I am just catching up on a backlog of reading and came across this epic story.................................
There was once a King who possessed a vast fortune in silver.
No previous ruler of the kingdom had amassed as much.
As always with great wealth comes a fear that it will be stolen or otherwise diminished and so the King commissioned construction of a huge square shaped stone walled vault with one side forming part of the external wall of his stronghold palace.
The builder was envious of the wealth of the King and so ingeniously, but deviously, constructed the external face of the wall in such a way that one of the large blocks could be easily removed by a couple of men as and when required.
The new Treasury Building appeared impregnable in its design and materials and the King was happy to deposit his silver hoards in it.
Only after many years had elapsed the builder, when on his death bed, called in his two sons and told them about the means by which the building could be entered. His intention all along had been to provide for his sons that they might live in affluence for the rest of their lives, especially if they went about the theft of the silver carefully.
Armed with the precise location and instructions for the removeable stone the two sons fulfilled the bequest of their father, now passed, and after easily sliding out the stone block they got away with a good haul of the contents of the Treasure House.
The King on his usual inspection was surprised to see that the level of coins in some of the storage vessels was lower than before but as the door seals had showed no signs of entry of tampering he could not explain why that was the case.
The two thieves made repeated forays in the same manner and again the king found his resources lacking but with no obvious explanation.
He nevertheless ordered that traps be laid near the money jars.
On the next occasion of a raid by the brothers through their privileged route one of them became snagged in a trap. Realising the peril of his situation the unfortunate brother begged the other to cut off his head so that identification would not cause certain death for both of them. This he did and left through the hole in the wall, closing it up, and taking the severed head with him.
The subsequent discovery of a headless body by the King gave no closure to the crime as there was still no damage to the building from a forced entry or apparent escape. The body was removed and hung on the wall with instructions for the Palace Guards to arrest anyone displaying any tears or signs of mourning at this gruesome sight.
A mothers grief could not be denied and she gave her surviving son an ultimatum. Either he brought the body back in the name of decency or she would personally inform on him to the King.
After delaying tactics and motherly pressure the young man hatched a plan.
He filled some skins with wine and loading them onto a small convoy of donkeys made for the Palace. Whilst the soldiers looked on the brother contrived a scene of panic by inciting the donkeys to break loose, feigning a head injury induced confusion and in the melee two or three of the wine skins intentionally burst spilling their contents out in a steady stream. The soldiers ran forward from their post under the headless corpse to catch the wine in their pots and helmets.
The young man eventually gained control of the cavorting mules and going along with the jollity of the soldiers from their attempts to help to salvage the load it was not long before all participants were enjoying the contents of more than one or two of the wine skins together.
Such an abundance of wine proved too much for the troops and they were soon drowsy and inattentive.
This gave an opportunity for the body to be removed and returned for a proper burial.
The King was furious at the theft of the body and set about trying to find out who the miscreant had been. Such was his desire to seek the clever trickster that he ordered his own daughter to work in a brothel so that after having plied her trade she could compel the clients to tell her what was the cleverest and wickedest thing that they had ever done. If the story tallied with the previous incident then she was to physically hold onto him to allow formal capture.
Our man, upon learning from local gossip that this was the intended means of entrapment could not resist the temptation to try to outwit the King for a third time.
He attended at the brothel and sure enough had his way and then in answer to the question spilled out the full tale of the robbery and rescue of the body right from under the nose of the King.
Unbeknown to the working princess, between the act and confession the brother had inserted into the sleeve of his tunic the hand and arm of a dead person and so when she made the grab for capture she got a huge surprise.
He simply slipped away leaving the gruesome limb in his place.
As with many tales of cleverness and audacity this final exploit astonished the King and out of admiration for being so skillfully and persistently thwarted he offered a free pardon and rewards should the perpetrator identify himself.
This came to pass and the sole brother trusted the King's offer and was soon wed to the princess and widely acclaimed across the land as the most intelligent thief in all of mankind.
The story appears in the history of Egypt as told by Herodotus in the fifth century B.C.
Tuesday, 18 April 2017
Monday, 17 April 2017
Holistic Ruptures
I thought that I would explain the lack of originality in my writing and unusually, for me, the absence of pieces over recent days.
The reason is a chain of events over the last 12 days.
I did say to my family that I would not burden people with my circumstances but I feel that it may serve as a cautionary tale although for what you can make up your own minds.
Here goes.
The 5th April 2017 started off as a normal wednesday in my working week as a Surveyor.
My diary had only three entries covering the hours 10.30am to 3pm although having carried out my usual pre-inspection research I knew that the jobs were challenging enough and would give very little by way of respite in between the efforts of concentration called upon when advising a prospective buyer of a house on its condition.
First up was a property that I sensed could be a problem.
It was of a modern split level design fairly typical of an individual build of the early 1980's but as though the architect was not really sure if his clients wanted a house or a bungalow and so provided both.
The location, just off the centre of a genteel East Coast Town had some great advantages with shops, promenade and seaside attractions just a short walk away. It would equally suit as a home for retirement or a young family.
