Ahh, Sunday.
A bundle of newspapers to be browsed through on a speed reading basis, skipping the financials and fashion sections. The luxury of a pot of coffee from the family heirloom of a Percolator which threatens to explode and shower the kitchen ceiling with strong Italian blend. A cooked breakfast, old style forgetting the latest medical research on cholestrol and other artery cloggers. Not getting dressed until 10am.
On eventually,first stepping out into the great outdoors I become aware that for many their day is already a good few hours further progressed than mine.
Over two streets, through gardens and trees comes the sound from the Recreation Ground that the Hull Mens' Sunday Football League is in action.
In the days when we had dogs to walk we would regularly be on the Recca as the players arrived. The Sunday Morning after the Saturday Night seemed to be a bit too much for a reasonable proportion of those assembled, standing around, scratching, looking a bit peeky and shivering in the early to mid morning chill. A few had difficulty standing up and may not have been home between going out the night before and honouring their commitment to their team.
A cheer would go up when the Park Attendant opened up the security shutters on the pavilion changing rooms and there would be a rush to get out of one cold and into another that closely resembled it but with coat-hooks.
The non-playing contingent, injured, suspended, tagged or just supporters attended to the hanging up of the goal nets and conducting a quick sweep of the playing surface to remove dog faeces, used prophylactics, coke cans and anything else of a deleterious nature. There was not much that could be done for the erupted divots from unauthorised golf stroke play or the deep grooves and ruts where night shift workers had dashed across the field on their mopeds as a short cut to get to their beds.
The brave souls from the County Football Association who would officiate the match were chatty and friendly with the team managers. After all they all knew each other very well, strengths of character, resilience and how far to push, mentally and physically before conflict arose.
The squads rattled out on studs over the concrete paths to the pitch. The goalkeeper looked apprehensive as wild shots hurtled towards him or swore when he had to retrieve the ball from some distance away. In the absence of pockets on football shorts those still sensitive to the cold shoved hands deep into their groin or pulled their arms into their body leaving sleeves loose and flapping like erratic penguins. The warming up process was that easy.
Those who had been awake or concious between 11pm and midnight, just 10 hours prior, to watch Match of the Day re-enacted a technical piece of play, displayed an extravagant goal celebration or a graceful simulated dive. Others were well rehearsed in the latest style of ejecting spittle and mucus with no regard for the prevailing wind.
A raucous whistle signified a countdown to kick off. There was usually a delay as one or more players finally decided that a toilet visit was in fact required and returned to the changing rooms.
From my front garden I could tell that the mornings' game was well under way. The sky and air were blue with a terrible assault of foul language from supporters, hangers on and the players themselves. At those times when I had been dog and child walking when a game was in progress I would feel extreme embarassment at the vile tirade of profanities, insults and crude assertions and a fear of later, being asked by inquisitive offspring the meaning and definition of what sounded like very interesting and useful descriptive words.
In addition to the wave of pure, adulterated protestations sweeping in over the rooftops the relative Sunday peace would be interrupted by the referee constantly blowing for infringements, injuries, hangovers and goals.
Matches were, from the staccato of the whistle either major examples of civil unrest, a bloodbath, resembling an outpatients or the best, most end to end and exciting footie match in the history of Hull Mens' Sunday League.
Wednesday 31 October 2012
Tuesday 30 October 2012
Freeloading
Do not underestimate the value of something if it is free.
That was my philosophy in the early years of my children and seeing the fully rounded and informed adults that they now are I am happy that the experiment worked. It was an experiment, the whole thing of bringing up kids is so, and do not be persuaded otherwise by the weighty volumes of authoratative works and self help manuals produced to the ultimate bank balance benefit of doctors, psychologists and celebrity parents.
That is not to say that we, setting out on the very responsible path of parenthood did not go with the trend and indeed Dr Miriam Stoppard in particular appeared to have moved in to our house like a friendly apparition to be summoned and consulted at the first sign of fevers, colics or fractious behaviour.
The children, bright and inquisitive, demanded to be entertained and educated and although tired and worn out from work and daily chores we, as doting parents, feel that we did our best.
Even when themselves worn out and sleepy there was an unquenchable thirst for information and mental stimulation from the offspring but it was a perfect end to the day to see them nod off whilst being read a fairy tale, a fantastical fable or just, from memory, the plot of a Disney production.
The sight of double buggy, two dogs in harness and a full family contingent did cause pedestrians to hurry out of our way as we headed out of our street towards some of our favourite local walks. The river foreshore was a regular destination and we could spend hours exploring the old chalk quarry or the equivalent to beachcombing but on a very muddy and smelly estuary bank. A few interesting artefacts were found by keen eyed children and I still keep in the car boot, even today, a twisted metal rod which must have been used by employees of the London and North East Railway in the late 19th Century to lift up slotted drain covers and it is very useful as such a tool.
Water streaked and smoothed sticks, up to small log size and numerous stones and pebbles were dragged or ferried back attached to or under the buggy for a future playtime. These things, I occasionally dig up in the garden some 16 years later.
We thoroughly exploited the neighbourhood on a seasonal basis from late summer conker hunts to pulling up early Spring daffodils from neglected borders to be repatriated by the children and duly proudly presented to their mother.
Ranging further afield there was, with a bit of forward planning a lot of non-cost element activities to keep the children interested.
We went to a sideways ship launch with George, their late Grandfather, and he kept them enthralled by the story of when he got his head stuck in the riverside railings and had to be cut free by the fire brigade.
Art Gallery visits were free and frequent. The main city centre collection was arranged in a series of interlinking rooms which really gave a sense of covering a great distance. We always made a point of standing and staring at the huge Peter Howson oil painting of the crouched, pockmarked faced fighter which had pride of place near the entrance. The children enyoyed the art and there would be no comments or tantrums if we left out the Gift Shop even after passing it, tantalisingly, many times in our circumnavigation.
Living in a Maritime Port meant a good range of museums and other related attractions and thanks to a social minded Local Authority these were nil-cost.
The Transport Museum was packed with exhibits for climbing on. We could also sit in the seating on a tram and listen to the soundtrack of a bustling load of passengers from the halcyon days of urban commuting by electric overhead power. The greatest interest was from clambering up into a horse drawn Hansom Cab complete with authentic rocking movement and strong odours of manure and a city pre-smoke free legislation.
We would skirt quickly through the Archaeological Museum which was adjacent as the static displays of mannequins in various period settings were really quite scary, even to me as the responsible adult.
