One Out, All Out!

In the true spirit of fighting for workers rights I called a meeting.

For too long the basic and fundamental entitlements of the working class have been eroded in an insidious and downright sneaky way by the Government, Employers and pressure just to stay in employment and not rock the boat, This is more than accentuated in today's fast paced and ruthless business world where there is little sentiment for such things as loyalty, dedication or even a bit of flexibility when there are pressing family and personal issues that are seen as disruption and diversion to the Capitalist bosses and not the crises that they actually can be.

I was always promised a working life where I could retire in my 50's with a decent pension and in the preceding years enjoy many, many hours of leisure time what with the harnessing of computer power to work smarter and even the prospect of a job share with a robot or android.

In reality the working hours daily and cumulatively weekly and monthly have increased significantly. I knew from the start that my line of work, Surveying, would not be a strictly 9 to 5 job but that stands to reason in that the source of my work is property and that has to be visited rather than expecting it to come to me.

In the treadmill of my typical workload I am out and about all of the daylight hours apart from the brief calling in at my office to drop off completed paperwork and pick up the next assignments. In order to keep up to date with targets and client expectations I find myself squeezing in a couple of hours of preparation from 6am every day and often work late to clear my mind in readiness for another batch of Surveys.

Technology has helped a little and indeed if I did not have a digital dictation system, access to remote typing services and the internet with all of its practical functions I could see myself having to increase further my timesheet hours.

I am, in the context of a Professional. on a salaried basis. The recession from late 2008 imposed a pay reduction in order to help keep the company afloat. When the firms car came up for change I took on one of the existing pool cars which had been freed up when one of my surveying colleagues was made redundant. In real terms my income decreased by 30% and the little perks of seats at the football stadium, Health Club subscription, contribution towards incidental expenses and any prospect of a performance related bonus evaporated as I, as they say, "took one for the team".

Savings had to be made in my working day. McDonalds profits in their UK operation dipped. Starbucks opted not to pay any UK tax. Tesco meal deals just went mouldy on the shelf, Pork Pie manufacturers put staff on reduced hours and the General Stores in many a rural village reported hard times.

I am a bit scruffy in appearance because ascending into loft spaces or crawling into sub floor areas takes its toll on my business suit but unlike those sectors who can claim for a uniform or specialist attire I am on my own. A suit is my identity card and upholds the image of the profession for the public.

The above and many other issues contibuting to the catalogue of grievances, annoyances and petty mindedness culminated in my calling a meeting. There was a 100% turn out and words were said by way of a strategy to deal with the plight of the workforce. Policies were formulated and I was deemed to be the most appropriate person to act. There would definitely be changes or there would be trouble.

The downside is that I am self employed..................................

Master Chef and Domestic Utensils

A selection of kitchens in a broad range of dwellings showing them to be the hub of the house or just a bit of wasted space with a sink unit and somewhere to cook. Look out for a motorcycle helmet, 2 bird houses and a leaky washing machine. I am happy to take your votes for Best and Worst examples. 

Bit gloomy

Clash of the leftover paints

Clean and proper

One wall in practice

Ran out of budget

Kitchen in a cupboard

Transport cafe look

Galley style

Red or dead

Waiting for matching cooker

Footballers Wives

Cluttered but ordered

Flat pack world

Undecided

Designed around the kettle

Compliments the sunset

Large scale catering

Looks expensive but is it?

Mirage in granite

Forgot I was coming

Letter from Another Place

I speak to you tonight from the home of one of our citizens.

It is a modest place, tucked away in a leafy suburb of a north-eastern City.

A City which secured great wealth for the nation from its status as a stalwart of the deep sea trawling industry and major coastal port but yet was forgotten for its great sacrifices in the second world war when 1185 of its residents were killed in the blitz and all but a few of the houses and other buildings escaped any damage from the relentless aerial attacks.

This heritage is never far below the surface in the sensitivity of the city population. Furthermore it is one of the few places left in the UK with vacant plots left where the bombs fell and were never redeveloped. Breaks in the long early twentieth century terraces of neat two storey houses have the outline of the old chimney breasts where a hospitable hearth and tin bath will have formed the centrepiece of a families life but at sometime in the melee of the Hull Blitz were left rudely exposed as a string of high explosive or incendiary bombs sliced their way through the civilian areas.

The home from where I speak  in is a modern one but the old maps show it to have been built on the site of a Convent and Presbytery. Remarkably these large buildings seemed to have survived the war years but fell to the pressures of developers as recently as the mid 1970's.

The family who reside here comprise parents and three grown up offspring. Mother works as a Personal Assistant and the Father is a Chartered Surveyor. The demographic for this part of the city marks out their occupations as typical in what is colloquially known as "brown bread" or "muesli" territory. This refers to a reasonably comfortable although not affluent lifestyle. Two family cars on the driveway, one main holiday a year, contributions to Further Education and a bit left over for Charitable giving.

The family regard themselves as being in a fortunate position compared to other areas of the city which have struggled over the last 6 recessionary years. It is more than fortunate for that is my interpretation. The family quickly correct me in stating that they have been blessed and that God has provided all that they have needed and more. I find this faith interesting as it is not the chest thumping and bible bashing type prevalent to their American counterparts but a quiet and faithful belief that is quite rare, I would warrant, within the increasingly secular and materialistic UK population.

The family sit down for their friday night meal.

It is an informal and happy event and being friday it is always a home made chilli. They take it in turns to cook but are all somehow hovering around the kitchen offering to prepare the ingredients or in the case of the young adults they regularly ask for an update on when the food will be ready. They have busy lives after all.

A bottle of crisp white Pinot Grigio but under a £5.99 threshold is opened and offered to all of legal age but invariably it is the Father who consumes most although claims that the exceptional texture of the chilli is as a consequence of a couple of glasses of wine which have found their way into the mix.

The consensus is for a painfully hot chilli. It is not held to be a success unless bringing out a sweat and actually proving to be uncomfortable to eat.

I watch as the meal is carefully prepared. The scene resembles many that I have witnessed in my travels around the world from Albuquerque to Albania, Rekyavik to Adelaide and all points around.

This is remarkable given that the average British households have been squeezed and squeezed by the incumbent Coalition Government. Bedroom Tax, cuts in benefit, soaring energy prices, the highest petrol costs in Europe and all of this against a common fear amongst all for job security, the burden of debt, tuition fees, the temptations of wicked gambling in all forms however innocently advertised on a 24/7 basis and all of this before concerns of global warming, world poverty and political upheaval.

So, I briefly enjoy the chatter and laughter in this house seeing it as a brave face on a less than rosy economy in spite of the first faltering green shoots of growth and renewal that some commentators have remarked upon. I am however heartened by the spirit of those here assembled and know that with a strong ethical base and determination for justice and fairness the prognostic appears promising.

Goodnight and God Bless.

(intended to be read in the inimitable style of Alistair Cooke)

Letter from America

The sound of that distinctive mid Atlantic drawl, even though he was born in Salford, Lancashire,  announced 30 minutes of intellectual, balanced, informative, whimsical, satirical and political commentary that became a regular part of my first decade on the planet.

I first heard the broadcasts of Alistair Cooke in his Letters from America through the crackly old radiogram in the old family home but to someone of my young years I can only say that I had no idea whatsoever about what he was talking about.