Scouring old maps in my office in the lead up to the survey had indicated a few unique features about the site on which it was built.
Until the 1960's the land had been a railway marshalling or shunting yard until the Beeching Proposals of that decade saw the passenger route from the town to the regional City of Hull discontinued. The eastern end which provided the access to the road had distinct graduated lines on the Ordnance Survey map denoting steepness of slope. The old rail yard had evidently terminated at the foot of this incline.
As with many bits of land coming out of Railway Board ownership there will have been a few technical difficulties to overcome to permit development for a house.
The Estate Agents brochure, on line, illustrated how these had been tackled with photos suggesting large scale excavation of the heavy clay soils in that the house sat at the bottom of a hole with cliff-like retaining walls on two sides and a rear garden banked up sharply.
There did not appear to be any level external surfaces at all.
Mentally I revised my opinion as to suitability for the retirement sector to specifically the very active and able bodied retirement sector.
It was a glorious morning when I arrived to do my job.
The gated entrance to the house/bungalow could easily be missed as it constituted the only frontage to the road. On first passing in the car the steep drive appeared daunting and I could not see any parking or turning area in front of the house. I left my car just down the road.
Perfectly balanced with ladders and surveying equipment, a skill derived from 30 years of practice, I made my way down the driveway.
It was a mixture of grass track and banana shaped cast concrete strips. On even this brightest of days I felt a gradual darkening as I made my way between the deep side cutting walls.
The owners greeted me , having seen my tentative approach from a first floor or was it upper ground floor window.
We chatted in order to establish a few basic facts although many provided by the owners tallied with my own research. They offered to follow me around but I said that I needed to be outside for about half an hour and would knock on the door when ready to come inside. They clambered up a series of steps and disappeared. I set about my work noting a few features of the building.
Being at the lowest point of the site I may have relaxed slightly in my initial reservations about the aspects of the gradient and mixed surfaces.
As I took a single step towards the concrete apron in front of the integral garage my right leg slid away on a loose aggregate filler just on the edge.
My whole body weight shifted in an attempt to regain balance bearing down on the doubled under limb. Something went snap and a searing pain shot through my physical frame as I fell heavily to the ground.
The ominous sound was not distinguishable as whether from bone, tendon or muscle at first but I felt relieved to be able to wiggle my toes in my shoes. At least it did not appear to be a fracture.
My first thought was one of irony as I had just ordered a new road bike and knew instinctively that it would have to remain in the shipping box in my garage for some time now.
After that bit of dark humour came rationality about my situation.
I was certainly immobilised and sat in a hole. The split level design of the house meant that I was out of any line of sight of the windows and the owners will not have witnessed my accident. At least I was at an occupied place and with a phone signal which is not always the case in my work.
They sounded surprised to receive my phone call for help but were quick to come out and find me sat up against the stone steps.
I remained lucid but whilst his wife arranged for an ambulance the man from the house kept me talking and alert, no doubt based on his experiences in dealing with trauma situations over more than forty years in the armed forces.
The Paramedics found the terrain difficult for reversing in their vehicle and moving me about on a stretcher but I was soon en route to the City Infirmary.
A couple of days ago my right leg quadricep tendon was operated on in an attempt to re-attach it to my knee. I will spare the details although my family did watch a similar operation on You Tube and said it was fascinating.
I have a long recovery period ahead involving no load bearing for the next six to eight weeks followed by, well, we shall have to wait and see.
In the enforced lay off I have great plans for reading, writing and catching up on all of the things that a previously heavy workload so often thwarted.
We are at Day 1.
I will not mention it again.
The reason is a chain of events over the last 12 days.
I did say to my family that I would not burden people with my circumstances but I feel that it may serve as a cautionary tale although for what you can make up your own minds.
Here goes.
The 5th April 2017 started off as a normal wednesday in my working week as a Surveyor.
My diary had only three entries covering the hours 10.30am to 3pm although having carried out my usual pre-inspection research I knew that the jobs were challenging enough and would give very little by way of respite in between the efforts of concentration called upon when advising a prospective buyer of a house on its condition.
First up was a property that I sensed could be a problem.
It was of a modern split level design fairly typical of an individual build of the early 1980's but as though the architect was not really sure if his clients wanted a house or a bungalow and so provided both.
The location, just off the centre of a genteel East Coast Town had some great advantages with shops, promenade and seaside attractions just a short walk away. It would equally suit as a home for retirement or a young family.
Scouring old maps in my office in the lead up to the survey had indicated a few unique features about the site on which it was built.
Until the 1960's the land had been a railway marshalling or shunting yard until the Beeching Proposals of that decade saw the passenger route from the town to the regional City of Hull discontinued. The eastern end which provided the access to the road had distinct graduated lines on the Ordnance Survey map denoting steepness of slope. The old rail yard had evidently terminated at the foot of this incline.
As with many bits of land coming out of Railway Board ownership there will have been a few technical difficulties to overcome to permit development for a house.