The signs of having a good day out were clear. The children would be happily weary but still bright eyed and excited with tales to tell of what they had seen and done. They would be holding tightly the spoils of the outing, a handful of informative leaflets on all manner of subjects, perhaps a sticker worn on their coats indicating they had indeed visited a museum and even a few more pebbles and pieces of debris collected from municipal verges and open space.
It is ironic, but infinitely pleasing to me that even after extending the experience of the children when older to trips abroad, as far as Singapore and Australia and through the Mediterranean they still seem to have the fondest recollections of a day out with their father when he spent nothing.
That was my philosophy in the early years of my children and seeing the fully rounded and informed adults that they now are I am happy that the experiment worked. It was an experiment, the whole thing of bringing up kids is so, and do not be persuaded otherwise by the weighty volumes of authoratative works and self help manuals produced to the ultimate bank balance benefit of doctors, psychologists and celebrity parents.
That is not to say that we, setting out on the very responsible path of parenthood did not go with the trend and indeed Dr Miriam Stoppard in particular appeared to have moved in to our house like a friendly apparition to be summoned and consulted at the first sign of fevers, colics or fractious behaviour.
The children, bright and inquisitive, demanded to be entertained and educated and although tired and worn out from work and daily chores we, as doting parents, feel that we did our best.
Even when themselves worn out and sleepy there was an unquenchable thirst for information and mental stimulation from the offspring but it was a perfect end to the day to see them nod off whilst being read a fairy tale, a fantastical fable or just, from memory, the plot of a Disney production.
The sight of double buggy, two dogs in harness and a full family contingent did cause pedestrians to hurry out of our way as we headed out of our street towards some of our favourite local walks. The river foreshore was a regular destination and we could spend hours exploring the old chalk quarry or the equivalent to beachcombing but on a very muddy and smelly estuary bank. A few interesting artefacts were found by keen eyed children and I still keep in the car boot, even today, a twisted metal rod which must have been used by employees of the London and North East Railway in the late 19th Century to lift up slotted drain covers and it is very useful as such a tool.
Water streaked and smoothed sticks, up to small log size and numerous stones and pebbles were dragged or ferried back attached to or under the buggy for a future playtime. These things, I occasionally dig up in the garden some 16 years later.
We thoroughly exploited the neighbourhood on a seasonal basis from late summer conker hunts to pulling up early Spring daffodils from neglected borders to be repatriated by the children and duly proudly presented to their mother.
Ranging further afield there was, with a bit of forward planning a lot of non-cost element activities to keep the children interested.
We went to a sideways ship launch with George, their late Grandfather, and he kept them enthralled by the story of when he got his head stuck in the riverside railings and had to be cut free by the fire brigade.
Art Gallery visits were free and frequent. The main city centre collection was arranged in a series of interlinking rooms which really gave a sense of covering a great distance. We always made a point of standing and staring at the huge Peter Howson oil painting of the crouched, pockmarked faced fighter which had pride of place near the entrance. The children enyoyed the art and there would be no comments or tantrums if we left out the Gift Shop even after passing it, tantalisingly, many times in our circumnavigation.
Living in a Maritime Port meant a good range of museums and other related attractions and thanks to a social minded Local Authority these were nil-cost.
The Transport Museum was packed with exhibits for climbing on. We could also sit in the seating on a tram and listen to the soundtrack of a bustling load of passengers from the halcyon days of urban commuting by electric overhead power. The greatest interest was from clambering up into a horse drawn Hansom Cab complete with authentic rocking movement and strong odours of manure and a city pre-smoke free legislation.
We would skirt quickly through the Archaeological Museum which was adjacent as the static displays of mannequins in various period settings were really quite scary, even to me as the responsible adult.
The signs of having a good day out were clear. The children would be happily weary but still bright eyed and excited with tales to tell of what they had seen and done. They would be holding tightly the spoils of the outing, a handful of informative leaflets on all manner of subjects, perhaps a sticker worn on their coats indicating they had indeed visited a museum and even a few more pebbles and pieces of debris collected from municipal verges and open space.
It is ironic, but infinitely pleasing to me that even after extending the experience of the children when older to trips abroad, as far as Singapore and Australia and through the Mediterranean they still seem to have the fondest recollections of a day out with their father when he spent nothing.
Monday 29 October 2012
Taking the High Ground
Me and The Boy emerged from the elevated tree line to see a sweeping, misty scene of fields and in the far distance the silvery course of the river. It was an epic outlook.
We had come across a new pathway along which we propelled our bikes winding through the overhead canopy of autumn coloured leaves. I thought for a moment that I should stop and capture the perfectly framed tunnel but it was already firmly entrenched in my memory and a photograph would never do it justice in terms of the shaded, mottled light and the sensory experiences of sounds and smells that accompanied it.
Under our wheels the ground was light and flinty chalk in between greasy and slippery patches of newly fallen foliage. This made for careful attention and concentration particularly where the thick ground snaking tree roots threatened to wrestle away from us control of the handlebars and throw us onto the chilled hillside.
The lowest boughs of the trees tapped on our bike helmets and in parts we had to keep our heads down for fear of a stray branch jabbing at our foreheads and eyes. The climb up to the viewpoint, being a new route, had been difficult to guage in terms of pace and effort.
The Boy, one third of my own age, give or take a couple of years, was fearless in his assault on the gradient and had to wait for my breatheless and aching body to catch up which was only possible when the rough track levelled out slightly to offer a brief respite. I was glad to see the footpath sign as it led us along a horizontal contour whereas the track disappeared over the continuing and distant summit to be explored on another day.
Into the thicket we plunged. The sounds under our chunky off-road tyres betrayed the presence of the husks of beech nuts and the cups of acorns from the mixed, plantation woodland.There were traces of other two wheeled users in the grass headland and where the edge of the path had given way in a mini-landslide into the field. The sloping land was still in sharp stubble following a very late harvest but no doubt indicating a good harvest on a prime south facing and well drained aspect.
We pulled into a shallow kink to the side of the track to allow a group of ramblers to approach and pass with a cheery hello and a second, hesitant look at our pair of mud spattered faces and clothing. Carrying on we gathered some speed but not having a clear view of the ground conditions within the steep terrain our brakes squealed and scraped to keep us upright and steady. The run downhill had been well worth the lung bursting effort to get to the highest point and we seemed to be freewheeling for a good few minutes before the combination of tyres weighed down with mud and vegetation and the sudden appearance of a gate brought us to a rolling and laboured halt.