The first line of his broadcast was one that I could understand in that it set the theme for his style of reporting but after that I was completely lost but just went along with it as it made me look intelligent and thoughtful.

Now some 40 years on I am beginning to comprehend the magnitude of the historical times in which Alistair Cooke lived and worked.

In context during his sphere of activity from 1946 to 2004 any news of great events of world significance took some time to reach the public domain which is in such direct contrast to the current era when the Twitter Feed and BBC 24 react instantaneously to an upload by an eye witness, an innocent bystander or a perpetrator. Further back in time it was a case of having to catch up on the news through a Pathe News feature accompanying a movie whilst sat in the cheap seats in the local picture house. Imagine the delay in not knowing about such things as the Battle of Trafalgar until the church bells peeled out over your city or town or the smoke rose from a distant beacon.

The correspondents of the Cooke era did seem, to me, to have a certain personality and social standing mixing it quite easily but respectfully with Royalty, Statesmen and what were considered to be proper global celebrity superstars. They were well spoken and affable, very cultured and suave. They also looked very, very old although even though at the time I was pretending to be engrossed in Letter from America Alistair Cooke was still very much in his prime in his mid sixties. The status he held as a bit of an institution himself gave the impression that he had been around for much, much longer.

What can I recall about the broadcasts?

I do  seem to remember that they were on a sunday although my privileged and secure upbringing in a loving family seemed to be a perpetual sunday. If indeed the case the radio will have been on in the family kitchen whilst Mother prepared the big roast dinner. I usually hung around on the pretence of helping with chores but actually to be first of the five of us kids to pick at the wonderfully crispy chicken skin or sneak away and devour the crispiest of the roast potatoes. A treacle sponge pudding started from a sticky sweet mix was a real treat if you got to eat it off a spoon scraped around the inside of the big ceramic mixing bowl.

That ritual of food preparation coincided with a golden age of broadcasting including such classics as The Navy Lark and The Clitheroe Kid which, in the practicality of timings meant that Alistair Cooke must have been on just about in the middle of the comedy shows.

I have managed to listen recently to just a few of the massive archive of output by the man. There is, behind the ramblings, digressions and whimsical anecdotes an actual structure to his offerings which I now realise represented a style well ahead of his time.

The subject matter was always interesting and captivating, particularly in its portrayal of the real lives of real Americans which could otherwise have been disappointing on the basis that my comprehension of Stateside life was founded on the TV shows of cops, maverick private detectives, soldiers of fortune, secret agents, the 6 million dollar man and of course cowboys. Saying that, the complex wanderings and verbal dexterity of Mr Cooke had me lost and confused just about every time but as a 10 year old it was not a matter of life and death.

I can appreciate what he was talking about now in my 50th year because I have accumulated through experience a broader understanding of world events and human behaviour.

Of course I have the great benefit afforded by the combination of hindsight and the mixed messages conveyed by the History Channel and Wikipedia.

This March 30th is the tenth anniversary of the death of Alistair Cooke. I have missed him mainly because of his calm delivery and wonderful tone of voice. He was perfectly suited to his time and he remains, in my mind, an unsullied legend of the airwaves. In another lifetime his talents may have seen him hosting a chat show or a late night political debate or even worse taking up that graveyard shift on a sunday morning sat on a bright red sofa reviewing the newspapers.

Train of Thought

It was one of those long days yesterday. Hull to London.

Every so often I get summoned to attend a mandatory training session in the Capital in order to keep up with legislation, good practice and new developments on the basis that ignorance and naivety is no longer a good excuse for not doing something.

Although many of my colleagues are based north of London it has, with our organisation, been the case that a day seminar in the smoke is a regular on the calendar and so I found myself walking through the early morning drizzle over the mile or so from my house to Hull Station.

The business had been good over the preceding months and so I patted smugly and contentedly the envelope in my jacket pocket that contained the First Class Return tickets.

There is a certain perception and indeed expectation of what comes with paying that bit more for any service but illogically the carriage providing the luxury experience was hitched up directly behind the diesel train and so it was necessary to walk the full length of Platform 12 to get to it. Any shelter afforded by the fantastically engineered vaulted roof of Paragon Station was quickly left behind on that long trek to carriage M.

The less than 20 minute walk from home meant that I was still quite early for the 7am scheduled departure and I hesitated to open the carriage door in case they were still preparing everything for the journey south. The driver or guard or chief steward or someone on the staff or it could have been another passenger told me it was alright to climb aboard and I was soon in the cosy warm cocoon that would form my surroundings for the next three hours.

I was in a window seat at one of the tables that accommodate four persons and with my back to the direction the engine would be going. I seem, with my advancing years,  to have grown out of a long term affliction of chronic travel sickness that made car journeys as a child an unpleasant and frequently sticky and odorous thing so seating arrangements were not a priority.

Stowing my coat in the overhead shelf I started to sort out the contents of my lap top bag that I would need in order to use the captive time to get on with some much needed catch-up work. I had decided to leave the lap top at home based on the wholly illogical fear of a Northerner of becoming the victim of an elaborate scam by a Londoner who, as we all know, are out to get us. After all they have all of our jobs, money and opportunities so why not go for the whole set.

A thick wad of papers emerged from the depths of the larger of the compartments in the bag and I piled them up on the surface of the table. I envisaged in my mind a line to represent what would be my reasonable and proportional territory on the table top, in effect an elongated quadrant. As the train filled up at successive stops I would probably have to concede a few square centimetres to fellow travellers to allow for their own chattels, coffee cups and technology but I would be happy to do that in the name of co-operation and human spirit.

As it was I had the whole table to myself for a good hour before the adjacent seats were taken up by those alighting at those well patronised London commuter towns of Newark and Grantham.

The quality of the ride was abysmal and my scribblings of notes and addendums on the mound of papers was akin to the best hand written script of a Doctor, a half-wit or a drunkard. I am not sure why the carriage bucked and rolled so much. The complimentary coffee with which I was regularly plied had its own eco-system complete with white topped waves which slapped each other as they were thrust up by the motion of the train.

I thought again that being attached directly to the locomotive may have removed any flexibility or dampening influence which would, no doubt, be the case in the cheap and cheerful carriages trailing in a different time zone about a mile behind me. So much for a smooth, effortless and cosseted experience in First Class.

The tannoy did reinforce the class system that paraded itself on the train by reminding the new passengers where everything was in a clear and unambiguous message but with an obviously hidden message to warn the riff raff from wandering into the privileged sections.

I expect that those in carriages A to L were having a great time and could not give a champagne flute for what was going on in the expensive seats. As far as I was concerned I was very much an outsider and imposter but undertaking an essential observation of how the better off conducted themselves and treated others of the same social and economic standing.

No one made an attempt to speak to me and so I returned the same sentiment. There were the usual overheard conversations of how much this years tax payment was, the merits of a Mercedes Benz over a BMW, where the best skiing had been found and the problems associated with running more than one house in more than one country.

I found the eavesdropping quite stressful and tiring mainly out of sympathy for those suffering the privations and inconveniences of wealth and power.

I giggled a bit when the announcement was made that the arrival at Kings Cross would be delayed because of problems with overhead cables in Haringey. A few clipped voices complained about lefties, lesbians and immigrants finding it necessary to steal the copper cables with gay abandon as was, apparently, the inevitable consequence of that disjointed and dysfunctional demographic.

