman type experience in that I was bluntly told by the proprietor that my money was no good in his establishment and that the lowest, but not cheapest, priced two piece business suit started at £300.
That was a major dent in my ego and I have never been able to erase that feeling of inadequacy when it comes to shopping for suits. I vowed, one day when I was affluent, to go back to that shop and spend an outrageous and extravagant sum on a Jaeger or similar brand. I will get there one day. I am playing a clever waiting game and, 27 years on that supercilious boutique owner should be mighty worried about my intended triumphant return.
My fallback position was the shop at the clothing factory on the large industrial estate on the edge of town. The showroom stocked manufactured seconds and end of line garments. It was a bit hit and miss to actually locate a matching combination of trouser and jacket but it was possible with patience and endurance.
The main problem was to try to guess what was wrong with the item for it to be relegated from the main contracted order and sold at a reduced price to the frugal and bag a bargain minded general public.
The stitching on seams could be erratic either from a poorly set up machine or following a liquid lunch or personal crisis of its operator. Pockets could be set out of alignment. The fabric could be flawed or had faded from poor storage in the warehouse.
The typical clientele in the Factory Shop seemed to be heavily overweight until I realised that many of the display racks were of XXL or XXXL sizes. I could not hazard a guess to whom such an order had been destined.
It was soon clear to me that self assembling a suit would not be possible unless I went on a two week food binge and bulked up.
I was jealously guarding my discovery of a perfect fitting navy blue blazer that I had found on the floor beneath one of the carousel displays and in search of some trousers. My colleagues in my new job were senior to me but carried off well the casual smart look of a blazer and light coloured slacks.
As a younger man it might just work and perhaps add a few more years to command authority.
Light grey would go well with the classic colour of the blazer. There was a large amount of this shade available in the shop. They were beautifully made and I quickly glanced around in case I had stumbled upon a consignment ready to send out on an order to M&S, British Home Stores or Moss Bros.
The size and style were just right and I tried on and decided that two pairs would be a good idea to be worn in rotation between machine washing.
It was only when I got home that I noticed something strange. The labels were crudely cut out but residual edges indicated that the trousers bore the logo and insignia of British Airways. The manufacturer had evidently won a prestigious order with the airline for their Corporate Uniforms.
I actually felt rather proud to be, in some way, flying the flag but every time I went to work in those trousers I was a bit on edge that if an occasion ever arose that justified my being stopped and searched by the Police I would give the impression of being a terrorist or ne'er do well.
I grew up in a family of suit wearers.
My Father was a Bank Manager and a black or dark navy suit with a starched detachable collar, tie and shiny shoes represented the epitome of dependability and trustworthiness. It was a uniform that went with and was expected of that responsible and lofty position in the town.
It did have it's positive spin offs for us children. When first at a new school, after a family move, the teaching staff when aware of what our Father did for a job seemed to treat us with a degree of respect. One of the senior tutors even went so far as to seat me on an unruly dinner table hoping that what he called my 'civilised' upbringing would bring peace and calm to what he obviously regarded as a bit of a rabble in my peer group.
Fortunately being a bit weird, geeky but lean and strong I was not relentlessly bullied or otherwise found strung up on the school flagpole with something permanently inked across my buttocks.
I think that I must have been the only 12 year old in the whole town in possession of a purple sports jacket. Already I can see that you are formulating images of, let's say, William Hague as a spotty 16 year old at the 1977 Tory Party Conference, Little Lord Fauntleroy or just a wholly ridiculous way for a 12 year old to dress. It was, after all, 1975 and the youth attire of the day was a tank top and very bell bottomed trousers, for the boys that is.
That jacket did me well, however, and at Butlins in Skegness I got off with a 14 year old lass. Talk about sophistication and style. I recall feeling a bit hot and bothered in that jacket when queuing up to see an age appropriate edited screening of James Bond's Diamonds are Forever and being stared at by the sons and daughters of miners and factory workers as though I was a freak.
I shamelessly flaunted that purple flecked clothing item and that led to my brief three day holiday romance with that older woman. I did recognise her some years later when she walked past me as I played Christmas Carols in the town Brass Band. I must have coloured up a bit in youthful embarrassment because, again, everyone stared at me.
As naturally happens I grew up and out a bit and the jacket no longer fitted. I am not really sure what happened to it because my much more fashion conscious younger brothers dismissed it as a bit poofy and it was not handed down.
I like to imagine that it found it's way to the Church bazaar or was bundled up and sent out to Africa or the Third World. The polyester and wool mix in a ratio of 80:20 would not be that comfortable in an Equatorial Climate. Still, it had a generous array of pockets and that can be useful in any world setting.
Father's old suits came into their own niche of fashion in the late 1970's when I wore them during my brief association with the Mod Movement. An oversized, worn at the lapels and holed at the crotch suit was ideal as a statement of my affiliation to The Jam. It was not however a good fit but with braces at tightest adjustment and the waistband drawn up to just below my sternum I could get away with the trousers as long as I kept the jacket on. The jacket itself swamped me but thanks to David Byrne and The Talking Heads that oversized look was the epitome of style and increased the longevity of the hand me down suit right into the early 1980's.
It was soon time for me to think about buying a proper suit as I got my first proper job after graduation.
My employers were celebrating their Centenary Year when I first arrived. As part of the publicity for this momentous milestone I was sent to get a formal portrait photograph at the best studio in the city.
I would need a suit for this.
My budget, based on what I had seen in Greenwoods Outfitters, Marks and Spencer and Mothers's Brian Mills Catalogue was £150. Quite a large sum to me.
In full confidence of my new position and basking in the high regard in which my employers were held in the community I went to the best suit shop. This turned out to be a bit of a Pretty Woman type experience in that I was bluntly told by the proprietor that my money was no good in his establishment and that the lowest, but not cheapest, priced two piece business suit started at £300.
That was a major dent in my ego and I have never been able to erase that feeling of inadequacy when it comes to shopping for suits. I vowed, one day when I was affluent, to go back to that shop and spend an outrageous and extravagant sum on a Jaeger or similar brand. I will get there one day. I am playing a clever waiting game and, 27 years on that supercilious boutique owner should be mighty worried about my intended triumphant return.
My fallback position was the shop at the clothing factory on the large industrial estate on the edge of town. The showroom stocked manufactured seconds and end of line garments. It was a bit hit and miss to actually locate a matching combination of trouser and jacket but it was possible with patience and endurance.
The main problem was to try to guess what was wrong with the item for it to be relegated from the main contracted order and sold at a reduced price to the frugal and bag a bargain minded general public.
The stitching on seams could be erratic either from a poorly set up machine or following a liquid lunch or personal crisis of its operator. Pockets could be set out of alignment. The fabric could be flawed or had faded from poor storage in the warehouse.
The typical clientele in the Factory Shop seemed to be heavily overweight until I realised that many of the display racks were of XXL or XXXL sizes. I could not hazard a guess to whom such an order had been destined.
It was soon clear to me that self assembling a suit would not be possible unless I went on a two week food binge and bulked up.
I was jealously guarding my discovery of a perfect fitting navy blue blazer that I had found on the floor beneath one of the carousel displays and in search of some trousers. My colleagues in my new job were senior to me but carried off well the casual smart look of a blazer and light coloured slacks.
As a younger man it might just work and perhaps add a few more years to command authority.
Light grey would go well with the classic colour of the blazer. There was a large amount of this shade available in the shop. They were beautifully made and I quickly glanced around in case I had stumbled upon a consignment ready to send out on an order to M&S, British Home Stores or Moss Bros.
The size and style were just right and I tried on and decided that two pairs would be a good idea to be worn in rotation between machine washing.
It was only when I got home that I noticed something strange. The labels were crudely cut out but residual edges indicated that the trousers bore the logo and insignia of British Airways. The manufacturer had evidently won a prestigious order with the airline for their Corporate Uniforms.
I actually felt rather proud to be, in some way, flying the flag but every time I went to work in those trousers I was a bit on edge that if an occasion ever arose that justified my being stopped and searched by the Police I would give the impression of being a terrorist or ne'er do well.
Tuesday 23 April 2013
Retiring
Family, close friends, work colleagues, neighbours. The top four categories of relationships.
I would like to add a further layer under the label of 'people who we do not actually know but we wave to regularly'.
There are some set-in-stone members of this club established from childhood and these include Policemen, bus drivers, Automobile Association mechanics, juggernaut drivers (although more of a gesticulation to honk the air horns than a definitive wave), irrationally the pilots and crew of aircraft at 30,000 plus feet altitude and train drivers just at the point of going under a pedestrian bridge.
As a child passenger in my Parent's VW's there was great glee in waving at other VW's on the road. In the 1960's and 1970's the marque was probably quite rare and, pre-single european economic market, regarded as a foreign luxury. A bit like the place now held by Marmite (First blog history mention) in the ethnic food section of Stateside hypermarkets.
Under the current market domination of the VW brand any attempt to emulate the childhood wave would resemble juvenile dementia or look like a panic stricken attempt to alert the authorities to abduction or mistreatment.
The attitude of motorists and their passengers has also changed dramatically and any hint of a hand signal, even an innocent wave, from a passing vehicle can be misconstrued as an invitation to road rage. I grew up, I now acknowledge in much more innocent times. A wave was then a wave and not a declaration of war.
I am on waving terms with a Lollipop Lady on my short drive to the office.
She has been a regular for many years at the school crossing in front of the main entrance to All Saints Juniors and I was on speaking terms when passing the time of day at dropping off and picking up times for my own children now some 15 years ago.
My youngest went to Secondary level some 6 years ago. Our waving is probably a continuation of our last conversation at that time, a semaphore based communication around the merits and rivalry of our respective footie teams, mine Hull City and hers the mighty Leeds United. Her team have yo-yo'd through peaks and troughs over the last 15 years from Champions League semi's to rapid insolvency and a series of relegations to the lower leagues. I have waved sympathetically and with due respect on the mornings after a particularly bad result for her team. Hull City's brief two seasons in the Premier League and a series of humiliations did lead me to consider taking a more roundabout route to the office on many monday mornings after the regular weekend defeats.
Now that our respective teams are in the same league and play each other quite regularly there is a definite edge and oneupmanship in our gestures. I am grateful that her duties involve holding onto a fluorescent lollipop stick in her right hand and stopping traffic with the raised palm of her left hand as if I time my drive at well below 20mph over the successive speed bumps outside the school I can avoid her celebratory wave when her team thump 3 or more goals past The Tigers.