Beyond the opening, the traffic on the dual carriageway thundered past and we could barely hear ourselves think over the noise, let alone share verbally the mutual enjoyment and timeless feeling of the ascent and descent that we had just experienced. Turning west we were on tarmac again and soon echoing through the man made underpass, newly built but already festooned in graffitti and litter.
It had been a good ride out. Perhaps one of the last of the season in any warm sunshine as it was already late October . The shortening daylight hours and approaching winter weather would soon be upon us making such an expedition virtually impossible to contemplate until the Spring.
We had come across a new pathway along which we propelled our bikes winding through the overhead canopy of autumn coloured leaves. I thought for a moment that I should stop and capture the perfectly framed tunnel but it was already firmly entrenched in my memory and a photograph would never do it justice in terms of the shaded, mottled light and the sensory experiences of sounds and smells that accompanied it.
Under our wheels the ground was light and flinty chalk in between greasy and slippery patches of newly fallen foliage. This made for careful attention and concentration particularly where the thick ground snaking tree roots threatened to wrestle away from us control of the handlebars and throw us onto the chilled hillside.
The lowest boughs of the trees tapped on our bike helmets and in parts we had to keep our heads down for fear of a stray branch jabbing at our foreheads and eyes. The climb up to the viewpoint, being a new route, had been difficult to guage in terms of pace and effort.
The Boy, one third of my own age, give or take a couple of years, was fearless in his assault on the gradient and had to wait for my breatheless and aching body to catch up which was only possible when the rough track levelled out slightly to offer a brief respite. I was glad to see the footpath sign as it led us along a horizontal contour whereas the track disappeared over the continuing and distant summit to be explored on another day.
Into the thicket we plunged. The sounds under our chunky off-road tyres betrayed the presence of the husks of beech nuts and the cups of acorns from the mixed, plantation woodland.There were traces of other two wheeled users in the grass headland and where the edge of the path had given way in a mini-landslide into the field. The sloping land was still in sharp stubble following a very late harvest but no doubt indicating a good harvest on a prime south facing and well drained aspect.
We pulled into a shallow kink to the side of the track to allow a group of ramblers to approach and pass with a cheery hello and a second, hesitant look at our pair of mud spattered faces and clothing. Carrying on we gathered some speed but not having a clear view of the ground conditions within the steep terrain our brakes squealed and scraped to keep us upright and steady. The run downhill had been well worth the lung bursting effort to get to the highest point and we seemed to be freewheeling for a good few minutes before the combination of tyres weighed down with mud and vegetation and the sudden appearance of a gate brought us to a rolling and laboured halt.
Beyond the opening, the traffic on the dual carriageway thundered past and we could barely hear ourselves think over the noise, let alone share verbally the mutual enjoyment and timeless feeling of the ascent and descent that we had just experienced. Turning west we were on tarmac again and soon echoing through the man made underpass, newly built but already festooned in graffitti and litter.
It had been a good ride out. Perhaps one of the last of the season in any warm sunshine as it was already late October . The shortening daylight hours and approaching winter weather would soon be upon us making such an expedition virtually impossible to contemplate until the Spring.
Sunday 28 October 2012
A Long Time Ago in a Diary Not So Far Far Away
With the best intentions I started a diary of the life of my family on 1st January 1992.
This must have been a combination of a) receiving a desk diary as a Christmas Present, or b) using my gift vouchers to purchase one in the end of year sales and c) a rash resolution as is often the case but rarely sustained beyond a week from making it.
Best intentions for previous New Years had included giving up chocolate (lapsed within 6 hours), restricting alcohol intake during weekday evenings (lapsed after returning to work two days later), going for a daily run (did not materialise at all) and reading one book a week to broaden my outlook and culture (another non-starter).
Based on a shocking record therefore, I did not hold out much hope for actually keeping up a diary. I will have been assisted, however, by a genetic disposition to being a diarist because my Mother has always written regularly and has a huge resource of information on what happened in the family, when and to whom and what her feelings and outlook were at the time. Such a dedication to a log and permanent record has become a very rare thing which is a shame as these form the historical and socio economic records for the interest and benefit of those that come along after we have long since hung up our Bic pens and lined note paper.
The personal testimony of the life and times as seen by my Mother is also exceptionally good at settling arguments on points of behaviour, manners and what was said on the occasion of gatherings when collective memories are in fact based on a completely different and often conflicting perception of events.
It is with great personal disappointment that I admit now that I only managed a sustained effort of writing until 17th May 1992. The tight and raw scrawl from bleary eyed writing, often as the last thing before bed is nevertheless a very nostalgic record, even more so as I cannot believe that 20 years have elapsed as though in the simple act of turning of a page.
To set the scene, 1992 was early on in the married life of Allison and me but a very busy and hectic time with the arrival over the previous 24 months of our two daughters, three house moves, two dogs and taking the big step (not that the others were any less) of becoming self employed. The entry on the first day of the new year and diary is pretty typical of our life and times ........
"It is now mid afternoon with some peace and quiet after a sleepless night and Hannah (3 days short of her second birthday) very poorly and fractious with ear-ache. Alice (8 months) is rolling about on tummy and back thinking about a crawl but can only manage backwards. Anything in reach is interesting, a red coffee mug acting as a voice box, hoop-la ring, teether, pink clockwork crocodile. Have to be careful she doesn't pick up bits of plastic or other debris.
Hannah is standing on a chair in the kitchen doing cooking with her baking set, spilling pasta and getting some distraction from ear-ache. The fire is glowing nicely after much stacking of kindling to encourage damp coal.
The dogs enjoyed first walk of 1992 to the river bank. Well behaved amongst a lot of people clearing heads after long Festive season. Alice concludes with gurgling on a Postman Pat hoopla ring"
Such recollections ,seen in writing, immediately evoke the emotions that I felt all those years ago and they remain as strong today albeit confined to a small part of my consciousness reserved for happy and precious thoughts , locked away, safe and sound from the incessant pressures and stresses of everyday modern life.
To be continued.....................
This must have been a combination of a) receiving a desk diary as a Christmas Present, or b) using my gift vouchers to purchase one in the end of year sales and c) a rash resolution as is often the case but rarely sustained beyond a week from making it.
Best intentions for previous New Years had included giving up chocolate (lapsed within 6 hours), restricting alcohol intake during weekday evenings (lapsed after returning to work two days later), going for a daily run (did not materialise at all) and reading one book a week to broaden my outlook and culture (another non-starter).