The Estate Agents brochure, on line, illustrated how these had been tackled with photos suggesting large scale excavation of the heavy clay soils in that the house sat at the bottom of a hole with cliff-like retaining walls on two sides and a rear garden banked up sharply.
There did not appear to be any level external surfaces at all.
Mentally I revised my opinion as to suitability for the retirement sector to specifically the very active and able bodied retirement sector.
It was a glorious morning when I arrived to do my job.
The gated entrance to the house/bungalow could easily be missed as it constituted the only frontage to the road. On first passing in the car the steep drive appeared daunting and I could not see any parking or turning area in front of the house. I left my car just down the road.
Perfectly balanced with ladders and surveying equipment, a skill derived from 30 years of practice, I made my way down the driveway.
It was a mixture of grass track and banana shaped cast concrete strips. On even this brightest of days I felt a gradual darkening as I made my way between the deep side cutting walls.
The owners greeted me , having seen my tentative approach from a first floor or was it upper ground floor window.
We chatted in order to establish a few basic facts although many provided by the owners tallied with my own research. They offered to follow me around but I said that I needed to be outside for about half an hour and would knock on the door when ready to come inside. They clambered up a series of steps and disappeared. I set about my work noting a few features of the building.
Being at the lowest point of the site I may have relaxed slightly in my initial reservations about the aspects of the gradient and mixed surfaces.
As I took a single step towards the concrete apron in front of the integral garage my right leg slid away on a loose aggregate filler just on the edge.
My whole body weight shifted in an attempt to regain balance bearing down on the doubled under limb. Something went snap and a searing pain shot through my physical frame as I fell heavily to the ground.
The ominous sound was not distinguishable as whether from bone, tendon or muscle at first but I felt relieved to be able to wiggle my toes in my shoes. At least it did not appear to be a fracture.
My first thought was one of irony as I had just ordered a new road bike and knew instinctively that it would have to remain in the shipping box in my garage for some time now.
After that bit of dark humour came rationality about my situation.
I was certainly immobilised and sat in a hole. The split level design of the house meant that I was out of any line of sight of the windows and the owners will not have witnessed my accident. At least I was at an occupied place and with a phone signal which is not always the case in my work.
They sounded surprised to receive my phone call for help but were quick to come out and find me sat up against the stone steps.
I remained lucid but whilst his wife arranged for an ambulance the man from the house kept me talking and alert, no doubt based on his experiences in dealing with trauma situations over more than forty years in the armed forces.
The Paramedics found the terrain difficult for reversing in their vehicle and moving me about on a stretcher but I was soon en route to the City Infirmary.
A couple of days ago my right leg quadricep tendon was operated on in an attempt to re-attach it to my knee. I will spare the details although my family did watch a similar operation on You Tube and said it was fascinating.
I have a long recovery period ahead involving no load bearing for the next six to eight weeks followed by, well, we shall have to wait and see.
In the enforced lay off I have great plans for reading, writing and catching up on all of the things that a previously heavy workload so often thwarted.
We are at Day 1.
I will not mention it again.
Thursday, 13 April 2017
Wet Weak End
I often think about the couple on their tandem bicycle and if I ever came across them again I would be sure to apologise profusely for the mighty injustice suffered at my hands.
They were out for a regular ride through the beautiful countryside of East Yorkshire, minding their own business, packed lunch in the saddle bag and enjoying one of those mutual breathless moments that come along on a rare basis in a longstanding married relationship. It constituted for them the most fun they could have clothed in lycra on a weekend.
The day had started off quite well in terms of the weather, dry and for the ultimate enjoyment of a bike ride there was no dominant prevailing wind. From the Vale of York direction in which they approached me later that day it is likely that they will have started out on the flat glacial plain. I later, guiltily, imagined that they may have lived in a dormer bungalow in one of the small villages within commuting distance of the historic city and were perhaps early retirees who had purchased a tandem rather than a sports car to go with that stage in their lives. Their decision in the purchase of an open top, two seater, but two wheeler met their criteria for an environmentally friendly pursuit and one where there could be some benefits in health and well being but not involving a costly gym membership or a long drive to their nearest such facility.
Cycling in an easterly direction they will have soon encountered the rising ground of the East Yorkshire Wolds. The map holder that I happened to glimpse on the handlebars was streaked in red from non-colourfast felt tip pen depicting quite a tortuous route. This was obviously intended to take in the very picturesque hamlets and rural settlements, a few scheduled stops at local beauty spots, feeding stale bread crusts to the occupants of the numerous ponds en route, remarking at how certain scenes had not changed over time or where others had been bastardised (his words not hers) by a wind turbine or the practice of wedging as many solar panels on a roof as possible with no regard for symmetry or the outlook of neighbours. Their route also prudently avoided the steepest inclines and busiest roads although did increase the overall mileage considerably.
Time was not however a factor in this, their favourite type of day out.