The Lollipop wave takes a mere 3 seconds but is a nice constant in a changing world. The other crossing point at the eastern gate of the playground has had a massive turnover of quite grumpy and officious jobs-worths with no intention of fraternising with the enemy.
It is a bad thing to admit to but I would probably not recognise the Lollipop Lady out of context of the school gates or the jauntily worn peaked high viz cap, dazzlingly bright and reflective banded all weather knee length coat and her Doctor Martin bovver boots.
(The Lollipop Lady has now retired and I have yet to start up any form of relationship with her rather grumpy, dowdy and downright unfriendly successor)
I would like to add a further layer under the label of 'people who we do not actually know but we wave to regularly'.
There are some set-in-stone members of this club established from childhood and these include Policemen, bus drivers, Automobile Association mechanics, juggernaut drivers (although more of a gesticulation to honk the air horns than a definitive wave), irrationally the pilots and crew of aircraft at 30,000 plus feet altitude and train drivers just at the point of going under a pedestrian bridge.
As a child passenger in my Parent's VW's there was great glee in waving at other VW's on the road. In the 1960's and 1970's the marque was probably quite rare and, pre-single european economic market, regarded as a foreign luxury. A bit like the place now held by Marmite (First blog history mention) in the ethnic food section of Stateside hypermarkets.
Under the current market domination of the VW brand any attempt to emulate the childhood wave would resemble juvenile dementia or look like a panic stricken attempt to alert the authorities to abduction or mistreatment.
The attitude of motorists and their passengers has also changed dramatically and any hint of a hand signal, even an innocent wave, from a passing vehicle can be misconstrued as an invitation to road rage. I grew up, I now acknowledge in much more innocent times. A wave was then a wave and not a declaration of war.
I am on waving terms with a Lollipop Lady on my short drive to the office.
She has been a regular for many years at the school crossing in front of the main entrance to All Saints Juniors and I was on speaking terms when passing the time of day at dropping off and picking up times for my own children now some 15 years ago.
My youngest went to Secondary level some 6 years ago. Our waving is probably a continuation of our last conversation at that time, a semaphore based communication around the merits and rivalry of our respective footie teams, mine Hull City and hers the mighty Leeds United. Her team have yo-yo'd through peaks and troughs over the last 15 years from Champions League semi's to rapid insolvency and a series of relegations to the lower leagues. I have waved sympathetically and with due respect on the mornings after a particularly bad result for her team. Hull City's brief two seasons in the Premier League and a series of humiliations did lead me to consider taking a more roundabout route to the office on many monday mornings after the regular weekend defeats.
Now that our respective teams are in the same league and play each other quite regularly there is a definite edge and oneupmanship in our gestures. I am grateful that her duties involve holding onto a fluorescent lollipop stick in her right hand and stopping traffic with the raised palm of her left hand as if I time my drive at well below 20mph over the successive speed bumps outside the school I can avoid her celebratory wave when her team thump 3 or more goals past The Tigers.
The Lollipop wave takes a mere 3 seconds but is a nice constant in a changing world. The other crossing point at the eastern gate of the playground has had a massive turnover of quite grumpy and officious jobs-worths with no intention of fraternising with the enemy.
It is a bad thing to admit to but I would probably not recognise the Lollipop Lady out of context of the school gates or the jauntily worn peaked high viz cap, dazzlingly bright and reflective banded all weather knee length coat and her Doctor Martin bovver boots.
(The Lollipop Lady has now retired and I have yet to start up any form of relationship with her rather grumpy, dowdy and downright unfriendly successor)
Monday 22 April 2013
Perspective on Life
My life and the period that I have grown up in have been put into perspective by an all too brief conversation today with an 88 year old lady.
I do try to make time to hear the stories told by the older generation because they have experienced momentous times.
They may not have realised it at the time because they were just trying to lead a normal life. It is only with longevity and those protracted hours of loneliness when thoughts, long buried can resurface that the mind brings back actions and events that seem as real as they did at the time.
My new acquaintance, of active mind but failing physical state, was obviously keen to talk and I was pleased to spend a few moments in her company and to hear the fascinating chapters of her nearly nine decades. I think that I may have been her first contact for some time as the cul de sac where she lived was deserted with everyone out at work all day. I qualify that I was the first human contact as regular visitors were a couple of ducks who would sit on the roof ridge of the bungalow opposite to check for any perils before swooping down to waddle into the lady's back garden where they resided in a couple of upturned and water filled dustbin lids. Company, conversation and interaction was important but with specific limitations. She was adamant that she would not make her way down to the Village Hall once a fortnight to attend the Women's Guild meetings because frankly she had nothing in common with the group, the blue rinse brigade.
Her circle of friends had been enough to provide a social life and a support structure but this had rapidly become diminished with a series of recent deaths. These had included her oldest friend whom she had first met at senior school in 1936. They had remained in contact ever since and her relocation to the bungalow after her retirement in 1980, in which I was now perched on the settee. had been at the insistence of the friend who lived in the same area and felt that in the absence of any close family it would be the best thing.
In 1925 it looked as though the lady would be born with India stated on the birth certificate but her mother, 5 months pregnant, had made the long and arduous trip back to England. Her father was a doctor with a practice in Hackney, London and she grew up in a large house with a housekeeper and nurse as befitted a middle class profession.
Tragedy struck when her mother died from pneumonia and as an 11 year old she found herself alone for long stretches of time but these forged her strong self reliance and independence which I could still see as prominent characteristics even at her advanced age.
At the outbreak of the second world war, as she said, everything became messed up. Initial thoughts on becoming an architect were postponed as the phoney war in 1939 saw the closure of her school in Edgware, North London.
Her father thought it best to send her away to relatives in Edinburgh perceived to be as far out of range as possible from the anticipated enemy bombing of English cities and towns.
Unfortunately this move actually put her directly in harms way as the Luftwaffe decided to carry out its first bombing raid of the war on 16th October the form of an outright aerial assault on Rosyth Naval Dockyard and the red oxide painted Forth Rail Bridge, both prominent landmarks giving propaganda value and well as potential to severely damage strategic elements just to the north west of Edinburgh.
Then aged 14 she vividly remembers the sights and sounds of that air raid. The temptation to go outside and see such unprecedented things for yourself overrode any fears or anxieties of actually getting hurt. She was staying with relatives in the area of Portobello on the Firth of Forth shoreline. The house, in a densely populated terraced area had a long, narrow garden with a mature pear tree at the bottom. This served to conceal, somewhat, the local landmark of the huge chimney stack of the power station.
On this day the prominent brick stack was obviously being used as a navigation aid by the Luftwaffe crews in their Junkers 88 Bombers. As she approached the tree a black shadow loomed up followed immediately by a deafening roar as a low flying bomber, guns blazing was being frantically pursued by two RAF fighters. The garden and local area were strafed by enemy and friendly fire and it was considered a miracle that no civilians were hurt apart from a house painter up a ladder who took a bullet in the leg.
The Luftwaffe lost a number of aircraft and the salvaged bodies were interned in the local churchyard and not repatriated until quite recently.
The attack on Edinburgh was considered a one-off and the city became the temporary home for the young lady as she was, for the next 12 months before a return to Hackney.
After the war there were thoughts again of a career in the built environment or map making but the usual constraints brought about by austerity and prejudice were in play and the only option left open was to go into teaching. A long period of service to the education of the primary school age children of the London Borough of Hackney followed only being interrupted by a posting with her new husband to East Africa.
This was due to his assignment to the Groundnut Scheme which began in 1947 in Tanganyika and was intended to generate wealth for the host nation and wider commonwealth in the cultivation of peanut oil a time of a world shortage of fats and natural oils.
The scheme was abandoned as a failure after only 4 years and the couple had to return to England to resume their life and careers. A life in Africa had made quite an impression and the bungalow was adorned with memento's, pictures and photographs of that time.
The lady was widowed 20 years ago outliving her husband like many of her generation.
She had no close family and so her network of friends became very important. Her health had started to fail in the last couple of years and a fall on her doorstep had been most debilitating as well as shaking her confidence. Depression had set in and she expressed to me her real fears for the onset of dementia.
I had, by being engrossed in her story, lost all sense of time. It was difficult for me to steer the conversation towards my leaving not that I wanted to anyway. In eventually standing up and preparing to make an exit the lady was intent on prolonging her present company. We both went into the garden to check that the ducks were comfortable.
I did feel that her spirits had lifted somewhat by having someone to talk to. I had not spoken much during the afternoon because I realised that in my own 50 years existence on the planet I did not really have much to contribute.
I do try to make time to hear the stories told by the older generation because they have experienced momentous times.
They may not have realised it at the time because they were just trying to lead a normal life. It is only with longevity and those protracted hours of loneliness when thoughts, long buried can resurface that the mind brings back actions and events that seem as real as they did at the time.
My new acquaintance, of active mind but failing physical state, was obviously keen to talk and I was pleased to spend a few moments in her company and to hear the fascinating chapters of her nearly nine decades. I think that I may have been her first contact for some time as the cul de sac where she lived was deserted with everyone out at work all day. I qualify that I was the first human contact as regular visitors were a couple of ducks who would sit on the roof ridge of the bungalow opposite to check for any perils before swooping down to waddle into the lady's back garden where they resided in a couple of upturned and water filled dustbin lids. Company, conversation and interaction was important but with specific limitations. She was adamant that she would not make her way down to the Village Hall once a fortnight to attend the Women's Guild meetings because frankly she had nothing in common with the group, the blue rinse brigade.
Her circle of friends had been enough to provide a social life and a support structure but this had rapidly become diminished with a series of recent deaths. These had included her oldest friend whom she had first met at senior school in 1936. They had remained in contact ever since and her relocation to the bungalow after her retirement in 1980, in which I was now perched on the settee. had been at the insistence of the friend who lived in the same area and felt that in the absence of any close family it would be the best thing.
In 1925 it looked as though the lady would be born with India stated on the birth certificate but her mother, 5 months pregnant, had made the long and arduous trip back to England. Her father was a doctor with a practice in Hackney, London and she grew up in a large house with a housekeeper and nurse as befitted a middle class profession.
Tragedy struck when her mother died from pneumonia and as an 11 year old she found herself alone for long stretches of time but these forged her strong self reliance and independence which I could still see as prominent characteristics even at her advanced age.
At the outbreak of the second world war, as she said, everything became messed up. Initial thoughts on becoming an architect were postponed as the phoney war in 1939 saw the closure of her school in Edgware, North London.
Her father thought it best to send her away to relatives in Edinburgh perceived to be as far out of range as possible from the anticipated enemy bombing of English cities and towns.