Based on a shocking record therefore, I did not hold out much hope for actually keeping up a diary. I will have been assisted, however, by a genetic disposition to being a diarist because my Mother has always written regularly and has a huge resource of information on what happened in the family, when and to whom and what her feelings and outlook were at the time. Such a dedication to a log and permanent record has become a very rare thing which is a shame as these form the historical and socio economic records for the interest and benefit of those that come along after we have long since hung up our Bic pens and lined note paper.
The personal testimony of the life and times as seen by my Mother is also exceptionally good at settling arguments on points of behaviour, manners and what was said on the occasion of gatherings when collective memories are in fact based on a completely different and often conflicting perception of events.
It is with great personal disappointment that I admit now that I only managed a sustained effort of writing until 17th May 1992. The tight and raw scrawl from bleary eyed writing, often as the last thing before bed is nevertheless a very nostalgic record, even more so as I cannot believe that 20 years have elapsed as though in the simple act of turning of a page.
To set the scene, 1992 was early on in the married life of Allison and me but a very busy and hectic time with the arrival over the previous 24 months of our two daughters, three house moves, two dogs and taking the big step (not that the others were any less) of becoming self employed. The entry on the first day of the new year and diary is pretty typical of our life and times ........
"It is now mid afternoon with some peace and quiet after a sleepless night and Hannah (3 days short of her second birthday) very poorly and fractious with ear-ache. Alice (8 months) is rolling about on tummy and back thinking about a crawl but can only manage backwards. Anything in reach is interesting, a red coffee mug acting as a voice box, hoop-la ring, teether, pink clockwork crocodile. Have to be careful she doesn't pick up bits of plastic or other debris.
Hannah is standing on a chair in the kitchen doing cooking with her baking set, spilling pasta and getting some distraction from ear-ache. The fire is glowing nicely after much stacking of kindling to encourage damp coal.
The dogs enjoyed first walk of 1992 to the river bank. Well behaved amongst a lot of people clearing heads after long Festive season. Alice concludes with gurgling on a Postman Pat hoopla ring"
Such recollections ,seen in writing, immediately evoke the emotions that I felt all those years ago and they remain as strong today albeit confined to a small part of my consciousness reserved for happy and precious thoughts , locked away, safe and sound from the incessant pressures and stresses of everyday modern life.
To be continued.....................
Saturday 27 October 2012
Transatlantic Felicitations
On my birthday day, wherever I am or however I feel I always get a phone call from my youngest sister.
In the days before name and number display I could be in a meeting, up in a loft or otherwise indisposed and, taking the call, have 18 seconds of a personalised and unconditional 'Happy Birthday to You' sung down the line.
This could be overheard and envied by my fellow delegates around the conference table, sound close-up, personal and comforting under the eaves of a roof or just echo around the toilet compartment with me trying to hide the fact that I was in the loo.
The receiving of such a sentiment is a great boost to an already special day. My other siblings are also, on the occasions of their birthday days, so celebrated and it does bring us together even though we are now, as a famliy, reasonably dispersed around the UK and in the case of youngest sister, in Memphis, Tennessee, USA.
A birthday phone call is however often used with guilt as a main motivation. I speak for my own sorry self in that a call can make up for the unforgiveable absent mindedness or overlooking of the clearly marked entry on the calendar. If my youngest sister had £1 for every time I told her there was a card in the post she would, by now, have sufficient funds to get quite a nice padded one with sickly sweet rhyming couplets and attempted alliteration for 'unique', 'fantastic' and 'sooper dooper special'. She must by now be worried that her postal delivery person is on the take as nothing that I have vehemently professed to be 'in the mail' has ever arrived.
This year, well yesterday to be exact, was a further sub-section in my catalogue of shame.
I did remember the significance of 26th October. I was determined to make an attempt to return the sing-song birthday greeting as a small gesture of reconciliation for what I refer to as the lost years of distant separation from my youngest sister. On a positive note, if you took into account all the years that I omitted a greeting, my sister would still only be in her early thirties.
The time difference between East Yorkshire and Tennessee thwarted my initial plans. A call placed at 8am British Summer Time would equate to 3am in Memphis. I would have to put post-it notes in prominent positions on the car dashboard, my desktop computer and in the lavatory at work to keep my plan live and viable.
A problem was evident at about 2.30pm UK time. I had three different phone numbers for my sister on my contact list. A voicemail received from her the week before had been deleted amongst my forty or so
saved messages in one of my enforced purges to make my mobile phone lighter. Logically I presumed that the last one listed would be the most recent. I dialled it. The pause and then the very distinctive Stateside ring tone of two short tones, rest and then repeating could be heard so I was at least on the right Continent.
An automated non-descript voice urged me to leave a message. At the tone I launched into a Gilbert and Sullivanesque version of 'Happy Birthday to You' with accentuated high and low notes and a melodic finale of 'Yoooooooooo' over a couple of wheezy and squeaky octaves. It was, in my mind, a competent performance, but no cigar as they say.
At about 3pm my mobile showed an incoming call from the number I had used. I had made a contingency plan that if a missed call was noted on my sister's phone I would give another live rendition. Mindful of an increased number of colleagues in the office this version was more in the style of an obscene call, low gruff voice, monotone and frankly, not a little bit menacing.
A male voice on the line asked in a rather effeminate drawl ' who's calling please?'. This was totally unforseen on my part and I, colouring up rapidly, explained that the number had been my sisters work phone but obviously was not now. Regaining some composure I went on to say that he could use, without fear of sanction, my previous and recorded greeting for any of his family and friends as long as they were called Susan. The man was most gracious for my intrusion and assumptions as to his private circumstances and we ended the call with him passing on his best greetings to my sister.
Obviously, 'Happy Birthday to You' is a widely accepted, non threatening, gender neutral and not faction or religion specific sentiment. There was a brief understanding and bond between myself and the mistaken recipient. I did immediately delete the number however, out of the operating interests of my old and limited mobile phone.
I did eventually make contact with my sister on her Special Day with a third , and by now rather weary version of the song.
I am hopeful that the birthday card will arrive soon.
I am not now sure if I put an old address for somewhere in St Petersburg, Florida on the oversized envelope containing a squidgy soft, upholstered and gloriously cheesey rhymed offering. The sheer scale of the weighty tome should make it difficult for that thieving bastard at US Postal to ride off into the sunset with it on his handlebars as he has done every year for the past decade and more.