I was quite prepared to have to express my own observations in defence of our multi-cultural and creative society. In one of those rehearsals of musings deep inside the cleverer parts of the brain I certainly sounded succinct and with a well balanced argument that could result in  me receiving a standing ovation in the carriage from like minded humanitarians or even a short slot in front of Jeremy Paxman on the late night TV listings.

Of course, not being a true Northerner (born in Aylesbury in fact) I kept totally quiet and by doing so simply gave affirmation to the misguided doctrines and unfounded suspicions of the chattering and self absorbed elements of our once tolerant and compassionate nation.

Business for Boys

I had an ambition to breed maggots.

I had come across the idea in the pages of some publication such as the Angling Times. It appeared to be quite a straight forward procedure but the sort of thing that, at age 14, you had to get some type of parental approval to do. It did make sense, perfect sense to me. A reasonable proportion of the cost of going fishing on one of the two rivers that ran through our town was for a measure of maggots, expressed in volume at half a pint or if optimistic, a whole pint. These were bought at the tackle shop where the proprietor would, for a pound, disappear into the back of the premises with my small round plastic bait box and return with it full to the brim with squirming life. There was always a musty, damp and organic smell from the grubs which promised well for a day on the riverbank even if, and it was usually the case, I caught nothing at all apart from perhaps my thumb on a barbed hook. If I could become self sufficient I would be quids in.

Maggots were everywhere. I had come across them in a natural setting when finding the rotting carcass of a rabbit deceased from myxomatosis which was epidemic at the time. The combination of death and fresh teeming life although in a fatalistic and morbid way was ultimately fascinating to a young and inquistive mind.

Old and discarded food was also a good place for maggots and more than once a forgotten sandwich from a packed lunch would issue forth a few live wriggling ones or if trapped in a sports bag, the dried almost fossilised remains. A brief headcount of the contents of the bait box, in a brief respite from the intense concentration of watching the fishing float for any actual or imagined interest, always revealed a small number of mahogany coloured maggots which had progressed to the hard shell larvae stage. Of course these were useless in any angling capacity.

The fridge freezer in our garage, packed full of food, somehow became disconnected from the power supply and the door was left slightly ajar. I am not sure how that actually happened but questions were inevitably asked of the younger offspring as there were no ice pops found amongst the otherwise seething and odorous mass of fly blown and maggot infested foodstuffs. It took a long time even after repeat washing and disinfecting to completely eradicate the smell from the appliance.

Anyway, in practice my maggot farm was well into the planning stage. I would require a bucket, enough bran to fill it and the main catalyst of a sheeps heart.

The theory was that, left somewere under cover but outside the house the animal organ would attract the right type of flies and provide an ideal receptacle to nurture their eggs to the maggot stage.The cash crop could then be separated from the bran by using Mothers metal colander.  I managed to get a bucket. I told everyone of my intentions and at every opportunity. It was always met with the same sense of horror just at the thought of it.

Thereafter the scheme fell apart as my parents learned of the intended scheme and how it would operate. Bran and a sheeps heart requiring adult co-operation for purchase were essential elements that never made it into the bucket.

That ended my ambitions in maggot farming.

Ready Steady Go!

I was always running.

That activity formed a large part of my formative years.

I was always willing to offer to do a chore for a family member, neighbour or just any stranger in the street which would allow me to do it at running pace.

Even if there was no request for assistance I would just run for the sake of it.

The fact that my parents had bought a house on a modern estate meant that there was a ready made route down, around, up and back across the maze of streets to the starting point. I never got tired or bored of just doing successive laps whenever I found myself with the urge to do it or just a few minutes of slack time after school, before tea, after tea, between favourite TV programmes or just before my bedtime.

The funny thing about my obsession with running was that I did not really seem to reap any benefits of it.

I was up there in the first few finishers in the winter slog that passed for cross country and similarly in the summer on the freshly marked out running track that took up almost all of the school playing field.

I did compete on behalf of my school at the county championships and my hazy memory, some forty years later, has me streaking away from the rest of the field and breaking the shiny tape on the finishing line. However, I have no trophies or certificates to substantiate this abiding memory nor any photographs of holding such mementos.

My parents have assured me on a number of occasions, when pestered , that they do not have any well preserved faded newspaper clippings showing me on a podium, receiving a commemorative medal or even just a note of the finishing order in very tiny print. I would not have even minded if any form of official record had, as usual spelled my family surname incorrectly.

I was always impressed by the thought of my name being held in the National Archives based on the fact that a copy of every publication, however insignificant, was required to be sent for safe keeping, or had someone just said that and I believed them implicitly.

As that warm fuzzy memory of athletic prowess slowly fades I then have a horrible recollection of being ushered hastily away by the teaching staff and bundled onto the bus as though I have in fact conducted the race completely naked and simultaneously gesticulating rudely to the massed ranks of the junior schools of my local area.

Race Relations

I have stood on a good few street corners looking to catch the attention of approaching motorists.

On other occasions it has been in the middle of nowhere when I have expressed appreciation to complete strangers for a small act of kindness and consideration.

Sometimes I have been upset by a particular attitude or just frustrated by the sheer bloody mindedness of people.

No, I have not turned to streetwalking as a means of supplementing income but all of the above have formed some of my experiences as a volunteer marshall at local cycle races.

It can be a lonely life, especially if sent out to the farthest point on a 10 mile looping circuit. Once there that place becomes the new centre of my universe. There are bits of loose gravel, washed out of field entrances, to be swept away so as not to cause punctures or potential for a dramatic loss of traction by one or more of the participating riders. Other bits of debris such as the ubiquitous McDonalds wrappers whose path out into the remote countryside rivals the great migration of the Housemartin pose a hazard if becoming airborne and wrapped around chainset, gears or wheels and have to be hunted down. Nails, screws and shards of glass usually originating from the tailgate of a fast moving builders van as it takes to the country roads at indecently rapid speed are common finds from the initial recconnoitre of my new domain.

I check my watch regularly trying to estimate the time of the first passing by of the race although the preceding vehicles with their headlights blazing and flashing roof mounted orange lights give ample notice of the imminent arrival of the large group of riders on that first lap.

I am in charge of a 'T' junction where a minor country road meets the course of the race and take up my position in the mouth of the junction in my high-viz jacket with arms outstretched to form a bit of a presence to bring any local traffic to a halt. The race sweeps by in parambulatory style until the real business of competition begins sometime on the second or third lap.

Behind the odour of liniment and massage oil that hangs heavily in the air come the following cars of the Race Officials, the Service team with roof rack draped with spare wheels and bikes, a few enthusiastic mums and dads and then the long slowly moving line of the hapless motorists trapped momentarily by the entourage. A few of them with a basic knowledge of cycling have enjoyed the sights and sounds of a large field of riders but most of them just feel aggrieved, inconvenienced and annoyed at being delayed on their journeys.

One in every hundred or so drivers may feel obliged to shout and swear at me just for the sheer hell of it. It is not always those on four wheels who are abusive and downright nasty. A gal on a horse rode up to me screaming for the race to be stopped as it was upsetting her obviously highly strung animal.

Other races have been based on a tighter circuit in a town centre. This introduces a completely different set of scenarios. There are those who want to cross the road at the same time as the riders thunder by and ignore the barriers, ropes the blowing of warning whistles and even the attendant Policeman on official duty. Dogs also have little comprehension of bicycle racing and can be quite unpredictable if spooked by the noise and crowd.