Unfortunately this move actually put her directly in harms way as the Luftwaffe decided to carry out its first bombing raid of the war on 16th October the form of an outright aerial assault on Rosyth Naval Dockyard and the red oxide painted Forth Rail Bridge, both prominent landmarks giving propaganda value and well as potential to severely damage strategic elements just to the north west of Edinburgh.
Then aged 14 she vividly remembers the sights and sounds of that air raid. The temptation to go outside and see such unprecedented things for yourself overrode any fears or anxieties of actually getting hurt. She was staying with relatives in the area of Portobello on the Firth of Forth shoreline. The house, in a densely populated terraced area had a long, narrow garden with a mature pear tree at the bottom. This served to conceal, somewhat, the local landmark of the huge chimney stack of the power station.
On this day the prominent brick stack was obviously being used as a navigation aid by the Luftwaffe crews in their Junkers 88 Bombers. As she approached the tree a black shadow loomed up followed immediately by a deafening roar as a low flying bomber, guns blazing was being frantically pursued by two RAF fighters. The garden and local area were strafed by enemy and friendly fire and it was considered a miracle that no civilians were hurt apart from a house painter up a ladder who took a bullet in the leg.
The Luftwaffe lost a number of aircraft and the salvaged bodies were interned in the local churchyard and not repatriated until quite recently.
The attack on Edinburgh was considered a one-off and the city became the temporary home for the young lady as she was, for the next 12 months before a return to Hackney.
After the war there were thoughts again of a career in the built environment or map making but the usual constraints brought about by austerity and prejudice were in play and the only option left open was to go into teaching. A long period of service to the education of the primary school age children of the London Borough of Hackney followed only being interrupted by a posting with her new husband to East Africa.
This was due to his assignment to the Groundnut Scheme which began in 1947 in Tanganyika and was intended to generate wealth for the host nation and wider commonwealth in the cultivation of peanut oil a time of a world shortage of fats and natural oils.
The scheme was abandoned as a failure after only 4 years and the couple had to return to England to resume their life and careers. A life in Africa had made quite an impression and the bungalow was adorned with memento's, pictures and photographs of that time.
The lady was widowed 20 years ago outliving her husband like many of her generation.
She had no close family and so her network of friends became very important. Her health had started to fail in the last couple of years and a fall on her doorstep had been most debilitating as well as shaking her confidence. Depression had set in and she expressed to me her real fears for the onset of dementia.
I had, by being engrossed in her story, lost all sense of time. It was difficult for me to steer the conversation towards my leaving not that I wanted to anyway. In eventually standing up and preparing to make an exit the lady was intent on prolonging her present company. We both went into the garden to check that the ducks were comfortable.
I did feel that her spirits had lifted somewhat by having someone to talk to. I had not spoken much during the afternoon because I realised that in my own 50 years existence on the planet I did not really have much to contribute.
Sunday 21 April 2013
Record Breaker
I admit to some embarrassing incidents in my life.
There is that time I entered into a pact with Anthony Whitbread to punch our mutual friend Timothy Grant in the stomach so that left in his anticipated agony and distress we could then go to his house and play. At the age of 7 my devious and scheming plan backfired and after doing the deed I found myself excluded from the small, compact gang and playing, alone in my own bedroom.
When I was aged 11 my Father supervised me in going through the procedure of changing a wheel on the Morris Minor which was a requirement towards a Scout Badge. I must have shown some care, diligence and aptitude in removing the front nearside one as he left me to re-attach it on my own. It was during a family drive out to the seaside later in the day that the wheel began to show signs of instability. Only after the swift and decisive action of my Father to tighten up the loose nuts were we spared the sight of 25% of the car wheels making their own way to the beach at Cleethorpes.
In my teens there were other cringe-worthy events.
I invited a girl in one of my newly imposed co-ed classes to a disco with ticket and transport covered. Although we were both 14 there was already a noticeable maturity and development gap between the boys and girls in our year at school. During the slow numbers at the dance in a village hall the girl copped off with an older lad. He lived in her town and cheekily asked for a lift at the end of the evening as I was going that way anyway. The travel and coupling arrangements were just too embarrassing to explain to my Father who was the chauffeur for the night. To add insult to my injured pride the girl and lad snogged for the duration of the journey in the back seat whilst I sat uncomfortably up front receiving sideways glances of pity and sympathy from Father.
At 16 and having moved to a new town I was keen to fit in with a new peer group. They were soon to become renowned for under age drinking in particular amongst other nefarious activities. I made the mistake of downing at least 2 cans of Special Brew at a party before all panic set in with the announcement that the Police had arrived to clamp down on the under age activities. My special gift, in scenarios of potential trouble or prosecution, of a homing instinct kicked in and I eventually, but know not how, reached my house and sneaked in to sit on the foot of the stairs to try to steady a world spiralling out of control. Out of my downcast bleary eyes I spied a pair of diminuitive Thomas the Tank Engine slippers in front of me. It was my youngest brother, aged 4. I thought it strange that he should still be up, even for a Saturday night. Perhaps he had been allowed to catch a bit of the football on Match of the Day. The rest of the family responded to his concerned enquiries about my welfare and crowded around. How was it possible that they had all been staying up so late? The answer was clear when it was pointed out that it was only 8pm after all.
It was my own perception I was more cultured and sophisticated in my early 20's.
Playing at being a grown up meant going to the nicer country pubs in the area, making one pint last all night and engaging in meaningful conversation with like minded friends. At a picturesque and busy village inn a group of us had to sit in the restaurant area as the lounge and snug bars were full to heaving. Two couples dining together, a double date, got up after a few minutes of our arrival and vacated leaving an almost full bottle of red wine on the table. I made the move and it was shared around to be agreeably savoured and enjoyed. To my horror the same pair returned carrying dessert dishes after their short trip to the sweet trolley in another part of the dining room.
So, as you can see I have had more than my fair share of shameful escapades.
The majority are known, at least before this admission, only to close family and friends and I am only really reminded of them at get-togethers and on boozy nights of reminiscences amongst my peer group, now all celebrating their half century.
If I could travel back in time I may have acted differently or, at least with a better understanding of cause and effect, the implications of a course of behaviour or an action may have been considered. I have faint recollections of the events myself and do not lose sleep over them too much.
I wish that the same could be said about my collection of vinyl records.
I had a buying spree in 1979 after earning some decent money working for a few summer weeks on a mate's farm. My flush financial state coincided with the closing down sale of the sole record shop, a small independent, in our town. I was in there just about every day with my hard earned wage snapping up what I perceived to be absolute bargains of highly desirable and collectible vinyl albums.
What I did not appreciate was that the albums I bought were in the sale not for the purposes of liquidating the stock but because no-one in the town, population 30,000 souls had expressed a desire to purchase them when the shop was a viable and fully stocked going concern.
I realise now, aged 50 and staring every day at the Ikea storage unit containing my vinyl records that my motivation then to buy up the contents of the shop was on the grounds that I 'just could' with my new found proportionate wealth and not based on any rational choice or enjoyment of the actual groups and artists.
Many who have experience of a similar mental fugue state of what constitutes good music hide their record collections away in the loft space or boxed up at the back of the garage.
I am punishing myself for my embarrassing purchases by hiding them in plain sight.
Here, to illustrate my complete character lapse in all things recorded is a cross section of my record shelf. This revelation has been greatly assisted by The Boy who has recently alphabetised the sleeves and their contents. He is tidy like that but it has only served to emphasise my youthful folly in that small record shop. Oh, and I also spent a lot of my student grant on records from Selectadisc in Nottingham during the early 1980's. It was on my way to and from college every week day and open 'til late on weekends when I might have had too much to drink.
The following list of shame is an aggregated record of my records.
Barclay James Harvest (3 albums), Industrial folk rock from Lancashire, Duncan Browne (2 albums), actually pretty good and one of his tracks Criminal World was covered by Bowie, Horslips (4 albums) Irish rock band unnervingly sometimes sounding like Jethro Tull, Kid Creole and The Coconuts , perhaps a disco phase of mine, Prefab Sprout, Thompson Twins, Tomita (4 albums) Japanese keyboard of tone poems and concepts, Weather Report (2 albums), bought on the strength of one single track that I liked, Wishbone Ash (6 albums) and Yukihiro Takahashi, former member of Yellow Magic Orchestra.
I feel altogether better for this admission.
The overall tone and calibre of the collection has been uplifted by the merger with those meritous albums brought along by my wife to our marriage and to a large extent saved from archive storage or landfill by quite recent acquisitions by The Boy including Van Halen, Kiss, Michael Schenker, Led Zeppelin and The Scorpions. At least he will be saved, on the strength of his great taste in music, the inevitable post mortem and embarrassment of an old record collection in his own senior years. Of course I will take all credit for it.
There is that time I entered into a pact with Anthony Whitbread to punch our mutual friend Timothy Grant in the stomach so that left in his anticipated agony and distress we could then go to his house and play. At the age of 7 my devious and scheming plan backfired and after doing the deed I found myself excluded from the small, compact gang and playing, alone in my own bedroom.
When I was aged 11 my Father supervised me in going through the procedure of changing a wheel on the Morris Minor which was a requirement towards a Scout Badge. I must have shown some care, diligence and aptitude in removing the front nearside one as he left me to re-attach it on my own. It was during a family drive out to the seaside later in the day that the wheel began to show signs of instability. Only after the swift and decisive action of my Father to tighten up the loose nuts were we spared the sight of 25% of the car wheels making their own way to the beach at Cleethorpes.
In my teens there were other cringe-worthy events.
I invited a girl in one of my newly imposed co-ed classes to a disco with ticket and transport covered. Although we were both 14 there was already a noticeable maturity and development gap between the boys and girls in our year at school. During the slow numbers at the dance in a village hall the girl copped off with an older lad. He lived in her town and cheekily asked for a lift at the end of the evening as I was going that way anyway. The travel and coupling arrangements were just too embarrassing to explain to my Father who was the chauffeur for the night. To add insult to my injured pride the girl and lad snogged for the duration of the journey in the back seat whilst I sat uncomfortably up front receiving sideways glances of pity and sympathy from Father.