In the days before name and number display I could be in a meeting, up in a loft or otherwise indisposed and, taking the call, have 18 seconds of a personalised and unconditional 'Happy Birthday to You' sung down the line.
This could be overheard and envied by my fellow delegates around the conference table, sound close-up, personal and comforting under the eaves of a roof or just echo around the toilet compartment with me trying to hide the fact that I was in the loo.
The receiving of such a sentiment is a great boost to an already special day. My other siblings are also, on the occasions of their birthday days, so celebrated and it does bring us together even though we are now, as a famliy, reasonably dispersed around the UK and in the case of youngest sister, in Memphis, Tennessee, USA.
A birthday phone call is however often used with guilt as a main motivation. I speak for my own sorry self in that a call can make up for the unforgiveable absent mindedness or overlooking of the clearly marked entry on the calendar. If my youngest sister had £1 for every time I told her there was a card in the post she would, by now, have sufficient funds to get quite a nice padded one with sickly sweet rhyming couplets and attempted alliteration for 'unique', 'fantastic' and 'sooper dooper special'. She must by now be worried that her postal delivery person is on the take as nothing that I have vehemently professed to be 'in the mail' has ever arrived.
This year, well yesterday to be exact, was a further sub-section in my catalogue of shame.
I did remember the significance of 26th October. I was determined to make an attempt to return the sing-song birthday greeting as a small gesture of reconciliation for what I refer to as the lost years of distant separation from my youngest sister. On a positive note, if you took into account all the years that I omitted a greeting, my sister would still only be in her early thirties.
The time difference between East Yorkshire and Tennessee thwarted my initial plans. A call placed at 8am British Summer Time would equate to 3am in Memphis. I would have to put post-it notes in prominent positions on the car dashboard, my desktop computer and in the lavatory at work to keep my plan live and viable.
A problem was evident at about 2.30pm UK time. I had three different phone numbers for my sister on my contact list. A voicemail received from her the week before had been deleted amongst my forty or so
saved messages in one of my enforced purges to make my mobile phone lighter. Logically I presumed that the last one listed would be the most recent. I dialled it. The pause and then the very distinctive Stateside ring tone of two short tones, rest and then repeating could be heard so I was at least on the right Continent.
An automated non-descript voice urged me to leave a message. At the tone I launched into a Gilbert and Sullivanesque version of 'Happy Birthday to You' with accentuated high and low notes and a melodic finale of 'Yoooooooooo' over a couple of wheezy and squeaky octaves. It was, in my mind, a competent performance, but no cigar as they say.
At about 3pm my mobile showed an incoming call from the number I had used. I had made a contingency plan that if a missed call was noted on my sister's phone I would give another live rendition. Mindful of an increased number of colleagues in the office this version was more in the style of an obscene call, low gruff voice, monotone and frankly, not a little bit menacing.
A male voice on the line asked in a rather effeminate drawl ' who's calling please?'. This was totally unforseen on my part and I, colouring up rapidly, explained that the number had been my sisters work phone but obviously was not now. Regaining some composure I went on to say that he could use, without fear of sanction, my previous and recorded greeting for any of his family and friends as long as they were called Susan. The man was most gracious for my intrusion and assumptions as to his private circumstances and we ended the call with him passing on his best greetings to my sister.
Obviously, 'Happy Birthday to You' is a widely accepted, non threatening, gender neutral and not faction or religion specific sentiment. There was a brief understanding and bond between myself and the mistaken recipient. I did immediately delete the number however, out of the operating interests of my old and limited mobile phone.
I did eventually make contact with my sister on her Special Day with a third , and by now rather weary version of the song.
I am hopeful that the birthday card will arrive soon.
I am not now sure if I put an old address for somewhere in St Petersburg, Florida on the oversized envelope containing a squidgy soft, upholstered and gloriously cheesey rhymed offering. The sheer scale of the weighty tome should make it difficult for that thieving bastard at US Postal to ride off into the sunset with it on his handlebars as he has done every year for the past decade and more.
Friday 26 October 2012
Best Advice of Jiminy Cricket
My big sister taught me how to whistle.
Not just a pursed lips tuneful type whistle but a fully feldged, four fingers in the mouth wolf whistle which when she did it put many lecherous builders attempts to shame. It was a mystery where she learnt the technique or who from. She has never been the type to hang out with typical whistlers. It was well practised and mastered by the time she passed on the knowledge to me.
I was quite quick to take it up and indeed I think that my trumpet playing days in a brass band will have helped in toning the muscles required to really let rip when a raucous whistle is really the only thing called for in a situation. I do not frequently use or abuse the skill because it is not just the penetrating and shrill sound that is important but the element of surprise when it comes from a most unlikely source, ie someone who looks as placid and docile as I do.
It is an ideal communication tool to attract the attention of a person in a crowd. Even in a thronging, busy street the tone and pitch cut through all residual noises from traffic to roadworks. As soon as a whistle permeates the air the results are astounding. With no exceptions, apart from the hard of hearing, all women look up and try to ascertain if it is directed at them. In a straw poll I would anticipate a 60% to 40% approval rate. Men do not display any apparent interest or emotion but do try to track the direction of the whistle and if it is an indication of any thing 'kicking off'. This will give them the information to make a choice whether they should avoid a potential fracas or participate.
As a means of expressing enjoyment it is an ideal tool. I have experimented with a repetitive pattern of whistling at a concert, for example, so that if there is a subsequent release of a CD or DVD of the live performance I can possibly look forward to hearing myself. This has not, I should stress, happened yet after a dozen or so attempts at highjacking the life's work of a number of music artists.
I do have a repertoire of finer whistling for special occasions.
This was developed during the many hours I spent trying to find and retrieve the family dog from some thicket where it was usually head down and oblivious in a rabbit hole. A good tune can help the time to pass very quickly and when accompanied by humming, a staccato percussion line and throaty bass rhythm the results be truly epic and spectacular. Unfortunately there was never anyone around ,in the hours of darkness dog walking ,within hearing distance to witness my best efforts.
I now do not realise that I am whistling. It is an automatic operation and this can be in all situations regardless of the politeness, tact and appropriateness of making such a noise. If not whistling it is full on humming. My Mother in Law expressed concern to her daughter about my personal accompanying soundtrack asking if it was down to stress. Far from it. I am convinced that my whistling and humming has in fact served to alleviate worry and the pressures in everyday life. I cannot however vouch for the feelings and emotions of those who have to listen to me all day long.