I, on the other hand was racing against time. My car was crammed full of people I did not know, although we had a common interest ,and lots of lightweight racing wheels as we endeavoured to attend to a regular request for service from the participants in a 100 mile bike race through the expansive countryside.
The dry weather had soon been replaced by wet squalls and persistent rain which, on the narrow and steeply cambered lanes showed no inclination to drain away into the verge or the gateway to a field. With the tide of water came the inevitable depositing of loose gravels, chalks and other debris on the road. The well intentioned farmer and his tractor mounted cutter had in previous days contributed in an organic way to the mineral wash by slashing and spreading the severed thorns from the hedgerows which soon found their way into the treads and sidewall of some quite expensive race tyres of the competitors.
From our position closely in sight of and following the race we had progressively dropped back to change wheels and attend to mechanical problems such as a dislodged chain or loose saddle. The CB radio would crackle into life with a shout of 'Puncture' from the lead car and all managed panic would result within our vehicle as we prepared for an emergency stop, a scramble to the tailgate and whatever was then required to get the stricken rider on the move again. The frequency on which the radio operated was also popular amongst the rural boy racers in their Corsa's and agric types in brand loyal Massey Fergusons, John Deere's or Fords and much abuse would fly about as a consequence of a major clash in sunday afternoon cultures.
On one such mercy mission to a straggling rider the matching of a wheel to the machine was problematic and we became detached from the rest of the race for longer than usual. It was imperative to get back to our position in the race convoy and so, as driver, I admit that I took some risks. My normal plodding approach to motoring was abandoned. No 30mph speed limit was sacred, wildlife in the path of the car evaded impact at their own peril, potholes were counted by my passengers in terms of physical discomfort, cottages were a blur of whitewash and pantile.
It was during this mad passage that I encountered the couple on the tandem.
The combined approach of my car at 60mph and their bike at a little over 10mph (after eating the packed lunch) freakishly coincided with the largest puddle of standing water in the county.
In polite society I would have slowed and pulled over, indicating their right of way.
They were the polite society and had expected this to be the case. I ignored etiquette and protocol and ploughed on through. In my rear view mirror, between the steaming wet heads of my suffering crew the couple disappeared behind a wall of murky brown and gritty water.
Fortunately for me and my driving licence the event was not witnessed by any non-cycling persons. My forward velocity and a mud streaked rear number plate made identification virtually impossible for all but the greatest of sleuths.
I was on a mission, relied upon by elite racing cyclists, but had been ultimately disrespectful to a nice, harmless couple.
Ever since, on wet days in particular ,I am reminded of my transgression and behave in an exemplary manner to fellow road users, especially those of a two wheeled persuasion.
They were out for a regular ride through the beautiful countryside of East Yorkshire, minding their own business, packed lunch in the saddle bag and enjoying one of those mutual breathless moments that come along on a rare basis in a longstanding married relationship. It constituted for them the most fun they could have clothed in lycra on a weekend.
The day had started off quite well in terms of the weather, dry and for the ultimate enjoyment of a bike ride there was no dominant prevailing wind. From the Vale of York direction in which they approached me later that day it is likely that they will have started out on the flat glacial plain. I later, guiltily, imagined that they may have lived in a dormer bungalow in one of the small villages within commuting distance of the historic city and were perhaps early retirees who had purchased a tandem rather than a sports car to go with that stage in their lives. Their decision in the purchase of an open top, two seater, but two wheeler met their criteria for an environmentally friendly pursuit and one where there could be some benefits in health and well being but not involving a costly gym membership or a long drive to their nearest such facility.
Cycling in an easterly direction they will have soon encountered the rising ground of the East Yorkshire Wolds. The map holder that I happened to glimpse on the handlebars was streaked in red from non-colourfast felt tip pen depicting quite a tortuous route. This was obviously intended to take in the very picturesque hamlets and rural settlements, a few scheduled stops at local beauty spots, feeding stale bread crusts to the occupants of the numerous ponds en route, remarking at how certain scenes had not changed over time or where others had been bastardised (his words not hers) by a wind turbine or the practice of wedging as many solar panels on a roof as possible with no regard for symmetry or the outlook of neighbours. Their route also prudently avoided the steepest inclines and busiest roads although did increase the overall mileage considerably.
Time was not however a factor in this, their favourite type of day out.
I, on the other hand was racing against time. My car was crammed full of people I did not know, although we had a common interest ,and lots of lightweight racing wheels as we endeavoured to attend to a regular request for service from the participants in a 100 mile bike race through the expansive countryside.
The dry weather had soon been replaced by wet squalls and persistent rain which, on the narrow and steeply cambered lanes showed no inclination to drain away into the verge or the gateway to a field. With the tide of water came the inevitable depositing of loose gravels, chalks and other debris on the road. The well intentioned farmer and his tractor mounted cutter had in previous days contributed in an organic way to the mineral wash by slashing and spreading the severed thorns from the hedgerows which soon found their way into the treads and sidewall of some quite expensive race tyres of the competitors.