At 16 and having moved to a new town I was keen to fit in with a new peer group. They were soon to become renowned for under age drinking in particular amongst other nefarious activities. I made the mistake of downing at least 2 cans of Special Brew at a party before all panic set in with the announcement that the Police had arrived to clamp down on the under age activities. My special gift, in scenarios of potential trouble or prosecution, of a homing instinct kicked in and I eventually, but know not how, reached my house and sneaked in to sit on the foot of the stairs to try to steady a world spiralling out of control. Out of my downcast bleary eyes I spied a pair of diminuitive Thomas the Tank Engine slippers in front of me. It was my youngest brother, aged 4. I thought it strange that he should still be up, even for a Saturday night. Perhaps he had been allowed to catch a bit of the football on Match of the Day. The rest of the family responded to his concerned enquiries about my welfare and crowded around. How was it possible that they had all been staying up so late? The answer was clear when it was pointed out that it was only 8pm after all.
It was my own perception I was more cultured and sophisticated in my early 20's.
Playing at being a grown up meant going to the nicer country pubs in the area, making one pint last all night and engaging in meaningful conversation with like minded friends. At a picturesque and busy village inn a group of us had to sit in the restaurant area as the lounge and snug bars were full to heaving. Two couples dining together, a double date, got up after a few minutes of our arrival and vacated leaving an almost full bottle of red wine on the table. I made the move and it was shared around to be agreeably savoured and enjoyed. To my horror the same pair returned carrying dessert dishes after their short trip to the sweet trolley in another part of the dining room.
So, as you can see I have had more than my fair share of shameful escapades.
The majority are known, at least before this admission, only to close family and friends and I am only really reminded of them at get-togethers and on boozy nights of reminiscences amongst my peer group, now all celebrating their half century.
If I could travel back in time I may have acted differently or, at least with a better understanding of cause and effect, the implications of a course of behaviour or an action may have been considered. I have faint recollections of the events myself and do not lose sleep over them too much.
I wish that the same could be said about my collection of vinyl records.
I had a buying spree in 1979 after earning some decent money working for a few summer weeks on a mate's farm. My flush financial state coincided with the closing down sale of the sole record shop, a small independent, in our town. I was in there just about every day with my hard earned wage snapping up what I perceived to be absolute bargains of highly desirable and collectible vinyl albums.
What I did not appreciate was that the albums I bought were in the sale not for the purposes of liquidating the stock but because no-one in the town, population 30,000 souls had expressed a desire to purchase them when the shop was a viable and fully stocked going concern.
I realise now, aged 50 and staring every day at the Ikea storage unit containing my vinyl records that my motivation then to buy up the contents of the shop was on the grounds that I 'just could' with my new found proportionate wealth and not based on any rational choice or enjoyment of the actual groups and artists.
Many who have experience of a similar mental fugue state of what constitutes good music hide their record collections away in the loft space or boxed up at the back of the garage.
I am punishing myself for my embarrassing purchases by hiding them in plain sight.
Here, to illustrate my complete character lapse in all things recorded is a cross section of my record shelf. This revelation has been greatly assisted by The Boy who has recently alphabetised the sleeves and their contents. He is tidy like that but it has only served to emphasise my youthful folly in that small record shop. Oh, and I also spent a lot of my student grant on records from Selectadisc in Nottingham during the early 1980's. It was on my way to and from college every week day and open 'til late on weekends when I might have had too much to drink.
The following list of shame is an aggregated record of my records.
Barclay James Harvest (3 albums), Industrial folk rock from Lancashire, Duncan Browne (2 albums), actually pretty good and one of his tracks Criminal World was covered by Bowie, Horslips (4 albums) Irish rock band unnervingly sometimes sounding like Jethro Tull, Kid Creole and The Coconuts , perhaps a disco phase of mine, Prefab Sprout, Thompson Twins, Tomita (4 albums) Japanese keyboard of tone poems and concepts, Weather Report (2 albums), bought on the strength of one single track that I liked, Wishbone Ash (6 albums) and Yukihiro Takahashi, former member of Yellow Magic Orchestra.
I feel altogether better for this admission.
The overall tone and calibre of the collection has been uplifted by the merger with those meritous albums brought along by my wife to our marriage and to a large extent saved from archive storage or landfill by quite recent acquisitions by The Boy including Van Halen, Kiss, Michael Schenker, Led Zeppelin and The Scorpions. At least he will be saved, on the strength of his great taste in music, the inevitable post mortem and embarrassment of an old record collection in his own senior years. Of course I will take all credit for it.
Saturday 20 April 2013
Stick or Twist
Depending upon who you speak to this nation of ours is either rotating out of control down the pan or holding it's own and showing those, otherwise so pale as to invisible to the naked eye, green shoots of recovery.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
Friday 19 April 2013
Coffee Break
Me and the Boy are currently without an affiliation and loyalty to a coffee shop.
I know many may feel this to be, ultimately, a sign of recklessness.
In our modern society it is considered necessary to be brand loyal to at least one supermarket chain, petrol company, bank (although less so given their naughtiness over recent years), insurer, fast food restaurant and retail park (non-food) and of course one of the High Street emporiums of coffee and ancillary items.
The faithfulness of individuals to such places of institutional status is reinforced by typically some form of loyalty card scheme giving money off future transactions or something free on a regular basis. It is not unusual to be behind a shopper or customer in the checkout queue who is sifting through a mass of paperwork in their purse or wallet seeking out that £10 off a previous £40 shop voucher or frantically trying to remember how much is left on one of those pre-paid gift cards which were so remorselessly marketed in the run-up to last Christmas. I recall one of the largest food retailers offering the incentive of 5p off a litre of fuel at their on-site petrol station to those purchasing £100 of gift vouchers in store.
The presentation to family of such tokens of the season certainly saves pounds in the cost of wrapping up notwithstanding premium space under the Christmas Tree.
I have never been obsessed with brand loyalty apart from in the departments of Yeast Extract spreads and Sherbert based confectionery.
I am therefore to be feared as a bit of a maverick, loner, weirdo and shopping tart by those who would wish to categorise me in order to receive the reams of direct marketing literature through the letterbox that follows those registered to one loyalty scheme or another.
So, Me and The Boy in our current status of 'without coffee shop' are engaged in a beauty parade with such companies to decide where to place our perceived, valued custom.
We have done a bit of preliminary reconnoitring of the competition following the closure of our usual outlet of the St Arbucks chain.
It came as a shock to us nearly as much as it did to the employees whom we numbered amongst our casual acquaintances in the retail sector.
It appears that the rent was being hiked up by the landlord and the performance of the coffee shop had not ever reached projected levels. This latter issue was not down to us as our regular weekly spend topped out at around £8.25 for two latte's ( One tall, one grande), a wedge of carrot cake, a rocky road slice, something else fancy in square shape and two gold foil wrapped chocolate coins.
The rent increase was the story spun to the staff and to be relayed to the customers with the emphasis on blaming the landlord. In the eyes of our friends on the other side of the counter, the brave Barista's, we knew that as their employer had been named and shamed in terms of the pitiful amount they had been paying in tax they were taking revenge and making a few hundred people redundant as a retaliatory action of the utmost cynicism and petty mindedness.
What options are open to Me and The Boy?
Well, for the general impression that every third premises in the High Street sells coffee after Charity Shops and Pound Stores we feel that there is actually a poor choice. Costa are a bit brash and I am aware that they are a bit fast and loose where Planning Permissions are involved. Café Nero, if you squint up at the sign reads Café Nerd so that is a non starter for us- too obvious. Pret a Manger have not yet ventured as far north east as our town and may feel it necessary to change their name which sounds ugly in a strong regional accent.
There are a few small Independent coffee shops but they do not inspire confidence of lasting the course and the owner/proprietor can be a bit full on in asking what we think of the cakes and buns which he made himself in the early hours when his eczema permitted.
There are some strange 'pop-up' coffee outlets such as those found in the back of the B&Q Warehouse, amongst the bookshelves of Waterstones and in garden centres but they can be i) a bit breezy ii) a bit too public like a feeding enclosure at the zoo iii)always full.
I have even tried out the vending machines branded by the main Chains which sit quietly in the petrol kiosk shops but have still yet to formulate an opinion on that provenance of the beverage from such a source.
So, we are still in limbo.
Until a firm decision is made we feel that there is still a lot of legwork and research to be done. You may see us parked up near a coffee shop with a flask of home poured Nescafe doing our homework.
In the interim the only thing that we will be pouring is over our spreadsheets listing the main criteria which are applied to each and every outlet that we have on our current not-so-shortlist.
Ambience, car parking arrangements, a safe place to lock up our mountain bikes, general accessibility, seating and interesting views, potential for people watching, range of patisserie goods, cleanliness and presentability of staff, demographic of other customers, nice toilets, type of canned music, absence of a craft fair display or live folk music, range of seasonal gifts and importantly, ratio of tax paid to turnover.
Oh, and I nearly forgot. What is their coffee like?
I know many may feel this to be, ultimately, a sign of recklessness.
In our modern society it is considered necessary to be brand loyal to at least one supermarket chain, petrol company, bank (although less so given their naughtiness over recent years), insurer, fast food restaurant and retail park (non-food) and of course one of the High Street emporiums of coffee and ancillary items.
The faithfulness of individuals to such places of institutional status is reinforced by typically some form of loyalty card scheme giving money off future transactions or something free on a regular basis. It is not unusual to be behind a shopper or customer in the checkout queue who is sifting through a mass of paperwork in their purse or wallet seeking out that £10 off a previous £40 shop voucher or frantically trying to remember how much is left on one of those pre-paid gift cards which were so remorselessly marketed in the run-up to last Christmas. I recall one of the largest food retailers offering the incentive of 5p off a litre of fuel at their on-site petrol station to those purchasing £100 of gift vouchers in store.
The presentation to family of such tokens of the season certainly saves pounds in the cost of wrapping up notwithstanding premium space under the Christmas Tree.
I have never been obsessed with brand loyalty apart from in the departments of Yeast Extract spreads and Sherbert based confectionery.
I am therefore to be feared as a bit of a maverick, loner, weirdo and shopping tart by those who would wish to categorise me in order to receive the reams of direct marketing literature through the letterbox that follows those registered to one loyalty scheme or another.
So, Me and The Boy in our current status of 'without coffee shop' are engaged in a beauty parade with such companies to decide where to place our perceived, valued custom.
We have done a bit of preliminary reconnoitring of the competition following the closure of our usual outlet of the St Arbucks chain.
It came as a shock to us nearly as much as it did to the employees whom we numbered amongst our casual acquaintances in the retail sector.
It appears that the rent was being hiked up by the landlord and the performance of the coffee shop had not ever reached projected levels. This latter issue was not down to us as our regular weekly spend topped out at around £8.25 for two latte's ( One tall, one grande), a wedge of carrot cake, a rocky road slice, something else fancy in square shape and two gold foil wrapped chocolate coins.