Not just a pursed lips tuneful type whistle but a fully feldged, four fingers in the mouth wolf whistle which when she did it put many lecherous builders attempts to shame. It was a mystery where she learnt the technique or who from. She has never been the type to hang out with typical whistlers. It was well practised and mastered by the time she passed on the knowledge to me.
I was quite quick to take it up and indeed I think that my trumpet playing days in a brass band will have helped in toning the muscles required to really let rip when a raucous whistle is really the only thing called for in a situation. I do not frequently use or abuse the skill because it is not just the penetrating and shrill sound that is important but the element of surprise when it comes from a most unlikely source, ie someone who looks as placid and docile as I do.
It is an ideal communication tool to attract the attention of a person in a crowd. Even in a thronging, busy street the tone and pitch cut through all residual noises from traffic to roadworks. As soon as a whistle permeates the air the results are astounding. With no exceptions, apart from the hard of hearing, all women look up and try to ascertain if it is directed at them. In a straw poll I would anticipate a 60% to 40% approval rate. Men do not display any apparent interest or emotion but do try to track the direction of the whistle and if it is an indication of any thing 'kicking off'. This will give them the information to make a choice whether they should avoid a potential fracas or participate.
As a means of expressing enjoyment it is an ideal tool. I have experimented with a repetitive pattern of whistling at a concert, for example, so that if there is a subsequent release of a CD or DVD of the live performance I can possibly look forward to hearing myself. This has not, I should stress, happened yet after a dozen or so attempts at highjacking the life's work of a number of music artists.
I do have a repertoire of finer whistling for special occasions.
This was developed during the many hours I spent trying to find and retrieve the family dog from some thicket where it was usually head down and oblivious in a rabbit hole. A good tune can help the time to pass very quickly and when accompanied by humming, a staccato percussion line and throaty bass rhythm the results be truly epic and spectacular. Unfortunately there was never anyone around ,in the hours of darkness dog walking ,within hearing distance to witness my best efforts.
I now do not realise that I am whistling. It is an automatic operation and this can be in all situations regardless of the politeness, tact and appropriateness of making such a noise. If not whistling it is full on humming. My Mother in Law expressed concern to her daughter about my personal accompanying soundtrack asking if it was down to stress. Far from it. I am convinced that my whistling and humming has in fact served to alleviate worry and the pressures in everyday life. I cannot however vouch for the feelings and emotions of those who have to listen to me all day long.
Thursday 25 October 2012
Take your Pick - a cautionary tale
He always seemed to have his finger up his nose.
Even as a small child I can only ever remember him with his finger up there.
Not just a casual one fingered exploration but a whole hearted obsession as though he was looking for something, a vague memory of something casually inserted and then long lost up his left nostril.
His parents would cry out in despair at the first indication of a digital probing.
They would invoke all of the best cliches from 'The Book of Parental Cliches' and in the chapter on the active discouragement of nose picking there were plenty to choose from. An everyday one was 'get your finger out or you'll not want your tea'. A further one, on a scare tactic basis was 'stop that or your brain will fall out'. If the threat of not being provided with a regular meal or a Dr Who type prospect of cerebral loss was not sufficient then there was always the stalwart of ' if the wind changes your finger will get stuck up there'.
None of these attempts at shaming or intimidation showed any success in curtailing the nose picking habit over his formative years up to the age of four. On the rare occasions that the nasal passage was free of his finger there was always trouble. He was always very, very snotty. When the mucus was not actually conglomerated between nose and top lip it was collected in a sticky mass between elbow and sleeve cuff. His mother tried all manner of biological and non-bio wash powders and detergents to lift and dissolve the horrible residue but nothing could shift it, not even resorting to a good old fashioned boil wash in her best saucepan on the gas cooker top.
The arm sweeping motion of nose wiping across his face became a source of great mimickry and amusement by those in his pre-school days. Small children can be very cruel when such an obvious characteristic of a classmate can be capitalised upon. Unfortunately, even the teaching staff picked up on his tendency and one of his tutors narrowly avoided referring to him as the snotty boy at a parents evening when face to face with his parents.
By the time the boy reached an age to attend the local Infants School he was more likely to be kept at home than run the gauntlet of name calling and bullying. It was a miserable existence for the boy and his family. There was talk of attending a Therapist who could devise alternative strategies to picking the nose. If a large fund could be raised there was even a six week Snot Camp option in the United States where tough love, periodic restraint of the active finger and chemical based treatments were avocated with some success according to independent research by leading authorities in their field. The thought of organising a Charitable Fund Raiser for something with such a social stigma attached to it was nightmarish on its own.
The boy was not deterred from his one fingered exploits. Soon the family came to accept that if the house was calm and quiet then it was because the boy was happily engaged in picking his nose.
Some years later when it was time to attend Senior School the boy was assisited by being one of a very large number of students and could enjoy reasonable anonymity. The runny noses and adenoidal problems began to give cause for concern amongst his parents. These factors and the onset of puberty resulted in the boy resembling a large, mobile and squeaky voiced organic blob, especially around the facial area where everything was either dripping, seeping or erupting.
The School medical officer, an avid viewer of TV programmes on embarassing bodies and teenage complaints, adopted the boy as a project and a challenge. Under regular observation as a guinea pig for bacteriological wipes, face washes and ointments there were miraculous results in complexion and skin texture. It was just the nasal area that continued to give problems.
Under consultation with the boys General Practitioner it was proposed that a medical operation simultaneously on adenoids and tonsils would go a long way to eliminating the irritations of the nasal passage' It was hoped that this would give the boy the confidence to stop his nose picking habit for good. That would serve him well as he entered the adult world.
The procedures went well. The boy was recuperating splendidly. The Surgeon was completely satisfied and predicted great things in terms of ease of respiration and clarity of voice.
On the morning of being discharged from the hospital a final X-Ray was taken to give an indication of how the tissues and membranes were settling down in the nasal passage. A slight abnormality was noticed in the left passage which had not shown up before. At first it was thought to be a scar from the operation but the shape, profile and density of the object was not compatible with mere bruising or abrasion.
In an out-patient procedure a probe was manouevred up into the nose, a clever piece of equipment with a telescopic claw which could be manipulated to enclose, grip and then extract various sizes of obstruction from the main bodily orifices.
To the surprise of all attending the small retractable device retrieved a smooth edged reddish tinted pebble. The boys parents gasped. They recognised the hue and shape of the pebble from an area of loose dressed yard in the house that they had occupied when first married and had vacated when the boy was about 2 years old.