A few city centre circuits effectively form an obstacle for those out on a boozy pub crawl and as a Race Marshall there are pressures to act as a counsellor, agony aunt and best friend to those well under the influence.

There are some for whom coming across their first proper bike race is a catalyst for a barrage of questions about the sport, tactics, why cyclists shave their legs, how many gears do the bikes have, is Mark Cavendish here? and so on.

I don't mind attempting to explain the intricacies of a sport that has captured my interest for the last 30 years if it arouses fresh interest in a potential new fan or participant.

For this and many other reasons I volunteered to help out on the 2014 Tour de France opening stages in Yorkshire, UK and just yesterday I was told that my application had been accepted amongst the 10,000 others who had the same urge.

It is the big league, the Premier Division, the big daddy of all races but I feel that I have had a good training out on those inhospitable back roads and look forward to well, more of the same.

Fashion over Function

On the one hand you need to look as cool and sporty as possible but at the same time make contingencies on the clothing front  for every eventuality of British weather that may befall within the matter of a few minutes.

That was certainly the case yesterday when the characteristics of all four seasons descended during the second major cycle ride of the year.

The first mile or so, on the byways through the old railway courses of the City, was in bright sunshine, suspiciously so for what was still the early part of Spring.

I felt a bit overdressed in what I call my 'Precious Mckenzie' all in one lycra bib suit and leggings (as styled by the Olympic Power Lifting Champion that I recall from the 1970's), three upper layers and a team issue gilet with all of the old sponsors logos from about 1995.

The combination of a fast pace borne out of enthusiasm and that feeling of well being that comes from exercising in the open air meant that I had quite a sweat on. It was however possible to balance out the perspiration with the flow of air through the multiple layers and I felt reasonably comfortable. The shelter afforded to the cycle path through the corridor of tightly packed terraced housing and the fence panels at the bottom of adjoining gardens kept any potential hindrance from wind at a minimum although I could see a few Cross of St George Flags rippling and cracking on their flagstaffs in what, beyond my route, was a veritable gale blowing.

The spring turned summer ended for me as the track left the built up suburbs. Into the full face of the wind I felt as though I had, over a few short feet, crossed into the inhospitable climate of an autumn day. I was now feeling the chill but resisted stopping to retrieve my windproof jacket which was tightly compressed in my backpack amongst the spare inner tubes, repair and tool kits, energy gel sachets and my lucky Ordnance Survey Map.

If I just kept going I should be able to progress until my route took me off the collision course with the stiff north-easterly in a sort of tacking movement. That sensation of not battling the wind as soon as I turned west was a mighty relief and it was possible to catch my breath and restore a bit of composure to my forward motion. I had a quick swig of water from the bottle clamped in a cage on the seat tube and felt totally refreshed. It was not as hot as in the previous hour and therefore felt more like the spring day that I had expected.

The following few miles on country roads were gently undulating amongst clumps of wild daffodils that would likely as not disappear in the run up to Mothering Sunday. There was little traffic about which was an unexpected bonus as usually it was a case of having to concentrate for the sound of speeding cars hidden by blind bends or careering along behind until a last minute slowing down or a near miss as they attempted to squeeze by without wanting to  dirty their tyres by mounting the shallow, wide and amenable verge.

I reached the junction with the busy coast road and crossed over onto the new tarmac cycle path. I do not mind riding in traffic but there is something to be recommended for fully separating two and four wheeled vehicles and I was able to bowl along quite happily towards the ring road of the big market town.
Ominously the attractive blue sky was darkening farther west in the direction that I had planned and a few approaching cars, with headlights on, hinted that I would soon be back in wintry conditions.
The rain began in a few probing droplets, taunting and teasing me to stop and put on that jacket but I resisted and pedalled on. It was a foolish choice. Within a couple of minutes the air temperature had dropped a few degrees and I was enveloped in an almost twilight aura as the resurgent wind brought with it a thick low cloud of biting rain and sleet. There is a point where clothes and skin are so saturated that it would not be of any benefit to put on a rainproof layer. The damage had already been done.

I thought about taking shelter in a bus stop or under the overhang of a building but surprise, surprise no such refuge was in sight. Riding with, rather than against. the tidal wave of weather seemed the only option but it would inevitably add a couple of extra miles to my ride at a time when my energy reserves were being quickly depleted.

The enforced detour took me on a meandering route through the streets of the town and gave some respite from the bitter wet. As rapidly as the storm had hit it diminished and I was able to resume the original westerly journey.

Outside the small shop in the next settlement I stocked up with a bottle of glucose infused liquid washing down the gloopy mass of chocolate, caramel and peanuts of a Snickers bar. I now felt a bit poorly from stuffing my face but knew that I would benefit from the sugar kick in the next thirty minutes or so.

The rain started up again. It was time to get out the jacket not so much to keep me dry anymore but for the flourescent high-viz to give me a bit of visual presence to other road users as the murky light drew in.
The brief refuelling stop had caused my limbs to stiffen up and I made a few unsightly stretches and lunges on the public pavement in front of the Post Office and using the hand rail on the ramp access to keep balance.
Leaving behind the village I was completely exposed to the elements and more so in making across field and rough tracks.

The rain turned from liquid to icy solid as the weather system closed in on me. Hard frozen hail stones sand blasted the right side of my face as they pelted horizontally in the resumed gale force winds. It was painful on the first impact followed by just plain uncomfortable as melted ice ran down my neck. My 'Precious McKenzie' leggings drooped around the sodden groin area and every rotation on the pedals put more of the saturated lycra against my skin. It was a most unpleasant experience. The depths of winter had arrived to complete the four seasons in one day, or in the space of just an afternoon.

The coldness and chill persisted for the next hour of riding. The spray from the road had caused the front tyre to throw streaky muddy stains on my face. The same effect from the back tyre in the absence of mudguards left a go fast stripe of black grime on the broad lurid yellow of my waterproof.

By the time I reached the city after that tiring 60 minutes of continuous damp riding the sky had cleared to bright blue once again. Pedestrians emerging to sun worship in shorts and 'T' shirts grimaced at what appeared to be a coal miner returning on his bike  from a long shift at the pit face. I was just happy to be close to home. After the initial expressions of fear at the ghoulish riding figure People began to smile in my direction.I think now that it was just their reaction to my dazzlingly accentuated  pearly white teeth and their fond recollections of watching the Black and White Minstrel Show in their younger days.

Foot in The Door Tactics

A doorbell is heard to ring. There  is a man in a slick suit at the front door.

“Morning Madam”

“No thank you, you’re an Encyclopaedia Salesman aren’t you? We don’t want anything”

“No Madam. I’m a door to door doctor, dentist and optician”

“But there’s nothing wrong with me”

“It’s my job to find out”

“But I go to Dr Smithers. I don’t think he’ll like it if I………”

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you a quick look over and nobody will know the difference”

“Well, I s’pose it won’t do any harm”

“Right, close your eyes and tell me what is written on this sheet of paper”

“I can’t see”

“Oh, I’ve only been here a minute and already I have detected a sight problem”

“But, But,”

“Yes, Yes”

“But, But, But”

“And a stutter, a stutter. Now put this thermometer in your mouth”

Muffled sound of orally inserted thermometer

“Oh dear. Just as I thought”

“Doctor, give it to me straight. What’s wrong with me”

“Well, 50 years ago it was only serious but now this is fatal”

“What”

“Well, I’ll have to give you a word association test. Just tell me the first word that comes into your head after each word I say. Ready? ME”

“I”

“TREE”

“WOOD”

“HATE”

“LIKE”

“STRAW”

“’AY”

“TELEVISION”

“SET”

“ON”

“OFF”

“BOOKS”

“ENCYCLOPAEDIA’S”

“Now all together in one sentence”

“I wood like a set off encyclopaedias”

“Lovely, Madam, Sign here, Thank you very much indeed, Good day to you!”