The rent increase was the story spun to the staff and to be relayed to the customers with the emphasis on blaming the landlord. In the eyes of our friends on the other side of the counter, the brave Barista's, we knew that as their employer had been named and shamed in terms of the pitiful amount they had been paying in tax they were taking revenge and making a few hundred people redundant as a retaliatory action of the utmost cynicism and petty mindedness.
What options are open to Me and The Boy?
Well, for the general impression that every third premises in the High Street sells coffee after Charity Shops and Pound Stores we feel that there is actually a poor choice. Costa are a bit brash and I am aware that they are a bit fast and loose where Planning Permissions are involved. Café Nero, if you squint up at the sign reads Café Nerd so that is a non starter for us- too obvious. Pret a Manger have not yet ventured as far north east as our town and may feel it necessary to change their name which sounds ugly in a strong regional accent.
There are a few small Independent coffee shops but they do not inspire confidence of lasting the course and the owner/proprietor can be a bit full on in asking what we think of the cakes and buns which he made himself in the early hours when his eczema permitted.
There are some strange 'pop-up' coffee outlets such as those found in the back of the B&Q Warehouse, amongst the bookshelves of Waterstones and in garden centres but they can be i) a bit breezy ii) a bit too public like a feeding enclosure at the zoo iii)always full.
I have even tried out the vending machines branded by the main Chains which sit quietly in the petrol kiosk shops but have still yet to formulate an opinion on that provenance of the beverage from such a source.
So, we are still in limbo.
Until a firm decision is made we feel that there is still a lot of legwork and research to be done. You may see us parked up near a coffee shop with a flask of home poured Nescafe doing our homework.
In the interim the only thing that we will be pouring is over our spreadsheets listing the main criteria which are applied to each and every outlet that we have on our current not-so-shortlist.
Ambience, car parking arrangements, a safe place to lock up our mountain bikes, general accessibility, seating and interesting views, potential for people watching, range of patisserie goods, cleanliness and presentability of staff, demographic of other customers, nice toilets, type of canned music, absence of a craft fair display or live folk music, range of seasonal gifts and importantly, ratio of tax paid to turnover.
Oh, and I nearly forgot. What is their coffee like?
Thursday 18 April 2013
Majority Rule
In the Hollywood Blockbuster movies a fairly popular storyline is one where innocent bystanders get caught in a bank robbery, a heist at a store or otherwise find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Masked and heavily armed perpetrators get a bit rude and crude in ordering the poor unfortunates to lie on the floor, keep their eyes down and shut up under threat of some quite nasty outcomes usually involving being provided with a bullet in the head or someone creating a new orifice that is not really required and would be more of an inconvenience than an advantage, in my perception.
There is usually an upstanding citizen who decides to be a 'have a go hero' and gets involved in a tussle and a wrestle with the gruffest of the villains and although seeming to have the intial element of surprise you can be assured that it will not end at all well for Joe Public. The staff are also a bit vulnerable especially those with the responsibility for a set of keys, a passcard or knowledge of the combination of a safe or vault.
A few shots get fired into one of those awful fibreboard suspended ceilings that characterise a downtown 1970's built establishment and everyone panics and screams as the getaway car screeches up to take away the gang and their bulging cash filled holdalls. There is invariably a witticism shared between the baddies and their victims and that makes violent crime acceptable - doesn't it ?
We generally accept this sort of scenario as fictional and do not therefore have too many concerns in this country of ours when queuing at the Post Office to renew the road fund licence, paying in monies at the local bank branch or just minding our own business in doing the weekly shop in the supermarket.
I was therefore a bit surprised and not a little concerned when the Manager at our small neighbourhood Spar Shop announced that he was locking the main doors and respectfully detaining all current customers.
He explained that he was about to confront two individuals whom he had been observing in plain sight in the process of filling their pockets and a selection of loose branded carrier bags with produce from the chiller cabinets in aisle 2.
Those amongst us with hand baskets and a commensurate amount of cash for purchase had nothing to worry about. A few well to do middle aged persons aired a degree of moral indignation but I was not entirely sure if it was over being, in their minds, the victims of false imprisonment or directed at those who had brought on the unsatisfactory situation which was now firmly engaging all of us.
From my position between the Off Licence section and the domestic cleaning display shelving I did not have a view of the main action.
My understanding of what was going on was based on the preliminary action by the Manager and a couple of muffled voices who expressed sincere denials that they were doing anything wrong.
The disembodied voices were of a man and a woman, clearly, although I would hesitate to actually identify who was who. The female intonation was hoarse and throaty from 40 smokes a day and the male a bit whiny and high pitched like my own tends to be after a few glasses of Pinot.
A shuffling sound was heard as the couple came forward in their own counter challenge.
I could see them now. An odd pairing. One had a faded blonde rinse with black roots showing through, pale and pinched rosey cheeked face, flowery shirt and bright overpowering trousers under a multi pocketed army jacket which would make a poacher's equivalent garment look frugal. The woman also was a bit world weary with saggy bags under the eyes which blended in with equally loose and uncontrollable jowls, an obvious wig and scruffy clothes beneath a Mackintosh at least three sizes too large but weighed down and bulging with contraband.
The stance of denial continued even with the Manager risking all to delve into the voluminous coats and fishing out a handful of shrink-wrapped packs of Danish Bacon previously occupying a prime position in the chiller cabinet, various spray cans of deodorants, two jars of Nescafe, a Kit Kat (singular), a four pack of strong lager and a packet of J-Cloths.
In the midst of this indoor performance I noticed that a crowd had gathered on the forecourt frontage of the Spar Shop. Angry faces were screwed up against the disabled automatic doors and from their contorsions and quite easily lip-read obscenities these were confederates of the unfortunate shoplifters.
I counted at least half a dozen motivated and aggressive individuals.
There were an equal number of us in the shop but I had low expectations of a good outcome if push came to shove. Decent types have, from my own experience, little street fighting skills.
More pilfered items cascaded onto the floor around Mr and Mrs Five Finger Discount ( a term I had heard on an episode of The Simpsons and felt quite apt in this situation) and the Manager completed his transfer of the goods into a nearby trolley.
The haul, if they had ever had a better gameplan or actual ability to implement it had potential to severely dent the profitability of the Franchisee for that particular week.
The unpleasantness dissipated quite quickly with the failing to come to fruition of the shoplifting trip. Voices attained a more normal, calmer tone and diction and the strange couple were now reasonably apologetic about the whole thing.
Confident in his policy and approach the Manager released the door.
A few choice insults were directed at the Manager by the partisan crowd which, to me, displayed a reasonable grasp of Consumer Law, Civil Liberties and the Rights of the Individual and I was impressed.
As quickly as the situation had developed it was completely defused and normal service was resumed. When it was my turn to pay at the till I commented to the Manager that he had indeed shown good judgement, authority and bravery in what I had feared could have easily escalated into a riot. He was modest and very matter of fact in revealing that his Thursdays would not be the same without a visit from the erstwhile members of the Conservative Club on their way home from a social evening. They were relatively harmless really and he always received a nice written apology by the middle of the Friday morning with an invitation to play Bridge and enjoy a glass of Port.
Masked and heavily armed perpetrators get a bit rude and crude in ordering the poor unfortunates to lie on the floor, keep their eyes down and shut up under threat of some quite nasty outcomes usually involving being provided with a bullet in the head or someone creating a new orifice that is not really required and would be more of an inconvenience than an advantage, in my perception.
There is usually an upstanding citizen who decides to be a 'have a go hero' and gets involved in a tussle and a wrestle with the gruffest of the villains and although seeming to have the intial element of surprise you can be assured that it will not end at all well for Joe Public. The staff are also a bit vulnerable especially those with the responsibility for a set of keys, a passcard or knowledge of the combination of a safe or vault.
A few shots get fired into one of those awful fibreboard suspended ceilings that characterise a downtown 1970's built establishment and everyone panics and screams as the getaway car screeches up to take away the gang and their bulging cash filled holdalls. There is invariably a witticism shared between the baddies and their victims and that makes violent crime acceptable - doesn't it ?
We generally accept this sort of scenario as fictional and do not therefore have too many concerns in this country of ours when queuing at the Post Office to renew the road fund licence, paying in monies at the local bank branch or just minding our own business in doing the weekly shop in the supermarket.
I was therefore a bit surprised and not a little concerned when the Manager at our small neighbourhood Spar Shop announced that he was locking the main doors and respectfully detaining all current customers.
He explained that he was about to confront two individuals whom he had been observing in plain sight in the process of filling their pockets and a selection of loose branded carrier bags with produce from the chiller cabinets in aisle 2.
Those amongst us with hand baskets and a commensurate amount of cash for purchase had nothing to worry about. A few well to do middle aged persons aired a degree of moral indignation but I was not entirely sure if it was over being, in their minds, the victims of false imprisonment or directed at those who had brought on the unsatisfactory situation which was now firmly engaging all of us.
From my position between the Off Licence section and the domestic cleaning display shelving I did not have a view of the main action.
My understanding of what was going on was based on the preliminary action by the Manager and a couple of muffled voices who expressed sincere denials that they were doing anything wrong.
The disembodied voices were of a man and a woman, clearly, although I would hesitate to actually identify who was who. The female intonation was hoarse and throaty from 40 smokes a day and the male a bit whiny and high pitched like my own tends to be after a few glasses of Pinot.
A shuffling sound was heard as the couple came forward in their own counter challenge.
I could see them now. An odd pairing. One had a faded blonde rinse with black roots showing through, pale and pinched rosey cheeked face, flowery shirt and bright overpowering trousers under a multi pocketed army jacket which would make a poacher's equivalent garment look frugal. The woman also was a bit world weary with saggy bags under the eyes which blended in with equally loose and uncontrollable jowls, an obvious wig and scruffy clothes beneath a Mackintosh at least three sizes too large but weighed down and bulging with contraband.
The stance of denial continued even with the Manager risking all to delve into the voluminous coats and fishing out a handful of shrink-wrapped packs of Danish Bacon previously occupying a prime position in the chiller cabinet, various spray cans of deodorants, two jars of Nescafe, a Kit Kat (singular), a four pack of strong lager and a packet of J-Cloths.
In the midst of this indoor performance I noticed that a crowd had gathered on the forecourt frontage of the Spar Shop. Angry faces were screwed up against the disabled automatic doors and from their contorsions and quite easily lip-read obscenities these were confederates of the unfortunate shoplifters.
I counted at least half a dozen motivated and aggressive individuals.
There were an equal number of us in the shop but I had low expectations of a good outcome if push came to shove. Decent types have, from my own experience, little street fighting skills.