Everything now became very clear.
As a toddler the pebbles will have formed a fascination to an inquisitive mind. They could be picked up and discarded in a wonderful clattering sound like a heavy shower , loaded into toy cars, shaken in a Tommy Tippee cup like maracas. Best of all one of them could be carefully inserted into the left nasal opening, pushed hard up as far as it could go and then as a source of comfort and reassurance, of a fonder time,to be regularly felt and appreciated by a probing finger whenever there was an urge to do so.
Even as a small child I can only ever remember him with his finger up there.
Not just a casual one fingered exploration but a whole hearted obsession as though he was looking for something, a vague memory of something casually inserted and then long lost up his left nostril.
His parents would cry out in despair at the first indication of a digital probing.
They would invoke all of the best cliches from 'The Book of Parental Cliches' and in the chapter on the active discouragement of nose picking there were plenty to choose from. An everyday one was 'get your finger out or you'll not want your tea'. A further one, on a scare tactic basis was 'stop that or your brain will fall out'. If the threat of not being provided with a regular meal or a Dr Who type prospect of cerebral loss was not sufficient then there was always the stalwart of ' if the wind changes your finger will get stuck up there'.
None of these attempts at shaming or intimidation showed any success in curtailing the nose picking habit over his formative years up to the age of four. On the rare occasions that the nasal passage was free of his finger there was always trouble. He was always very, very snotty. When the mucus was not actually conglomerated between nose and top lip it was collected in a sticky mass between elbow and sleeve cuff. His mother tried all manner of biological and non-bio wash powders and detergents to lift and dissolve the horrible residue but nothing could shift it, not even resorting to a good old fashioned boil wash in her best saucepan on the gas cooker top.
The arm sweeping motion of nose wiping across his face became a source of great mimickry and amusement by those in his pre-school days. Small children can be very cruel when such an obvious characteristic of a classmate can be capitalised upon. Unfortunately, even the teaching staff picked up on his tendency and one of his tutors narrowly avoided referring to him as the snotty boy at a parents evening when face to face with his parents.
By the time the boy reached an age to attend the local Infants School he was more likely to be kept at home than run the gauntlet of name calling and bullying. It was a miserable existence for the boy and his family. There was talk of attending a Therapist who could devise alternative strategies to picking the nose. If a large fund could be raised there was even a six week Snot Camp option in the United States where tough love, periodic restraint of the active finger and chemical based treatments were avocated with some success according to independent research by leading authorities in their field. The thought of organising a Charitable Fund Raiser for something with such a social stigma attached to it was nightmarish on its own.
The boy was not deterred from his one fingered exploits. Soon the family came to accept that if the house was calm and quiet then it was because the boy was happily engaged in picking his nose.
Some years later when it was time to attend Senior School the boy was assisited by being one of a very large number of students and could enjoy reasonable anonymity. The runny noses and adenoidal problems began to give cause for concern amongst his parents. These factors and the onset of puberty resulted in the boy resembling a large, mobile and squeaky voiced organic blob, especially around the facial area where everything was either dripping, seeping or erupting.
The School medical officer, an avid viewer of TV programmes on embarassing bodies and teenage complaints, adopted the boy as a project and a challenge. Under regular observation as a guinea pig for bacteriological wipes, face washes and ointments there were miraculous results in complexion and skin texture. It was just the nasal area that continued to give problems.
Under consultation with the boys General Practitioner it was proposed that a medical operation simultaneously on adenoids and tonsils would go a long way to eliminating the irritations of the nasal passage' It was hoped that this would give the boy the confidence to stop his nose picking habit for good. That would serve him well as he entered the adult world.
The procedures went well. The boy was recuperating splendidly. The Surgeon was completely satisfied and predicted great things in terms of ease of respiration and clarity of voice.
On the morning of being discharged from the hospital a final X-Ray was taken to give an indication of how the tissues and membranes were settling down in the nasal passage. A slight abnormality was noticed in the left passage which had not shown up before. At first it was thought to be a scar from the operation but the shape, profile and density of the object was not compatible with mere bruising or abrasion.
In an out-patient procedure a probe was manouevred up into the nose, a clever piece of equipment with a telescopic claw which could be manipulated to enclose, grip and then extract various sizes of obstruction from the main bodily orifices.
To the surprise of all attending the small retractable device retrieved a smooth edged reddish tinted pebble. The boys parents gasped. They recognised the hue and shape of the pebble from an area of loose dressed yard in the house that they had occupied when first married and had vacated when the boy was about 2 years old.
Everything now became very clear.
As a toddler the pebbles will have formed a fascination to an inquisitive mind. They could be picked up and discarded in a wonderful clattering sound like a heavy shower , loaded into toy cars, shaken in a Tommy Tippee cup like maracas. Best of all one of them could be carefully inserted into the left nasal opening, pushed hard up as far as it could go and then as a source of comfort and reassurance, of a fonder time,to be regularly felt and appreciated by a probing finger whenever there was an urge to do so.
Wednesday 24 October 2012
Maybe
At the time I did not think that 'Maybe' was a very good name for a ship.
A piece of equipment to be relied upon in life threatening situations upon towering waves and seemingly bottomless troughs with the violent turbulence in between should have a stronger name, for sure. 'Maybe' would have suited a rowing boat or a dinghy. It is a name which inspires a bit of optimism in a lotta laughs sort of way, and would certainly be a sentiment called upon if such a small craft drifted into the bow shadow of a large aircraft carrier,bulk carrier or globe trotting multi storey cruise ship. 'Maybe' just does not give a feeling of invincibilty and confidence on the open seas or even the local boating lake.
The story behind the name is however interesting.
Commissioned by a wealthy Dutchman in 1933 the boat was designed to fulfill the dreams and aspirations of that individual and his family for travelling and adventure. During the war years it was hidden in a muddy backwater as it would have been quite a prize for some self important invader and no doubt commandered, requisitioned or just plain stolen away to some private wharf in the Fatherland. Post war it began to take part in the Tall Ships Races, a glamourous and evocative sounding lifestyle, the playground of the rich and famous. The image of crystal clear waters, powder blue skies and warm sunshine could not be more distant than the lock basin of Hull Marina on a murky wednesday afternoon in October through which 'Maybe' was being carefully teased.
I was a bit of a captive audience in that the inner lock gate was already open and my passage across on foot was postponed. The outer gate was in the early stages of mechanical activation to drain out the basin and allow the ship out into the also murky River Humber. I was effectively trapped for a few moments.