 

(Source. The Betty Witherspoon Show from 11th March 1974. Salesman played by Kenneth Williams, Housewife by Miriam Margoyles)

Was Albert Einstein a Yorkshireman?

Try speaking these wise words in t' broad Yorkshire accent and t' trials and tribulations of the world will gradually fall into place and make ultimate sense.....

(Appreciation to who must be an honorary citizen of Yorkshire, Albert Einstein)


"T'magination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth t' evolution."

"I, at any rate, am convinced that He (God) does not throw dice."

"The important thing is not t' stop questioning; curiosity has its own reason for existing."

"Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind."

"Two things are infinite: t' universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about t' universe."

"Falling in love is not at all the most stupid thing that people do — but gravitation cannot be held responsible for it."

"T' most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science."

"Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new."

"Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value"

"The secret to creativity is knowing how t' hide yer sources."

"The difference 'tween genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits."

"Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character."

"Pure mathematics is, in its way, t' poetry of logical ideas."

"Nature shows us only t' tail of the lion. But I do not doubt that the lion belongs to it even though he cannot at once reveal himself because of his enormous size."

"Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."

"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. The mediocre mind is incapable of understanding the man who refuses to bow blindly to conventional prejudices and chooses instead to express his opinions courageously and honestly."

"It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with problems longer."

"My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind."

"Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding."

"I never think of t' future. It comes soon enough."

"Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics, I can assure you that mine are all greater"

"In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep."

"The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible."

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."

"Truth is what stands the test of experience."

"Life is like riding t' bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving"

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

"Human knowledge and skills alone cannot lead humanity to a happy and dignified life. Humanity has every reason to place the proclaimers of high moral standards and values above the discoverers of objective truth."

"Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions."

"Common sense is nothing more than a deposit of prejudices laid down by t' mind before you reach eighteen."

The Wisdom of Homer Simpson

He is a moralist, a sage, the thinking man's non thinking hero, extraordinary human, role model to those who should know better and he can also come up with some classic comedic lines. Here is a collection of what are arguably the best of Homer's gifts to the world...........................

Operator! Give me the number for 911!

Oh, so they have internet on computers now!

Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like...love!

Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand.

I'm normally not a praying man, but if you're up there, please save me Superman.

Son, if you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now quiet! They're about to announce the lottery numbers.

Well, it's 1 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids.

Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'

Marge, don't discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals! Except the weasel.

Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?

You know, boys, a nuclear reactor is a lot like a woman. You just have to read the manual and press the right buttons.

Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.

When will I learn? The answer to life's problems aren't at the bottom of a bottle, they're on TV!

Son, when you participate in sporting events, it's not whether you win or lose: it's how drunk you get.

I'm going to the back seat of my car, with the woman I love, and I won't be back for ten minutes!

[Meeting Aliens] Please don't eat me! I have a wife and kids. Eat them!

What do we need a psychiatrist for? We know our kid is nuts.

Marriage is like a coffin and each kid is another nail.

Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.

The only monster here is the gambling monster that has enslaved your mother! I call him Gamblor, and it's time to snatch your mother from his neon claws!

When I look at the smiles on all the children's faces, I just know they're about to jab me with something.

I'm having the best day of my life, and I owe it all to not going to Church!

Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.

I'm not a bad guy! I work hard, and I love my kids. So why should I spend half my Sunday hearing about how I'm going to Hell?

Getting out of jury duty is easy. The trick is to say you're prejudiced against all races.

It's not easy to juggle a pregnant wife and a troubled child, but somehow I managed to fit in eight hours of TV a day.

Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.

I want to share something with you: The three little sentences that will get you through life. Number 1: Cover for me. Number 2: Oh, good idea, Boss! Number 3: It was like that when I got here.

Oh, people can come up with statistics to prove anything, Kent. 14% of people know that.

Remember that postcard Grandpa sent us from Florida of that Alligator biting that woman's bottom? That's right, we all thought it was hilarious. But, it turns out we were wrong. That alligator was sexually harrassing that woman.

Old people don't need companionship. They need to be isolated and studied so it can be determined what nutrients they have that might be extracted for our personal use.

How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?

Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover.

Homer no function beer well without.

I've always wondered if there was a god. And now I know there is -- and it's me.

Kill my boss? Do I dare live out the American dream?

If something goes wrong at the plant, blame the guy who can't speak English.

I'm never going to be disabled. I'm sick of being so healthy.

I like my beer cold, my TV loud and my homosexuals flaming.

Alcohol is a way of life, alcohol is my way of life, and I aim to keep it.

All my life I've had one dream, to achieve my many goals.

Dad, you've done a lot of great things, but you're a very old man, and old people are useless.

But Marge, what if we chose the wrong religion? Each week we just make God madder and madder.

I think Smithers picked me because of my motivational skills. Everyone says they have to work a lot harder when I'm around.

Dear Lord.. The gods have been good to me. For the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect just the way it is. So here's the deal: You freeze everything the way it is, and I won't ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. OK, deal.

That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!

Beer: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.

If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing

I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!

'To Start Press Any Key'. Where's the ANY key?

Boys Own Collections

A selection of a few collectable things for the lonely, geeky, desperate and plain stupid. Unfortunately, they come from my own archives.

 Inside the bottle bank

Postcard from the North East

Family of Tractors

Family Wellies

 Stamps (Gave up)