From our position closely in sight of and following the race we had progressively dropped back to change wheels and attend to mechanical problems such as a dislodged chain or loose saddle. The CB radio would crackle into life with a shout of 'Puncture' from the lead car and all managed panic would result within our vehicle as we prepared for an emergency stop, a scramble to the tailgate and whatever was then required to get the stricken rider on the move again. The frequency on which the radio operated was also popular amongst the rural boy racers in their Corsa's and agric types in brand loyal Massey Fergusons, John Deere's or Fords and much abuse would fly about as a consequence of a major clash in sunday afternoon cultures.
On one such mercy mission to a straggling rider the matching of a wheel to the machine was problematic and we became detached from the rest of the race for longer than usual. It was imperative to get back to our position in the race convoy and so, as driver, I admit that I took some risks. My normal plodding approach to motoring was abandoned. No 30mph speed limit was sacred, wildlife in the path of the car evaded impact at their own peril, potholes were counted by my passengers in terms of physical discomfort, cottages were a blur of whitewash and pantile.
It was during this mad passage that I encountered the couple on the tandem.
The combined approach of my car at 60mph and their bike at a little over 10mph (after eating the packed lunch) freakishly coincided with the largest puddle of standing water in the county.
In polite society I would have slowed and pulled over, indicating their right of way.
They were the polite society and had expected this to be the case. I ignored etiquette and protocol and ploughed on through. In my rear view mirror, between the steaming wet heads of my suffering crew the couple disappeared behind a wall of murky brown and gritty water.
Fortunately for me and my driving licence the event was not witnessed by any non-cycling persons. My forward velocity and a mud streaked rear number plate made identification virtually impossible for all but the greatest of sleuths.
I was on a mission, relied upon by elite racing cyclists, but had been ultimately disrespectful to a nice, harmless couple.
Ever since, on wet days in particular ,I am reminded of my transgression and behave in an exemplary manner to fellow road users, especially those of a two wheeled persuasion.
Wednesday, 12 April 2017
Through the Bus Shelter
I often bump into our local celebrity, Lee.
He is something of a legend mainly because he is still alive after struggling with various addictions, general ill-health and his regular practice of pushing his bicycle along the busiest trunk road in Hull, in the depths of winter, in the dark in order to force the hand of the Police to accommodate him overnight in the warm facilities of the nearest Police Station.
Saying that, he is no ordinary down and out, far from it. He has a Facebook page maintained by a broad base of friends and his artwork spasmodically displayed in a local shop is coveted and sought after. The etchings are on the unusual medium of discarded carpet tiles and usually in felt tip pen or Biro. They represent best value at under £50 and Lee is one to watch.
Lee has a very interesting life and outlook on life and any minutes spent in his company are fruitful and meaningful. I would advise, in the most tactful way, to stand upwind though as a hard life on the road, in his favourite bus shelter and wearing his full wardrobe at all times of the year does show in matters of personal grooming.
He is a very optimistic and cheerful character which puts to shame those of us who have everything and want for naught and yet are always repressed and unhappy.
As a concession to his well being Lee has recently taken to wearing a high-viz jacket. He is now infinitely more avoidable as a road hazard and those not wanting to engage in a conversation also have improved reaction time to take another footpath or passage through the town. He pushes around something on two wheels. I believe it to be a bike but it is difficult to say because apart from the tyres and spokes nothing is exposed because of the hanging shroud of used plastic carrier bags. These contain Lee's worldly goods and also indicate his commitment to the local environment as a captured and dangled knotted bag is one less to blow around and litter up the neighbourhood.
On first impression he may seem a bit of an intimidating character. Small, squat, bearded and a bit jaundiced and with a greenish tint to his teeth visible when he cheekily grins.A bit womble-ish if there is such a descriptive term. He is however very quiet, reserved and polite and always the first to strike up a dialogue about his beloved Hull City and how they are playing. His camouflage forage cap is covered with enamel badges for his team and it moves up and down on his scalp as he attends to a persistent itch and irritation as he speaks.
A lot of people look out for him in the colder months of the year. His Facebook status is regularly updated along the lines of 'Lee is in his bus shelter' .This residence is out in the villages somewhere and really sounds like quite an idyllic place.
His lifestyle choice may affront some erstwhile citizens amongst us who scuttle away upon sighting his low, rounded form approaching fearing a demand for monies or some element of menace.
Lee is no burden to anyone and indeed, any shortage of cash for a sandwich or a cup of coffee would be met by him without hesitation or judgement of our own particular circumstances.
He is something of a legend mainly because he is still alive after struggling with various addictions, general ill-health and his regular practice of pushing his bicycle along the busiest trunk road in Hull, in the depths of winter, in the dark in order to force the hand of the Police to accommodate him overnight in the warm facilities of the nearest Police Station.
Saying that, he is no ordinary down and out, far from it. He has a Facebook page maintained by a broad base of friends and his artwork spasmodically displayed in a local shop is coveted and sought after. The etchings are on the unusual medium of discarded carpet tiles and usually in felt tip pen or Biro. They represent best value at under £50 and Lee is one to watch.