More pilfered items cascaded onto the floor around Mr and Mrs Five Finger Discount ( a term I had heard on an episode of The Simpsons and felt quite apt in this situation) and the Manager completed his transfer of the goods into a nearby trolley.
The haul, if they had ever had a better gameplan or actual ability to implement it had potential to severely dent the profitability of the Franchisee for that particular week.
The unpleasantness dissipated quite quickly with the failing to come to fruition of the shoplifting trip. Voices attained a more normal, calmer tone and diction and the strange couple were now reasonably apologetic about the whole thing.
Confident in his policy and approach the Manager released the door.
A few choice insults were directed at the Manager by the partisan crowd which, to me, displayed a reasonable grasp of Consumer Law, Civil Liberties and the Rights of the Individual and I was impressed.
As quickly as the situation had developed it was completely defused and normal service was resumed. When it was my turn to pay at the till I commented to the Manager that he had indeed shown good judgement, authority and bravery in what I had feared could have easily escalated into a riot. He was modest and very matter of fact in revealing that his Thursdays would not be the same without a visit from the erstwhile members of the Conservative Club on their way home from a social evening. They were relatively harmless really and he always received a nice written apology by the middle of the Friday morning with an invitation to play Bridge and enjoy a glass of Port.
Wednesday 17 April 2013
Journey To The Centre of The Earth
Some of the potholes in the road surface are deep. I half expect that a prompt to take evasive action may one day be the sight of a pair of hands and then the top of a head emerging sheepishly from such a chasm.
On my regular routes through the County I have a good working knowledge of the main potholes and can usually steer my way around and through the obstacle course without inconveniencing or knowingly causing a hazard to other road users.
Invariably I will have to take an unfamiliar highway or back road and these pose the biggest threat to tyres, shock absorbers and my coccyx, already suffering from the typically harsh driving seat position and suspension setting of a German made car.
On the narrower lanes it is the half metre or so from the roadside verge on the passenger side which displays the wear, tear and destructive impact of heavy lorries, farm traffic and the sheer volume of use for which they were never intended.
The surface can be fractured and pitted like the exposed bed of a dry stream. Loosely strewn fragments of tarmac and stones can be forced out and up under the pressure of vehicles akin to the shrapnel in a landmine.
In dry weather there is an abrasive effect under rubber tyres reducing pebble sized materials to pea gravel and further to a fine dust which swirls about in the slipstream.
Following rainfall the broken skin of the road fills up with water giving the appearance of a smooth, glassy layer and lulling the motorist into a false sense of security. The crunch of a wheel rim on the concealed edge of a crater is accompanied by a geyser spray of muddy, gritty water which disappears momentarily over the car roof before running down the windscreen and side windows in long, erratic, streaky rivulets.
On the principal transport routes the budget for pothole repairs has been put into action. High profile road works and infilling of the worst examples takes place usually directly proportionate to the number of claims lodged by road users for damage. This can be a patchwork of fresh surface dressings or if reaching a specific percentage of coverage it is more cost effective to strip away and renew a long section.
The recent spell of persistently cold weather caused droplets of water which had found their way into the pores of the road surface to freeze, expand and by the repetition over a number of day and night temperatures to perforate and break up the tarmac. New patches, resembling cow pats in a meadow, seem to be particularly vulnerable to this seeping attack by the expansion and contraction of a simple water molecule and by loosening the hot bitumastic bonding the same problem which prompted the repair in the first place returns.
The Highways Department do rely upon a sense of citizenship or equally the indignation of motorists to report where the road surface is breaking up. The first action of the Local Authority is to send someone out with an aerosol spray can to encircle the offending area. This can be taken as a recognition and grudging acceptance of a pothole but buys some considerable time before any actual repair works are implemented. At least the sight, in good visibility conditions, of what resembles an oversized game of noughts and crosses does give a chance to approaching road users to plot their course with a bit more ease and assurance.
Under recessionary conditions and tightening of budgets the pothole is guaranteed a prolonged infamy. Most vehicle users accept them as a fact of life and to a certain extent relish the challenge to their driving skills in avoiding impact or the wrestling away of control which follows the entry into a rut, crevasse or trench. It may take, heaven forbid, actual tragedy or fatalities to produce a more determined attitude by the Local Authorities to this problem. In the meantime you may be best advised to add to the standard motorists tool kit a set of ladders, caving equipment and ropes, grappling hooks and a book of useful phrases to get along with the subterranean inhabitants of the planet be they of the persuasion of dwarves, goblins, trolls or the like.
On my regular routes through the County I have a good working knowledge of the main potholes and can usually steer my way around and through the obstacle course without inconveniencing or knowingly causing a hazard to other road users.
Invariably I will have to take an unfamiliar highway or back road and these pose the biggest threat to tyres, shock absorbers and my coccyx, already suffering from the typically harsh driving seat position and suspension setting of a German made car.
On the narrower lanes it is the half metre or so from the roadside verge on the passenger side which displays the wear, tear and destructive impact of heavy lorries, farm traffic and the sheer volume of use for which they were never intended.
The surface can be fractured and pitted like the exposed bed of a dry stream. Loosely strewn fragments of tarmac and stones can be forced out and up under the pressure of vehicles akin to the shrapnel in a landmine.
In dry weather there is an abrasive effect under rubber tyres reducing pebble sized materials to pea gravel and further to a fine dust which swirls about in the slipstream.
Following rainfall the broken skin of the road fills up with water giving the appearance of a smooth, glassy layer and lulling the motorist into a false sense of security. The crunch of a wheel rim on the concealed edge of a crater is accompanied by a geyser spray of muddy, gritty water which disappears momentarily over the car roof before running down the windscreen and side windows in long, erratic, streaky rivulets.
On the principal transport routes the budget for pothole repairs has been put into action. High profile road works and infilling of the worst examples takes place usually directly proportionate to the number of claims lodged by road users for damage. This can be a patchwork of fresh surface dressings or if reaching a specific percentage of coverage it is more cost effective to strip away and renew a long section.
The recent spell of persistently cold weather caused droplets of water which had found their way into the pores of the road surface to freeze, expand and by the repetition over a number of day and night temperatures to perforate and break up the tarmac. New patches, resembling cow pats in a meadow, seem to be particularly vulnerable to this seeping attack by the expansion and contraction of a simple water molecule and by loosening the hot bitumastic bonding the same problem which prompted the repair in the first place returns.
The Highways Department do rely upon a sense of citizenship or equally the indignation of motorists to report where the road surface is breaking up. The first action of the Local Authority is to send someone out with an aerosol spray can to encircle the offending area. This can be taken as a recognition and grudging acceptance of a pothole but buys some considerable time before any actual repair works are implemented. At least the sight, in good visibility conditions, of what resembles an oversized game of noughts and crosses does give a chance to approaching road users to plot their course with a bit more ease and assurance.
Under recessionary conditions and tightening of budgets the pothole is guaranteed a prolonged infamy. Most vehicle users accept them as a fact of life and to a certain extent relish the challenge to their driving skills in avoiding impact or the wrestling away of control which follows the entry into a rut, crevasse or trench. It may take, heaven forbid, actual tragedy or fatalities to produce a more determined attitude by the Local Authorities to this problem. In the meantime you may be best advised to add to the standard motorists tool kit a set of ladders, caving equipment and ropes, grappling hooks and a book of useful phrases to get along with the subterranean inhabitants of the planet be they of the persuasion of dwarves, goblins, trolls or the like.
Tuesday 16 April 2013
Lift and Separate
The passenger lift at the office where I work is broken.
I admit that in the first few days and weeks of moving to the building on an out of town Business Park there were a few moments when the temptation of riding up and down between floors was strong. I found it difficult but I managed to maintain a level of professionalism and age-appropriate behaviour that kept me away from the shiny glass and stainless steel apparatus.
I do like gadgets and mechanical things and so there was more than just a passing interest. It was a case of convincing myself that it was nothing special, that lift. After all, the premises were only over 2 floors. It was entirely possible to actually walk up the stairs in shorter time than it would have taken to go through the operating procedure and so the thrill and one-upmanship of automatic vertical travel would hardly be as elevating as you would hope.
The primary reason for the Architect to specify a lift will have been to meet access requirements for disabled users and visitors but with advantages for the chubby delivery man from the office suppliers and for the movement of furniture upon the arrival of the next collection of tenants.
In design the lift was sleek and functional. Stainless steel lining. A subtle variation of laser etched textured surfaces. Non slip floor. Tinted glass door. The up and down buttons were oversized like on a toddlers activity set. It was child's play to use and as exciting as a new toy for all that. From my ground floor office just across the entrance hall from the lift shaft I would listen out for the distinctive low resonance whirring of the mechanism as the slack in the multi-twined cables was taken up by the first rotations of the winding gear.
There would be, perhaps, a few feelings of envy for those partaking in a ride when I was otherwise bogged down in my own workload. The lift and those using it represented an altogether more glamorous existence in my mind. However mundane the actual job they were doing in those upstairs office suites ,the prospect of regular use of the lift would be ample excitement.
Gradually my sensitivity to the noise of the lift lessened and like those who live next to a busy railway line or main road, and always make a point of saying so, it was soon a case of being completely oblivious to any activity or indeed notice of it.
I was therefore distressed by the arrival of a Lift Engineer and his declaration to all occupants of the building that the thing was broken and in no way capable of operation.
The black and yellow safety tape was draped around like the crime scene of a mechanical murder.
I suspected that the upstairs tenants were guilty of mis-use of the lift.
They worked funny hours, being the first to arrive in the morning and always last to leave at dusk.
Who knows what they got up to when the building and the wider Business park became otherwise deserted. I could imagine them racing madly around the circuit of stairs and lift trying to establish a personal best or staff record or abusing the lift just to go to the lower floor washroom or to fetch things from their parked cars in the communal courtyard area on the smallest whim or fancy.
If there was an equivalent of the mile high club for a two storey lift then they will have done the deed and got the honour badge for it, for sure.
If I came across the upstairs lot in normal office hours they always lowered their heads and mumbled or giggled incessantly as though party to a great and mutual secret. It must be an 'in joke' about the lift.
The Engineer did his best.
The cables and gears were stripped out and laid bare in the lobby or out in the open between the entrance door and his tooled-up van. I passed a few moments on a regular basis chatting with him about his favourite elevators and he was happy to talk about his passion and what was, for him, the ideal livelihood. He had worked on other mechanical equipment but passenger lifts were his forte.