Footie programmes

 Shop window display

Time Machine

I have spent a good few hours today poking around in an 18th Century house in the middle of town. It is currently in a bit of a sorry state but soon to be sympathetically renovated and refurbished into a private residence. It was officially placed on the Statutory Listings in 1969 mainly to preserve it from demolition and clearance rather than it representing a particularly striking or meritous example of its genre. The description at the time of its first Listing included a rather ominously sounding asbestos roof. This usually indicates a property hastily patched up. In more recent years the local council took it over, usually through their compulsory purchase powers if an existing owner is either unable or unwilling to maintain it adequately. A dedicated commitment to repair saw a new roof and the positioning of a number of structural tie bars through the external walls to restrain a tendency for an old building to sag and try to fall down. Original features were retained amongst them sash cord operated window frames, the portico, fanlight and heavy panelled door spilling out directly onto a narrow and busy town street, ornate wrought iron brackets supporting authentic timber gutters, corbelled and dentillated coursing behind and the huge and multi-potted chimney stacks. The frontage has a thick stucco render coating which when new and fresh will have been quite painful to the eyes in bright summer light but is now a bit drab, discoloured and when tapped with bare knuckles only just hanging on to the brickwork underneath. A render finish can be a applied on a voluntary basis, a bit like the decision in the 1970's to stone clad a modern house but more likely to be enforced to cloak and conceal eroded, pitted, weathered and unsightly brickwork. The property is double fronted and the windows are arranged with symmetry but only because of a filled middle panel. This could be reflective of an attempt to avoid window tax in the early years after its Georgian emergence or a later money saving measure if an old window fell into disrepair or into the street. The sash windows are multi-paned with sixteen small panels made up of hand floated glass of unbelievable fragility. In a certain light there is a distortion to the viewed image from small, sealed and permament air bubbles. Other panes are cracked, fractured or have slipped from the linseed oil putty bed leaving large draughty gaps. The long side wall onto a cobbled lane is rendered and unpainted which accentuates the wide range of cracks, fissures and flaws. A few windows openings have been bricked up and others have a noticeable sag as the concealed lintels, usually rough hewn beams if at all, have softened from age, rot , decay and woodworm. The house forms part of a tight group from the same era. The side lane leads to the house and stable-block or a former dairyman, also currently in need of renovation. This links into the old property above a foot passage way ducking under the vaulted underside of a chimney stack. The back of the house is persistently damp from centuries of being shadowed from warming sunlight. At some time during its ownership the council converted the house into two self contained flats with access to the upper floor from a very corroded and unstable looking metal fire escape. Inside a few character features survive. Covings, once sharp and defined are dulled from successive paint layers or past leaks. The window recesses show off the substantial solid thickness of the old walls and are flanked by moulded panelling now fixed in place but formerly forming part of a hinged opening shuttering. Floorboards have been removed through the ground floor in favour of a durable solid floor but unfortunately overlaid in a modern Marley tile known to contain that wonder material asbestos. The original staircase is crudely walled up and enclosed but appears capable of restoration. First floors are a mixture of old pitch pine boards, as wide as ships planking, modern tongued and grooved and sheets of ply and chipboard. Two flats mean a duplication of facilities and it takes a bit of imagination to work out a viable return to a single dwelling. A surprise is the attic. At one time a large room for servants it has, following re-roofing been fully enclosed as any dormers of glass tiles have been lost. It would make a good room if only daylight could reach its farthest corners. By now I am covered in a fine film of dust and cobwebs, I have a black sooty streak across my face where I have scratched my nose in a thinking moment , scuffed shoes and filthy hands but I have that feeling of satisfaction and contentment that comes with an interesting job.

Not a Conservatory

A verandah or veranda.

It is a very rarely used word nowadays. I would challenge a cross section of the population under a certain age, if quizzed on the word, to actually know what it is.

It is a strange word, one of those of indistinct derivation but claimed to come from Hindustani, Bengali, Hindi or even Persian although adopted undoubtedly  in England as a borrowed bit of language from the days of Empire.

There are many perceptions of what a verandah is.

In original form it is described as an open sided walkway or portico which is all well and good in a sub tropical climate to keep a barrier of cooled air and channel any faint movements of air but inevitably its adaptation to the inclement British weather involved it being an enclosure or a lean-to structure.

I speak from first hand experience in that my formative years were largely conducted in such an addition to the family home.

It stood against the back wall of the modest semi detached house and served as a play-room, day-room, a sun room on rare occasions (although I suspect it actually faced north and was shaded apart from where the passage of the sun just caught the eastern and western end panels) and a place in which to be mighty afraid of the dark in.

The latter forms a very strong memory in that the house was at the end of a cul de sac roadway and bordered on two sides onto open agricultural fields. The capture of the seemingly glowing red coals of the pair of eyes above a long foxes snout in the headlights of my parents' car as it pulled up on the driveway instilled great fear and trepidation about entering the verandah after dark even if the retrieval of a toy or a book was of paramount importance. In the imagination of a young lad, as I was; the same fox would be watching the house, perhaps plotting to carry me off or at best licking its lips in anticipation of a feast on human flesh.

The structure must have been of some age as it was already well established when we moved in. It was a basic framework of timber uprights, horizontal struts and bracings and infilled with shiplap boarding. This was faded and blackened in equal proportion from weathering of the creosote coating and the persistence of moisture and condensation in such a draughty space. It was in an era when nobody bothered with insulation or measures to combat global warming.

In a stiff breeze any loose laid papers or wheeled childrens brick trolleys or toy vehicles could be seen moving along under wind induced momentum. As for the protection from above, the roof, it was made up of a number of flimsy, clear corrugated plastic sheets which flexed in stormy conditions, drip leaked in the lightest of summer squalls and just gave up and collapsed under the faintest dusting of snow or ice.

In all, our verandah was not much more than a semi-rigid tent like appendage and yet we, as a family, spent countless hours in it and enjoyed its eccentricities and instabilities.

Bike Maintenance for Budding Boy Bands

I was tired and, after the first proper long distance cycle ride this year, keen to just get home and rest weary legs, stiff shoulders and a more than inflammed nether region what with a new saddle not yet broken in. I could remember the Yellow Pages Advert from 1985 with a concerned father watching his son ride off on his first racing bike and saying in a strong Yorkshire accent "I was right about that saddle".

The old railway track, now part of a long distance route from Hornsea on the east coast to Southport on the other side of the country was busy with family groups on two wheels or accompanied by dogs and push chairs just enjoying the open air of a bright spring afternoon.

The first leg of the ride from Hull to the seaside had been a breeze even so early in the season and I was pleased with what appeared to be a reasonable level of fitness for my 50 plus years. The reason for this was obvious however when starting from the Promenade on the return ride because I was having difficulty standing up straight in a howling westerly gale.

I was not looking forward to the next 20 miles or so.

Earlier on just as I was leaving the outskirts of Hull a group of 6 teenagers could be heard behind me in typical high spirits, singing, shouting and with no sense of self consciousness about such things. They were on bikes and gradually making progress on closing the gap to me. There is nothing better on a bike ride to see someone up ahead on the road or track and mark them down as a target to catch and overtake. Of course, you have to make a broad judgement on whether they could be caught and this is based on their clothing style and pedalling style. For example, a high-viz jacket could be either a worker going home after a long shift and eminently capable of being overtaken or a seasoned and wily veteran plodding along but with a good average speed. I was fooled once with the sight in the distance of a very elderly man stooped over his handlebars but try as I might I could not make up any ground on him. It was only, some miles later when I saw him leaving a newsagents with a pack of cigarettes that I realised that he was on one of those powered cycles.

I like to think that I might be perceived as being in the wily category when viewed from behind whereas to the group of lads I probably resembled a portly middle aged gent and therefore a legitimate target to be chased down and overtaken.

In a good strategic move I pulled over at a bridge parapet at one of the many land drains that criss-cross the lowlands east of Hull and pretended to fiddle with my mechanical bits and pump up my tyres.

The group whizzed past and I heard one of them remark that " it looks like that mister stole that bike" as if it was ridiculous for me to be in possession of a bright white and fancy mountain bike.

I kept my head bowed so as not to provoke more hurtful comments but glimpsed the most rag-tag assortment of bikes from pink girls to jump bike, small wheeled shopper, racer and commuter versions. All probably borrowed with haste from sisters, younger brothers, mother, dad and neighbour to capitalise on a day out in nice weather.

As well as the variety of machines what struck me was the accompanying soundtrack of wheels rubbing on seat stays, sticky and squeaky brake blocks, creaky crank sets, stiff and jumping chains and general rattling of loose lugs and fittings.