Lee has a very interesting life and outlook on life and any minutes spent in his company are fruitful and meaningful. I would advise, in the most tactful way, to stand upwind though as a hard life on the road, in his favourite bus shelter and wearing his full wardrobe at all times of the year does show in matters of personal grooming.
He is a very optimistic and cheerful character which puts to shame those of us who have everything and want for naught and yet are always repressed and unhappy.
As a concession to his well being Lee has recently taken to wearing a high-viz jacket. He is now infinitely more avoidable as a road hazard and those not wanting to engage in a conversation also have improved reaction time to take another footpath or passage through the town. He pushes around something on two wheels. I believe it to be a bike but it is difficult to say because apart from the tyres and spokes nothing is exposed because of the hanging shroud of used plastic carrier bags. These contain Lee's worldly goods and also indicate his commitment to the local environment as a captured and dangled knotted bag is one less to blow around and litter up the neighbourhood.
On first impression he may seem a bit of an intimidating character. Small, squat, bearded and a bit jaundiced and with a greenish tint to his teeth visible when he cheekily grins.A bit womble-ish if there is such a descriptive term. He is however very quiet, reserved and polite and always the first to strike up a dialogue about his beloved Hull City and how they are playing. His camouflage forage cap is covered with enamel badges for his team and it moves up and down on his scalp as he attends to a persistent itch and irritation as he speaks.
A lot of people look out for him in the colder months of the year. His Facebook status is regularly updated along the lines of 'Lee is in his bus shelter' .This residence is out in the villages somewhere and really sounds like quite an idyllic place.
His lifestyle choice may affront some erstwhile citizens amongst us who scuttle away upon sighting his low, rounded form approaching fearing a demand for monies or some element of menace.
Lee is no burden to anyone and indeed, any shortage of cash for a sandwich or a cup of coffee would be met by him without hesitation or judgement of our own particular circumstances.
Tuesday, 11 April 2017
The Queen Victoria Mystery
Queen Victoria had disappeared!
It sounds a bit like a case for Holmes and Watson or a deep dark plot line of Edgar Allan Poe and other writers and exponents of mystery in the 19th Century.
There is however a simpler explanation.
We moved into the house on The Park some 43 months ago, early September it was. The run-up to the flit had been in beautiful late summer weather, one of those rare periods of settled weather in the UK that makes everyone leave out their garden chairs and barbecues for day after day rather than the usual process of in-out-in-out-up-down-up down as wave after wave of alternate dry and wet conditions prevail.
The Park, donated by a self made entrepreneur businessman and one time Lord Mayor of the City was until the mid Victorian era just a scraggy plot on the outskirts of the urban area. It will have been a cheap bit of scrap land, probably regularly waterlogged, marshy and infested with vermin and airborne irritants but when gifted to the population it became elevated to the status of an Elysian Field.
This magnanimous but self publicising act was way back in the decade of 1850 to 1860 when the man was affluent and respectable. Profits from cotton mills and other enterprises in the town and indeed nationally and internationally made for a good basis for nurturing the growth of what are now magnificent Horse Chestnuts guarding the central greenspace, an exotic range of other species of trees and shrubs, a rather disturbing looking brackish water filled lake, a pavilion, a crafted drinking fountain in the Indian sub continent style and a hot house conservatory with lizards and tropical fish.
Unfortunately, prudency and efficiency in business did not follow through in the politics or sympathies of our great Benefactor and in siding with the Confederate South in the American Civil War and in attempting to run guns and supplies to them his fleet of ships, all on Hire Purchase, were impounded and confiscated causing a ruinous situation.
He ended his days on the periphery of his gift in fallen grace and poverty.
The entrance to the Park from the main east side is through a triumphal edifice in metal which if you squint in foggy weather and are under strong medication could be mistaken for the profile of the Arc'de Triomphe.
Our house is located on the South side. It is part of a 1970's redevelopment on the site of a former Convent and Manse comprising two and three storey town houses. We may not be able to compete in a Grand Design competition for our plain red brick box but in the scheme of things we are winners, hands down on the basis of a fantastic view into the heart of The Park.
Families are drawn from the now densely populated terraced housing surrounds for a summer picnic, autumn frisbee session and early season blow-out in the open air away from the hot streets and confined forecourts and back yards. Groups of friends or co-tenants from the rented accommodation as commonly found in the inner-city share a beer and a game of football. Bulky and shaven headed Eastern European workers chatter and laugh in their rare leisure time from the production lines, glasshouses and agricultural fields.
Keeping vigil over what appears to be a good cross section of all nationalities is the bright white marble sculpture of Queen Victoria amongst the low cut heather hedging and well stocked borders of the ornamental gardens.
I was at first unsure of whom the statue was of.
Our perception of the great Monarch is mainly grounded in her later years, a perpetually black mourning clothes clad, stooped and hunched old lady, dour and not easily amused.