I had an ulterior motive for my engaging him in conversation. The culprits behind the apparent destruction of the lift had to be brought to account for their misdemeanours. I introduced to him the idea that there were individuals not a million miles away in the building , (I pointed vaguely skywards) who had the motive and opportunity to wreak havoc with a piece of finely tuned equipment as this. He listened attentively and I took this to mean that he was indeed gathering evidence to present to the owner of the property. There would be recriminations and a valid basis for compensation and damages for the landlord, I was convinced of that.
I was therefore astounded when the root cause of the problem was explained to me.
The lifting gear of wheels, pulleys and cables had a small reservoir of lubricating oil which, upon every operation when called by a passenger, would release a calculated amount. It was almost like a spray per use procedure. An exact trickle of lubricant to facilitate the smooth and efficient movement of the mechanicals.
With this disclosure by the Engineer I could sense a tone of disappointment, almost an accusation of negligence directed at me. I could see where he was going with that attitude. Here I was, a grown man with almost exclusive access to a lift and with, apparently by his perception, ample time to use it legitimately. It was true, I had let him down to an inexcusable level. I had not played in the lift any where near enough and as a direct consequence of my inaction I had condemned it to death. I, like the lift, was out of order.
I admit that in the first few days and weeks of moving to the building on an out of town Business Park there were a few moments when the temptation of riding up and down between floors was strong. I found it difficult but I managed to maintain a level of professionalism and age-appropriate behaviour that kept me away from the shiny glass and stainless steel apparatus.
I do like gadgets and mechanical things and so there was more than just a passing interest. It was a case of convincing myself that it was nothing special, that lift. After all, the premises were only over 2 floors. It was entirely possible to actually walk up the stairs in shorter time than it would have taken to go through the operating procedure and so the thrill and one-upmanship of automatic vertical travel would hardly be as elevating as you would hope.
The primary reason for the Architect to specify a lift will have been to meet access requirements for disabled users and visitors but with advantages for the chubby delivery man from the office suppliers and for the movement of furniture upon the arrival of the next collection of tenants.
In design the lift was sleek and functional. Stainless steel lining. A subtle variation of laser etched textured surfaces. Non slip floor. Tinted glass door. The up and down buttons were oversized like on a toddlers activity set. It was child's play to use and as exciting as a new toy for all that. From my ground floor office just across the entrance hall from the lift shaft I would listen out for the distinctive low resonance whirring of the mechanism as the slack in the multi-twined cables was taken up by the first rotations of the winding gear.
There would be, perhaps, a few feelings of envy for those partaking in a ride when I was otherwise bogged down in my own workload. The lift and those using it represented an altogether more glamorous existence in my mind. However mundane the actual job they were doing in those upstairs office suites ,the prospect of regular use of the lift would be ample excitement.
Gradually my sensitivity to the noise of the lift lessened and like those who live next to a busy railway line or main road, and always make a point of saying so, it was soon a case of being completely oblivious to any activity or indeed notice of it.
I was therefore distressed by the arrival of a Lift Engineer and his declaration to all occupants of the building that the thing was broken and in no way capable of operation.
The black and yellow safety tape was draped around like the crime scene of a mechanical murder.
I suspected that the upstairs tenants were guilty of mis-use of the lift.
They worked funny hours, being the first to arrive in the morning and always last to leave at dusk.
Who knows what they got up to when the building and the wider Business park became otherwise deserted. I could imagine them racing madly around the circuit of stairs and lift trying to establish a personal best or staff record or abusing the lift just to go to the lower floor washroom or to fetch things from their parked cars in the communal courtyard area on the smallest whim or fancy.
If there was an equivalent of the mile high club for a two storey lift then they will have done the deed and got the honour badge for it, for sure.
If I came across the upstairs lot in normal office hours they always lowered their heads and mumbled or giggled incessantly as though party to a great and mutual secret. It must be an 'in joke' about the lift.
The Engineer did his best.
The cables and gears were stripped out and laid bare in the lobby or out in the open between the entrance door and his tooled-up van. I passed a few moments on a regular basis chatting with him about his favourite elevators and he was happy to talk about his passion and what was, for him, the ideal livelihood. He had worked on other mechanical equipment but passenger lifts were his forte.
I had an ulterior motive for my engaging him in conversation. The culprits behind the apparent destruction of the lift had to be brought to account for their misdemeanours. I introduced to him the idea that there were individuals not a million miles away in the building , (I pointed vaguely skywards) who had the motive and opportunity to wreak havoc with a piece of finely tuned equipment as this. He listened attentively and I took this to mean that he was indeed gathering evidence to present to the owner of the property. There would be recriminations and a valid basis for compensation and damages for the landlord, I was convinced of that.
I was therefore astounded when the root cause of the problem was explained to me.
The lifting gear of wheels, pulleys and cables had a small reservoir of lubricating oil which, upon every operation when called by a passenger, would release a calculated amount. It was almost like a spray per use procedure. An exact trickle of lubricant to facilitate the smooth and efficient movement of the mechanicals.
With this disclosure by the Engineer I could sense a tone of disappointment, almost an accusation of negligence directed at me. I could see where he was going with that attitude. Here I was, a grown man with almost exclusive access to a lift and with, apparently by his perception, ample time to use it legitimately. It was true, I had let him down to an inexcusable level. I had not played in the lift any where near enough and as a direct consequence of my inaction I had condemned it to death. I, like the lift, was out of order.
Monday 15 April 2013
Name Calling
There has been a return to some of the old traditional Christian names by parents with their new borns.
After a good few years as the most popular boys name Jack has ,at last, been knocked off top spot by Oliver. There is close competition from Harry, Charles and Thomas followed by a cluster of good strong biblical names including Joshua, Jacob, Samuel, Joseph and Noah. In the mix are a few celebrity inspired entries from the world of sport, media and modern culture, such names as Mason, Brandon, Kobe and Carter and then the completely made up and meaningless amalgamation of words to form the likes of Dwaine, Jayden, Logan, Landon and Blaine.
The back pages of the Saturday Times newspaper supplements have small featurettes on new arrivals and every set of parents , bar none, seem to apologise for the choice of baby name as though obliged to give the poor thing a leg up in life by being called Piers, Barnaby or Jasper. It may be excusable if a longstanding and beloved name in their families but to attempt to engineer a stereotypical life in the upper echelons of business, commerce or the arts where so named individuals is cruel and callous.
In my own experience I knew a lad called Paris. He was incessantly bullied in the gruff northern town of his formative years for the sake of his fanciful name, made more comical by his rather plain and unimaginative surname, Watson.
On the same fantasy theme were Aramis and Andreas, again long suffering for their forename choice by loving but ultimately misguided parents. In contrast the toughest kid in the school was called Gerald, but it effectively shortened to the hard case of Ged.
My own Christian name, Peter, was in the top 10 for decades although now approaching my half century I find myself being the youngest so labelled. When pressed for an explanation for my name my parents alluded to a pop star of the 1960's from the British band, Hermans Hermits.
You can appreciate my surprise at being introduced to a Peter, aged about 6 quite recently. His mother used his name liberally in shouting down the garden as he was a bit of a mischief and I latched onto the rare sound of my own name and was keen to quiz the mother on her choice. I gave the usual back story and found that the lad was also named after a pop star, Peter Andre. Not a lot changes in 50 years if that is anything to go by.
A Christian name can be relied upon, generally, to give an indication as to the age of a person before you meet them. That may not be possible to say into the future as traditional names drift in and out of popular use.
I can look forward to and fully expect to meet real characters called Arnold, Edgar, Vincent, Herbert, Edgar and Clarence and be chatted up by Ethel, Gertrude, Doris, Mildred and Gladys as I remind them of their own, themselves, elderly offspring. They are from a generation that experienced tremendous social and economic changes including conflict and recession.
Some of these names have little prospect of returning to the top 100 or even the top 200 of in popularity and will, if not already, just fade into extinction.
In the last week or so the fate of the old reliables has been no more accentuated by the death of two notables called Norman. One was the Hull comedian Norman Collier who was in his heyday in the 1970's. His trademark diction as though using a faulty and short circuiting microphone established him as a club and TV favourite.
The other was a quiet, unassuming but very entertaining man himself, Norman Jarvis, a local electrician.
We went on quite a few jobs together with Norman providing an opinion of the electrical circuitry in many a property whilst I looked at the condition of the house for a prospective purchaser. I could always tell where he was in a building because of his cheery singing and whistling of the classics and perennial favourites. He was very thorough in his electrical testing, so much so that I would often complete my commission first and then hang around so as not to appear a slacker by comparison.
He was very practical and although I never had the courage or cheek to do it he encouraged me to return any light bulbs to the shop where they had been bought if they failed before their allotted hourly indication.
I liked working with Norman and I feel that we got on well even though there was quite a difference in age and outlook. He was always available to provide his expertise, even at fairly short notice, being semi retired after handing over the day to day workload of a thriving family business to his son.
His light may have gone out but the thought of Norman will always illuminate some of my best memories.
After a good few years as the most popular boys name Jack has ,at last, been knocked off top spot by Oliver. There is close competition from Harry, Charles and Thomas followed by a cluster of good strong biblical names including Joshua, Jacob, Samuel, Joseph and Noah. In the mix are a few celebrity inspired entries from the world of sport, media and modern culture, such names as Mason, Brandon, Kobe and Carter and then the completely made up and meaningless amalgamation of words to form the likes of Dwaine, Jayden, Logan, Landon and Blaine.
The back pages of the Saturday Times newspaper supplements have small featurettes on new arrivals and every set of parents , bar none, seem to apologise for the choice of baby name as though obliged to give the poor thing a leg up in life by being called Piers, Barnaby or Jasper. It may be excusable if a longstanding and beloved name in their families but to attempt to engineer a stereotypical life in the upper echelons of business, commerce or the arts where so named individuals is cruel and callous.
In my own experience I knew a lad called Paris. He was incessantly bullied in the gruff northern town of his formative years for the sake of his fanciful name, made more comical by his rather plain and unimaginative surname, Watson.
On the same fantasy theme were Aramis and Andreas, again long suffering for their forename choice by loving but ultimately misguided parents. In contrast the toughest kid in the school was called Gerald, but it effectively shortened to the hard case of Ged.
My own Christian name, Peter, was in the top 10 for decades although now approaching my half century I find myself being the youngest so labelled. When pressed for an explanation for my name my parents alluded to a pop star of the 1960's from the British band, Hermans Hermits.