This gave me a bit of reassurance in that there was no way in which that collection of boneshakers and write-offs could possibly make it all the way to Hornsea. The cacophonous posse were soon out of sight up the old railway course as I set off at my own, brisk but not too taxing pace.

Surprisingly I came across them within a couple of miles in between the old platforms and converted and occupied station house of a rural village. They had stopped to discard clothing to keep cool, have a collective wee-wee and have mock battles amongst themselves with fallen branches, bricks and stones. I do not think that they even noticed me as I cruised past with smooth pedalling style. Frequent glances back over my shoulder did not indicate that they were in close pursuit again.

At the seafront kiosk I treated myself to a cone of chips, four deep fried doughnut rings and a polystyrene cup of sweet, sweet coffee. The extra calories would be sorely needed into the head wind for the return. I convinced myself that the carbohydrates, sugars and fats would be well out of my system by the time I got home. There was nothing else open on the Promenade and so I expected the lads to make a bee-line here when they reached the town.

They were no-show.

As I resumed the long distance path I fully expected to be confronted by their arrival in an almost boy band tribute, singing and in high spirits. It was not until I was in sight of the old rural station that I realised that the group had got no further than that.

Something mechanical must have befallen one or more of the two wheeled wrecks. Sure enough, a bike was upside down on the cinder path surrounded by the lads and with an old man with a toolbox in attendance. He can only have come from the old station house given the remoteness of the surroundings.

Conflicted voices in my head muttered simultaneously, "ride on regardless", "stop and ask if they need help", you don't have to stop", "ask if they have tools", "keep going chump", "what if it was you?". My more considerate conscience won through and I pulled up to see if I could do anything.

Ironically, it was the better of the bikes that had problems. A seriously buckled back wheel lay half in and out of the rear stays. The tyre was bald so as to see the reinforcement where the tread should have been. The chain was twisted and wedged around the axle. I could not see that there had been any gear mechanism for some time, nor working brakes. One good thing in the interests of transmission was that the chain was very well oiled. The downside was that in manhandling it to clear the wheel most of the sticky gunk went on my hands.

It took three of us to prize open the rear stays, re-align the back wheel and tighten up the bolts on the axle. The chain, doubled up and contorted had to be unraveled like an arthritic snake.

After considerable effort the bike looked more like a bike.

I would like to say all of those hours spent under the bedclothes studying repair manuals and "how-to" books was successfully put into practice in this instance but sadly, the buckled wheel was past salvation.

It would be a very long walk, or rather bike drag back to Hull for the unfortunate cyclist after all.

The group were appreciative of my efforts but looked a bit disappointed at me as though I should be a miracle worker, what with my flashy bike, fancy gear and high viz rain jacket. I like to think that, perhaps, If we were on the same path again at some time in the not too distant future they would just let me ride off into the distance, respectful and all that.

A Case of Arson Around

There is a certain thrill in childhood of being allowed to strike a match, in particular that first ever one almost like a rite of passage in being trusted with hazardous things. This may be to light the advent candle in church at Christmas or multiple candles on a celebratory cake. In the days pre-electronic ignition of cookers it was necessary to use a match and judge when to move the naked flame into the spouting forth gas. Too soon and there was not enough to react with. Too late and there was the prospect of a large explosion and a burnt hand or equally from a rapidly diminishing handhold on the wood below the sulphurous tip. Both outcomes involved panic and anxiety from child and supervising parent in varying degrees.

Of course there was experimentation with other cruder methods of starting the combustion process.

The clashing together of two flinty stones was a sure way to get a spark. However, transferring this to an actual flame was more difficult and involved very close proximity to a process that could blind or scar permanently. If not suffering injury there was a distinct possibility of passing out from all the huffing and puffing if there appeared to be even the faintest smouldering of dry grass and foliage under the stone fragments.

If time and effort were not an issue then rubbing two sticks together could be fruitful. This could be done by cutting out a small niche in a flattish piece of wood which we will call A) and whittling the other , henceforth known as B) with the trusty pocket knife into a sharp point. A pile of dry vegetation we will  call C). Then by swiftly rotating B) between the palms of the hands whilst nestling in A) sufficient friction could , in theory, be produced to cause a combustion reaction with the hastily distributed C). A high tech version to reduce blisters and splinters would be using a stick with string like a violin bow to generate the spinning action. I tried this method on a few occasions but with no actual success.

On a day of strong solar activity, ie the peak of summer, a magnifying glass was always a sure-fire way of getting a sure fire. What better way to wile away a few hours in the holidays by burning through a few leaves on a bush, tormenting an insect or trying to scorch your initials into the sole of your bovver boots. For the record, I was nowhere near the allotment when it was burnt to a cinder on a very sunny afternoon one July.

Familiarisation with the physics behind the creation of fire was very useful in the pursuit of Scouting and many a warming, sustaining and useful blaze formed the highpoint of a camping expedition.  In later years there was no intimidation in the igniting of a barbecue under the watchful eyes and rumbling stomachs of dependants, relatives, friends and neighbours. There is no greater thrill to an adult male than having a marvellously smokey and ultimately anti-social bonfire in the garden. In such ways setting fires has positive and happy associations.

To a youngster with a sense of right and wrong and a Jiminy Cricket inner conscience all of the initial exhilaration of playing with fire can easily be rationalised and dismissed as being anything worthy of obsession or unhealthy fascination. That is not the case with some individuals.

Take the dilemna of many a budding property developer. A beautiful and historic building is acquired with a view to renovation and refurbishment for maximisation of gross development value and by definition, profit. Unfortunately the entreprenurial proposals fall foul of the Town Planners, Conservationists, Civic Society and a few meddling and misguided doo-gooders. The project may not now be viable and the prospect of being lumbered with a liability, a cross between a dinosaur and a pale coloured pachyderm and a money pit becomes a looming reality. This is where the small boy who has not been able to rationalise and process the setting things on fire thing becomes a developers best friend.

In our town one such historic and architecturally splendid former warehouse fettered by the fact that it was purpose built as a warehouse and not a block of high value apartments myteriously burnt down to its footings, casually, gleefully and alledgedly observed by a small, twitchy and excitable lad on the latest and most expensive Raleigh Chopper bicycle.

Somewhat cynically but ultimately predictable was the fact that the new purpose built residential block which emerged on the prime site was named 'Phoenix Court'.

(reproduced from exactly 2 years ago as Ladybird, Ladybird)

Albert and Harold

An interesting scam was worked into the script of todays BBC 4Extra broadcast of the classic comedy duo of Steptoe and Son.

The original production entitled "The Three Feathers" was from February 1972 in its radio from but from two years earlier on TV featuring the trademark sarcasm, wit, back biting, profanities, insults and wonderful political incorrectness portrayed by Wilfrid Brambell as Albert, old man Steptoe and Harry H Corbett as his long suffering but self defeating son, Harold.

The crackly and variable sound quality only adds to the authenticity of the characters and the Oil Drum Lane location. Even though I remember watching the TV shows they are, in my recollection, always in stark black and white. This, I realise was down to the fact that my parents did not give in to getting a colour television until about 1985. Nevertheless the entertainment value was in no way diminished.

The plot in this episode centres on the return to the Rag and Bone Yard by an excited and very enthusiastic Harold. On his rounds he has bought a commode at a knock-down price of seven pounds from a seemingly naïve housewife plus a few balloons as sweetener for her children.