What is striking about the figure on this pedestal is that it was contemporary for the 1860's . It depicts Victoria aged 41, very much in her petite prime and seemingly unaware and unsuspecting of the impending death of her beloved Albert which would be within some 12 months.
She is slim and charismatic even allowing for the carved folds of her seated pose and at the height of her Empire. Regal and Inherited Power ooze out of the stunning and dazzling representation of her rule, at that time exactly half way through with the luxury of hindsight and an on-line reference site. It was at the time a prestigious commission for the London based sculpture and in marble from the same Italian source as, it appears, Michelangelo's magnificent David.
Granted, the marble has gone a little bit green from natural tarnishing from moss and lichen but restricted to her north facing parts. On occasion I have seen her festooned in police incident tape usually as a student prank. I must say that Vicky can sport a traffic cone on her head as well as any civic statue.
With all of the novelty of the house move in the first couple of months and the hours of just sitting in the first floor living room and taking in the view I must say that I did not otherwise give Her Majesty much thought or attention.
As the thick foliage and heavy laden tree boughs fell back in the Autumn I became aware of a clear line of sight from the house to the statue.
It would loom out of the early dawn mist as a ghostly apparition or seem to take on a strange iridescence as it caught in rota the rising of the sun and its setting.
Through the winter H.M has been a constant presence, a solid figure of reassurance.
She has also caused me some pangs of conscience and serves as a reminder that as a Nation we are now in payback mode to receive willingly and with compassion the peoples of a global community that as the British Empire we ruthlessly pillaged, exploited and extracted great wealth and prestige from.
It is now almost summer. I looked out of the window onto the Park this morning.
It was extremely colourful and lush, verdant and all other similar descriptive words or just various shades of green.
Not entirely unexpected but there was, in my mind, a sensation of it being just too green. Then I realised that the distinctive white character was not in view. I panicked a bit as there have been cases in our fine City where statues and outdoor works of art have gone missing but then again, marble cannot be melted down and has, in my understanding, few other applications apart from kitchen worktops, headstones and sanitary ware.
I got dressed quickly and set off to investigate.
It was still early and the Park Rangers had not unlocked the series of little gates leading into the landscaped gardens so I skirted around using one of the paths that criss-cross the grassed areas. There was the usual trail of beer cans and pizza boxes from the revellers of the night before taking their usual short cut.
Encouragingly, and to allay my earlier fears there were no chewed up sections of turf or deep set vehicle ruts to indicate the passage of a statue compatible sized transit van.
I was a bit anxious as I approached the gentle curve of the wrought iron fence which would bring me into plain sight of the pedestal and figure.
The boughs of a large shrub suddenly parted in a whirling breeze and my gaze fell on a rather bored looking deceased monarch.
I cancelled the Emergency Only dial function on my mobile phone being rather relieved at not having to report to the police that Queen Victoria was missing.
It sounds a bit like a case for Holmes and Watson or a deep dark plot line of Edgar Allan Poe and other writers and exponents of mystery in the 19th Century.
There is however a simpler explanation.
We moved into the house on The Park some 43 months ago, early September it was. The run-up to the flit had been in beautiful late summer weather, one of those rare periods of settled weather in the UK that makes everyone leave out their garden chairs and barbecues for day after day rather than the usual process of in-out-in-out-up-down-up down as wave after wave of alternate dry and wet conditions prevail.
The Park, donated by a self made entrepreneur businessman and one time Lord Mayor of the City was until the mid Victorian era just a scraggy plot on the outskirts of the urban area. It will have been a cheap bit of scrap land, probably regularly waterlogged, marshy and infested with vermin and airborne irritants but when gifted to the population it became elevated to the status of an Elysian Field.
This magnanimous but self publicising act was way back in the decade of 1850 to 1860 when the man was affluent and respectable. Profits from cotton mills and other enterprises in the town and indeed nationally and internationally made for a good basis for nurturing the growth of what are now magnificent Horse Chestnuts guarding the central greenspace, an exotic range of other species of trees and shrubs, a rather disturbing looking brackish water filled lake, a pavilion, a crafted drinking fountain in the Indian sub continent style and a hot house conservatory with lizards and tropical fish.
Unfortunately, prudency and efficiency in business did not follow through in the politics or sympathies of our great Benefactor and in siding with the Confederate South in the American Civil War and in attempting to run guns and supplies to them his fleet of ships, all on Hire Purchase, were impounded and confiscated causing a ruinous situation.
He ended his days on the periphery of his gift in fallen grace and poverty.
The entrance to the Park from the main east side is through a triumphal edifice in metal which if you squint in foggy weather and are under strong medication could be mistaken for the profile of the Arc'de Triomphe.
Our house is located on the South side. It is part of a 1970's redevelopment on the site of a former Convent and Manse comprising two and three storey town houses. We may not be able to compete in a Grand Design competition for our plain red brick box but in the scheme of things we are winners, hands down on the basis of a fantastic view into the heart of The Park.