You can appreciate my surprise at being introduced to a Peter, aged about 6 quite recently. His mother used his name liberally in shouting down the garden as he was a bit of a mischief and I latched onto the rare sound of my own name and was keen to quiz the mother on her choice. I gave the usual back story and found that the lad was also named after a pop star, Peter Andre. Not a lot changes in 50 years if that is anything to go by.
A Christian name can be relied upon, generally, to give an indication as to the age of a person before you meet them. That may not be possible to say into the future as traditional names drift in and out of popular use.
I can look forward to and fully expect to meet real characters called Arnold, Edgar, Vincent, Herbert, Edgar and Clarence and be chatted up by Ethel, Gertrude, Doris, Mildred and Gladys as I remind them of their own, themselves, elderly offspring. They are from a generation that experienced tremendous social and economic changes including conflict and recession.
Some of these names have little prospect of returning to the top 100 or even the top 200 of in popularity and will, if not already, just fade into extinction.
In the last week or so the fate of the old reliables has been no more accentuated by the death of two notables called Norman. One was the Hull comedian Norman Collier who was in his heyday in the 1970's. His trademark diction as though using a faulty and short circuiting microphone established him as a club and TV favourite.
The other was a quiet, unassuming but very entertaining man himself, Norman Jarvis, a local electrician.
We went on quite a few jobs together with Norman providing an opinion of the electrical circuitry in many a property whilst I looked at the condition of the house for a prospective purchaser. I could always tell where he was in a building because of his cheery singing and whistling of the classics and perennial favourites. He was very thorough in his electrical testing, so much so that I would often complete my commission first and then hang around so as not to appear a slacker by comparison.
He was very practical and although I never had the courage or cheek to do it he encouraged me to return any light bulbs to the shop where they had been bought if they failed before their allotted hourly indication.
I liked working with Norman and I feel that we got on well even though there was quite a difference in age and outlook. He was always available to provide his expertise, even at fairly short notice, being semi retired after handing over the day to day workload of a thriving family business to his son.
His light may have gone out but the thought of Norman will always illuminate some of my best memories.
Sunday 14 April 2013
Over The Rainbow
A catchy tune, good bass line, raking guitar riff, kick-ass drums and, oh, yes someone singing over the top. The message in a song's lyrics can sometimes get lost in the production process.
It does make you wonder if today's budding songwriters are really trying to set the world alight with a set of meaningful, hard hitting, poignant or epoch-defining words or just half heartedly hoping that the tune will be picked up at some time in the future and used as the backing for a TV advert for a new model of car, a breakfast cereal or feminine hygiene products. Kerching ££££££ , royalties for early retirement at the age of 25, thank you very much.
The popular music charts are awash with bland songs and wishy washy lyrics with no imagination or real emotional connection unless, again, hijacked as the soundtrack to accompany a back-story for a participant in The X Factor, Britain's Got Talent or similar Saturday night fare.
What has happened to the good old fashioned protest song?
The current emergence of 'Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead' has highlighted the current sensitivities and overwhelming political correctness of the media when confronted by a spirited campaign by a determined group.
Personally, I feel that 'Ding Dong' is a huge, clever and very calculated 'in joke' in of the best type.
I have openly giggled in public at the thought and sentiment of the song title because I am of the age group who experienced that period in British and World History as a young adult, trying to understand the politics in a serious grown up manner but at the same time just living for going out and having a good time before the real responsibilities and obligations that go with wanting to be a diligent citizen kicked in.
The expression of a viewpoint, a standpoint and to draw up a front line for a campaign can be most succinctly put in a song's lyrics. This tends to be missing today but has played a huge and influential part throughout history from songs handed down from generations of oppressed peoples in the ancient world, sung around the cooking fires in an African village, used as a means of maintaining the tempo of righteous marching armies and as a rallying call against slavery, imprisonment and injustice.
The 1960's saw the protest song hit mass circulation on the airwaves through Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Curtis Mayfield amongst many others. The songs reflected the tumultuous events of the time with, in the USA, the violence around the struggle for Civil Rights and the anti-war movement over Vietnam and in south east Asia.
It appears that the 1970's were more of a recreational decade what with the arrival of prog-rock, the disco era, glam rock and the new romantics. It was as though someone had stumbled across a large dressing up box and cache of drugs and could not really be bothered to protest about anything apart from not being able to structurally stabilise very large flared bell bottom trousers.
It may have been that the main agitators in the protest movements of the 1960's simply grew up, took jobs, got a mortgage and started a family or were just worn out by the effort to gain small but meaningful victories against the Establishment.
In the late 1970's some element of non-conformity did return with the rantings and ravings of a disaffected, mainly youth sector through Punk. The attitude and image behind any message was however a bit of a PR disaster, crude and lewd and with little success in perpetuating the cause which made way for the next New Wave in the 1980's.
There was a bit more sophistication in the likes of electro-pop and a glut of mega-bands who could command a stadium full of fans from London to Berlin, Rio to Tokyo and a real opportunity to exercise some influence through protest songs. 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' by U2 stands out to reflect the troubles in Northern Ireland and 'Free Nelson Mandela' by The Specials.
Guilt in the excesses of the western world led to the 'Feed The World' song driven campaign in the mid 1980's.
It was becoming increasingly apparent thereafter that protest songs apart from global issues were just not commercially viable or could cause a mass exodus of fans who did not agree with the affiliations of the band, both equally disastrous for a record company and management. A few still sneaked through in the music playlists and charts but had to be over-explained to such an extent that any subtle or subversive messages were just lost.
It does take a significant effort in the over saturated forms of communication that are a fundamental fact of 21st Century life for a campaign or crusade to get noticed. Blog traffic, web sites and targeted downloads give some potential for competition against those who seek to control and censor media output and 'Ding Dong' has certainly rattled a few cages and consciences in this respect.
Protest does find its own momentum if arousing the passions and social conscience of a population and the true level of emotion will soon show through the fog of apathy and that feeling of being unable to change things.
I was once myself part of militant group and learnt the effectiveness of a protest song.. There were five of us who on regular occasions were marshalled into an estate car and driven by two grown ups far and wide for day trips or vacations. These were often very long journeys in the days pre-air conditioning and we would get hot, bothered and the backs of our bare legs firmly adhered to the best Wolfsburg vinyl seats. The five of us soon developed a strategy to make sure that we made frequent breaks from the incessant road. It is amazing how a rendition of 'Stop the Car I want a wee-wee' in strict rota gets the attention of parents anxious not to have a major clean up operation on their hands on the A1.
It does make you wonder if today's budding songwriters are really trying to set the world alight with a set of meaningful, hard hitting, poignant or epoch-defining words or just half heartedly hoping that the tune will be picked up at some time in the future and used as the backing for a TV advert for a new model of car, a breakfast cereal or feminine hygiene products. Kerching ££££££ , royalties for early retirement at the age of 25, thank you very much.
The popular music charts are awash with bland songs and wishy washy lyrics with no imagination or real emotional connection unless, again, hijacked as the soundtrack to accompany a back-story for a participant in The X Factor, Britain's Got Talent or similar Saturday night fare.
What has happened to the good old fashioned protest song?
The current emergence of 'Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead' has highlighted the current sensitivities and overwhelming political correctness of the media when confronted by a spirited campaign by a determined group.
Personally, I feel that 'Ding Dong' is a huge, clever and very calculated 'in joke' in of the best type.
I have openly giggled in public at the thought and sentiment of the song title because I am of the age group who experienced that period in British and World History as a young adult, trying to understand the politics in a serious grown up manner but at the same time just living for going out and having a good time before the real responsibilities and obligations that go with wanting to be a diligent citizen kicked in.
The expression of a viewpoint, a standpoint and to draw up a front line for a campaign can be most succinctly put in a song's lyrics. This tends to be missing today but has played a huge and influential part throughout history from songs handed down from generations of oppressed peoples in the ancient world, sung around the cooking fires in an African village, used as a means of maintaining the tempo of righteous marching armies and as a rallying call against slavery, imprisonment and injustice.
The 1960's saw the protest song hit mass circulation on the airwaves through Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Curtis Mayfield amongst many others. The songs reflected the tumultuous events of the time with, in the USA, the violence around the struggle for Civil Rights and the anti-war movement over Vietnam and in south east Asia.
It appears that the 1970's were more of a recreational decade what with the arrival of prog-rock, the disco era, glam rock and the new romantics. It was as though someone had stumbled across a large dressing up box and cache of drugs and could not really be bothered to protest about anything apart from not being able to structurally stabilise very large flared bell bottom trousers.
It may have been that the main agitators in the protest movements of the 1960's simply grew up, took jobs, got a mortgage and started a family or were just worn out by the effort to gain small but meaningful victories against the Establishment.
In the late 1970's some element of non-conformity did return with the rantings and ravings of a disaffected, mainly youth sector through Punk. The attitude and image behind any message was however a bit of a PR disaster, crude and lewd and with little success in perpetuating the cause which made way for the next New Wave in the 1980's.
There was a bit more sophistication in the likes of electro-pop and a glut of mega-bands who could command a stadium full of fans from London to Berlin, Rio to Tokyo and a real opportunity to exercise some influence through protest songs. 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' by U2 stands out to reflect the troubles in Northern Ireland and 'Free Nelson Mandela' by The Specials.
Guilt in the excesses of the western world led to the 'Feed The World' song driven campaign in the mid 1980's.
It was becoming increasingly apparent thereafter that protest songs apart from global issues were just not commercially viable or could cause a mass exodus of fans who did not agree with the affiliations of the band, both equally disastrous for a record company and management. A few still sneaked through in the music playlists and charts but had to be over-explained to such an extent that any subtle or subversive messages were just lost.
It does take a significant effort in the over saturated forms of communication that are a fundamental fact of 21st Century life for a campaign or crusade to get noticed. Blog traffic, web sites and targeted downloads give some potential for competition against those who seek to control and censor media output and 'Ding Dong' has certainly rattled a few cages and consciences in this respect.
Protest does find its own momentum if arousing the passions and social conscience of a population and the true level of emotion will soon show through the fog of apathy and that feeling of being unable to change things.
I was once myself part of militant group and learnt the effectiveness of a protest song.. There were five of us who on regular occasions were marshalled into an estate car and driven by two grown ups far and wide for day trips or vacations. These were often very long journeys in the days pre-air conditioning and we would get hot, bothered and the backs of our bare legs firmly adhered to the best Wolfsburg vinyl seats. The five of us soon developed a strategy to make sure that we made frequent breaks from the incessant road. It is amazing how a rendition of 'Stop the Car I want a wee-wee' in strict rota gets the attention of parents anxious not to have a major clean up operation on their hands on the A1.
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