Harold's attendance at a Greater London Council Nightschool class on identifying antiques has paid off as he recognises the quite modest piece of furniture as having a significantly higher value than he shelled out. Old man Steptoe also recognises a quality piece but he is aghast to be shown a glazed ceramic piss pot under the exquisitely upholstered seat. The potty has a fleur de lys motif and Harold speculates that it must have belonged to the Prince Regent, possibly from the Brighton Pavilion residence. His paltry outlay is expected to be rewarded with a pay day at auction of at least £200.

Harold is a dreamer and in his mind he has already spent the windfall on a selection of haute couture and goods as befitting the perception of the gentleman what he is.

There is a knock at the door and an irate man enters the scruffy living room. He is the husband of the duped housewife and furious at the disreputable business practice of the scrap traders. Harold is adamant that he will not give the commode back and so the visitor offers to buy it back for £150. A cheque is written out for that amount. The man insists that he will send specialist furniture removers within a couple of days rather than Harold attempting to return it directly to his home.

The departure of the man and the beneficial deal done results in considerable mirth and celebration from Harold although his Old Man is strangely quiet as he disapproves of the whole affair.

Another caller at the door announces himself with a double barrelled name as a Rome based antiques dealer touring the area to acquire stock to crate up and sell to the Italian market. He looks around nonchalantly dismissing the Capo de Monte and Clarice Cliff before focusing in on the Regency Commode. He is in raptures over it claiming it as one of the best examples he has ever seen.

There is no question that he must have it. The offer is £600 if no-one else is interested. Harold comes clean by disclosing that it is sold but the other party are not really that keen and are highly likely to pull out. The offer stands but dependant on it still being available in a couple of days time and subject to provenance as to its use under a royal bottom. Handshakes appear to seal the transaction.

The episode tracks forward over 48 hours which have been eventful in the Tatters Yard. Harold has placated the angry husband by handing over £300 but in the knowledge that he already has £150 in the bank so he is only £150 down. The promise of a £600 receipt is still enticing and even though the affluent dealer has not returned to honour the purchase Harold remains buoyant and confident of carrying through the coup.

The only downer comes from Old Man Steptoe. His world weary experience has made him uneasy of everything that has transpired and his own investigations have revealed a number of critical issues. The cheque for the £150 is bouncing around the bank account. An independent furniture expert has declared the commode to be a very recently crafted reproduction and indeed one of 14 similar he has seen in as many days.

Harold is understandably incandescent at being the victim of a scam where the perpetrators have included the housewife, her kids, the alleged husband and the toff dealer. He sets off from the premises clutching the potty determined to exact mischief with it on the GLC on whom he attributes all of the blame for his misfortune. Cue the theme music and raucous applause from the live studio audience. A real classic.

The Outer Rim

Then there is the old joke.

A chap is sorting out the personal effects and papers of a recently deceased relative. Amongst the old books, reams of documents and the usual collected items of someone who has lived a long and active life he comes across a receipt from a garment repair shop. It is dated more than 10 years ago. Intrigued he reads through the handwritten note and it relates to a very smart and bespoke tailored casual jacket that he remembered admiring in his own younger days. The note recorded the need for a minor repair to the stitching which had become a bit worn. As a beneficiary in the estate he fancies his chance to inherit the classic piece of clothing. To his knowledge the business is still in the same location in the High Street and so a couple of days later he pays a visit with the receipt. The proprietor of many decades standing recognises his own scrawling script on the faded ticket. In answer to the anxious enquiry as to whether the jacket is still on the premises after such a long time the shopkeeper shouts through to the back work room to that effect. An equally old and frail voice comes out of the gloomy space "Tell the man it will be ready a week on wednesday".

I had this tall story in mind upon my return just this week to Osbourne Street, Hull.

It is a non-descript street just off the busy city centre, built up with a hostel for the homeless, two storey modern flats, a large Age Concern drop in centre and the Model Dwellings, built in 1862 as a means of  "improving the conditions of the labouring classes".

However, about fifteen years ago the streetscene was quite different. In the position now occupied by the town-house type flats there used to be a pair of shops with traditional ornate wooden porticos around large plate glass windows. Even further back in time there would have been many more similar shops serving a densely populated urban population but somehow only these had survived the inevitable process of inner-city decay and renewal.

The left hand side premises was occupied and traded from by Mr Eric Suffill as a bicycle repair shop.

I found myself easing open the door with one hand to the cacophonous sound of a bell whilst trying to negotiate a way through clutching a pair of bike wheels in the other.

It was my first visit to the renowned Eric's place. In the folklore of the city cycling fraternity he was a legend. Granted, his rather aloof and strange demeanour to customers would not have endeared him to anyone but his reputation for straightening up a mangled set of alloy wheels was unrivalled.

The shop had very little actual stock on display and indeed casual passers by may not even have realised the type of business conducted from it. In all, there was a small selection of second hand bikes, miscellaneous bike frames, some basic accessories of tyres, inner tubes and puncture repair kits and tied up with string a few personally assembled lightweight racing wheels. The latter were highly sought after and prized in that when sheathed in a gossamer tubular tyre a few seconds could be shaved off a personal best in a road time trial.

The former looked like a pile of old junk but many a cyclist would stand and drool at the quality of the frame lug work, the glossy enamelling and the magic names of Bianchi, Coppi, Mercian and Curly Hetchins. These were truly classic marques, timeless and rare.

Eric shuffled in from the workshop at the back of the ground floor in his brown, almost greengrocer-like coat. He resembled a rather shifty black marketeer on first impression. I explained that I had lost a recent encounter with a large pothole in the road and displayed the warped and distorted rims of what had been, up until that unfortunate incident, my most expensive set of wheels. He spun them on their axles in turn to verify my claim. The gyroscopic effect under rotation had almost broken my wrists but his battle hardened tendons were more than a match for the laws of physics. "They'll be ready in a couple of weeks. Ring ahead first to check" were the only words spoken in our meeting.

I am not really sure what transpired in my life to prevent me from checking on Eric's progress with the rebuilding of the wheels but I seem to have changed job, moved out of the area, got married, had a family and eventually returned to Hull in what seemed like a few minutes but was in fact a period of 10 years.

I had thought about the wheels a lot in that decade. The aforementioned life events had meant that my cycling had taken a bit of a sabbatical and so I was not desperate to reclaim the items. It was only in a quiet moment in a particular working day in the central city area that I decided to call in at the shop. Perhaps I should, as Eric had asked, rung ahead first because as I approached Osbourne Street the premises looked closed.

It was only upon standing in front of the shop door that I saw the official looking notice stating that Suffill Cycles was in Receivership and any claims on the company were to be made to the appointed Commercial Agents. I rang the number on the rather sun bleached typed sheet and after being passed around a few faceless voices I was put through to someone who knew something about the case.

They recounted that the business had actually been closed for at least 24 months and the pair of shops were shortly to be demolished for redevelopment as flats. I asked nervously about the stock and was told that everything had been sold at auction by the distressed estate. Apparently the required advertisement period for the bankruptcy in the local press had solicited a few to reclaim their property so as to avoid its inclusion in the disposal of assets. I had not been living in the distribution area of the Hull Daily Mail and was oblivious to the opportunity of re-acquiring my possessions.

My wheels would not be ready a week on wednesday as in the old joke rather someone else would be using them to gain that previously elusive two seconds from their best time over the ten mile distance up and down the by-pass.