Families are drawn from the now densely populated terraced housing surrounds for a summer picnic, autumn frisbee session and early season blow-out in the open air away from the hot streets and confined forecourts and back yards. Groups of friends or co-tenants from the rented accommodation as commonly found in the inner-city share a beer and a game of football. Bulky and shaven headed Eastern European workers chatter and laugh in their rare leisure time from the production lines, glasshouses and agricultural fields.
Keeping vigil over what appears to be a good cross section of all nationalities is the bright white marble sculpture of Queen Victoria amongst the low cut heather hedging and well stocked borders of the ornamental gardens.
I was at first unsure of whom the statue was of.
Our perception of the great Monarch is mainly grounded in her later years, a perpetually black mourning clothes clad, stooped and hunched old lady, dour and not easily amused.
What is striking about the figure on this pedestal is that it was contemporary for the 1860's . It depicts Victoria aged 41, very much in her petite prime and seemingly unaware and unsuspecting of the impending death of her beloved Albert which would be within some 12 months.
She is slim and charismatic even allowing for the carved folds of her seated pose and at the height of her Empire. Regal and Inherited Power ooze out of the stunning and dazzling representation of her rule, at that time exactly half way through with the luxury of hindsight and an on-line reference site. It was at the time a prestigious commission for the London based sculpture and in marble from the same Italian source as, it appears, Michelangelo's magnificent David.
Granted, the marble has gone a little bit green from natural tarnishing from moss and lichen but restricted to her north facing parts. On occasion I have seen her festooned in police incident tape usually as a student prank. I must say that Vicky can sport a traffic cone on her head as well as any civic statue.
 |
| Vicky with the hot house behind- you know what I mean |
As the thick foliage and heavy laden tree boughs fell back in the Autumn I became aware of a clear line of sight from the house to the statue.
It would loom out of the early dawn mist as a ghostly apparition or seem to take on a strange iridescence as it caught in rota the rising of the sun and its setting.
Through the winter H.M has been a constant presence, a solid figure of reassurance.
She has also caused me some pangs of conscience and serves as a reminder that as a Nation we are now in payback mode to receive willingly and with compassion the peoples of a global community that as the British Empire we ruthlessly pillaged, exploited and extracted great wealth and prestige from.
It is now almost summer. I looked out of the window onto the Park this morning.
It was extremely colourful and lush, verdant and all other similar descriptive words or just various shades of green.
Not entirely unexpected but there was, in my mind, a sensation of it being just too green. Then I realised that the distinctive white character was not in view. I panicked a bit as there have been cases in our fine City where statues and outdoor works of art have gone missing but then again, marble cannot be melted down and has, in my understanding, few other applications apart from kitchen worktops, headstones and sanitary ware.
I got dressed quickly and set off to investigate.
It was still early and the Park Rangers had not unlocked the series of little gates leading into the landscaped gardens so I skirted around using one of the paths that criss-cross the grassed areas. There was the usual trail of beer cans and pizza boxes from the revellers of the night before taking their usual short cut.
Encouragingly, and to allay my earlier fears there were no chewed up sections of turf or deep set vehicle ruts to indicate the passage of a statue compatible sized transit van.
I was a bit anxious as I approached the gentle curve of the wrought iron fence which would bring me into plain sight of the pedestal and figure.
The boughs of a large shrub suddenly parted in a whirling breeze and my gaze fell on a rather bored looking deceased monarch.
I cancelled the Emergency Only dial function on my mobile phone being rather relieved at not having to report to the police that Queen Victoria was missing.
Monday, 10 April 2017
Lift Off
There is something that can be either an exhilarating experience or just a big disappointment.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation.
Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the Art Deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous city scape views on offer.
At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place.
An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner.
The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults.
In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit.
Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade.
I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build and it was a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal actual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered.
Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indecipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy.
The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge.
The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an impending unrestrained plummet to the basement.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation.
Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the Art Deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous city scape views on offer.
At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place.
An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner.
The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults.
In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit.
Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade.
I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build and it was a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal actual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered.
Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indecipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy.
The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge.
The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an impending unrestrained plummet to the basement.
Sunday, 9 April 2017
Grand National Fever
Do not drink to excess, swear, blaspheme, or gamble. Well, I am not proud that this is a list in which I can say that I have been 100% unsuccessful.
I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.
The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.
My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.
Take yesterday, April 8th. The day of The Grand National. It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies shop high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.
My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike today's mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet this week.
It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home for male and female patrons.
My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet. There were no user friendly instructions for first timers. Looking confused, overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick atmosphere did elicit some guidance from a regular. Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier. Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where. Betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.
As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. Three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.
Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.
The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child, only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.
The day can come and go now without my interest. It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.
I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.
The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.
My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.
Take yesterday, April 8th. The day of The Grand National. It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies shop high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.
My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike today's mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet this week.
It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home for male and female patrons.
My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet. There were no user friendly instructions for first timers. Looking confused, overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick atmosphere did elicit some guidance from a regular. Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier. Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where. Betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.
As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. Three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.
Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.
The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child, only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.
The day can come and go now without my interest. It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.
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