I feared the worst, in a sort of morbid and fascinated way, for the coming together of ship superstructure and the inanimate thing that is the landmass of West Hull as the long vessel swung into the basin from the busy Marina. One of the crew in the bows gave the universal symbol of a very close thing but no drama with a thumbs up although his colleague some sixty feet back at the wheel will have been unsighted and oblivious to how close he had been to an embarassing scrape and crunch. Either that or he was supremely skilled and proficient in tight quarter navigational techniques.
Now that the grand ship was directly in front of me as it awaited the seeping away of the waters I could see that the deck was littered with bodies. In between Ocean Racing and Corporate jollies the main role of the Dutchman's dream was as a sail training school.
The compliment on board looked to be a timid and apprehensive group of teenagers. This brings me back to the lack of inspiration and confidence in 'Maybe' and I imagine that their doting parents, signing off their offspring in loco parentis for a few days would be equally anxious. The shipping forecast would for the duration be avidly followed in kitchens and living rooms of those left at home.
So early in the voyage, about twenty minutes, it was a case of the only communication being 'do not touch anything', and relations between crew and pupils were distant and strange. The youngsters were huddled low on the plank deck, well kitted out in all weather gear and life jackets but nevertheless visibly shivering from cold and fear.
Within a few hours of leaving behind the familiar waterfront of Hull there would be the start of a very strong bond and trust between all those on board. The mooring ropes were loosely tied to the basin wall as the ship began to drop slowly and uniformly to the level of the wild river beyond the substantial timber outer gate. By now there was quite a large gathering on the quayside but mainly comprised of impatient types wanting to cross rather than having a passing or fleeting interest in how to get a Tall Ship through a narrow lock.
I would be home and warm in about half an hour whilst ship, crew and trainees would just be edging out towards Spurn Point and where the choppy waters of the Humber would look positively millpond-like in comparison to the ragings and swell of the North Sea.That would of course depend on whether the mist and drizzle lifted enough for them to appreciate their surroundings.
I did, I admit, feel a small twinge of envy about their adventure that lay ahead up the Yorkshire Coast towards Whitby and beyond.
Life on board a sailing ship of classical proportions promised much in the way of self discovery and motivation and those going out as hapless youths would return as fully rounded and confident citizens with a fresh and exciting new aspect on how they would conduct their own lives and futures on a positive course ................................................maybe.
Ah, yes, it is all very clear now. Clever.
A piece of equipment to be relied upon in life threatening situations upon towering waves and seemingly bottomless troughs with the violent turbulence in between should have a stronger name, for sure. 'Maybe' would have suited a rowing boat or a dinghy. It is a name which inspires a bit of optimism in a lotta laughs sort of way, and would certainly be a sentiment called upon if such a small craft drifted into the bow shadow of a large aircraft carrier,bulk carrier or globe trotting multi storey cruise ship. 'Maybe' just does not give a feeling of invincibilty and confidence on the open seas or even the local boating lake.
The story behind the name is however interesting.
Commissioned by a wealthy Dutchman in 1933 the boat was designed to fulfill the dreams and aspirations of that individual and his family for travelling and adventure. During the war years it was hidden in a muddy backwater as it would have been quite a prize for some self important invader and no doubt commandered, requisitioned or just plain stolen away to some private wharf in the Fatherland. Post war it began to take part in the Tall Ships Races, a glamourous and evocative sounding lifestyle, the playground of the rich and famous. The image of crystal clear waters, powder blue skies and warm sunshine could not be more distant than the lock basin of Hull Marina on a murky wednesday afternoon in October through which 'Maybe' was being carefully teased.
I was a bit of a captive audience in that the inner lock gate was already open and my passage across on foot was postponed. The outer gate was in the early stages of mechanical activation to drain out the basin and allow the ship out into the also murky River Humber. I was effectively trapped for a few moments.
I feared the worst, in a sort of morbid and fascinated way, for the coming together of ship superstructure and the inanimate thing that is the landmass of West Hull as the long vessel swung into the basin from the busy Marina. One of the crew in the bows gave the universal symbol of a very close thing but no drama with a thumbs up although his colleague some sixty feet back at the wheel will have been unsighted and oblivious to how close he had been to an embarassing scrape and crunch. Either that or he was supremely skilled and proficient in tight quarter navigational techniques.
Now that the grand ship was directly in front of me as it awaited the seeping away of the waters I could see that the deck was littered with bodies. In between Ocean Racing and Corporate jollies the main role of the Dutchman's dream was as a sail training school.
The compliment on board looked to be a timid and apprehensive group of teenagers. This brings me back to the lack of inspiration and confidence in 'Maybe' and I imagine that their doting parents, signing off their offspring in loco parentis for a few days would be equally anxious. The shipping forecast would for the duration be avidly followed in kitchens and living rooms of those left at home.
So early in the voyage, about twenty minutes, it was a case of the only communication being 'do not touch anything', and relations between crew and pupils were distant and strange. The youngsters were huddled low on the plank deck, well kitted out in all weather gear and life jackets but nevertheless visibly shivering from cold and fear.
Within a few hours of leaving behind the familiar waterfront of Hull there would be the start of a very strong bond and trust between all those on board. The mooring ropes were loosely tied to the basin wall as the ship began to drop slowly and uniformly to the level of the wild river beyond the substantial timber outer gate. By now there was quite a large gathering on the quayside but mainly comprised of impatient types wanting to cross rather than having a passing or fleeting interest in how to get a Tall Ship through a narrow lock.
I would be home and warm in about half an hour whilst ship, crew and trainees would just be edging out towards Spurn Point and where the choppy waters of the Humber would look positively millpond-like in comparison to the ragings and swell of the North Sea.That would of course depend on whether the mist and drizzle lifted enough for them to appreciate their surroundings.
I did, I admit, feel a small twinge of envy about their adventure that lay ahead up the Yorkshire Coast towards Whitby and beyond.
Life on board a sailing ship of classical proportions promised much in the way of self discovery and motivation and those going out as hapless youths would return as fully rounded and confident citizens with a fresh and exciting new aspect on how they would conduct their own lives and futures on a positive course ................................................maybe.
Ah, yes, it is all very clear now. Clever.
In The Public Eye
I am beginning to realise that I am a 'YES' man.
It has not been a recent discovery or revelation but more of a slow dawning that I was also a 'YES' child, a 'YES' boy and a 'YES' youth.
It has not been a yearning for attention or somehow a reflection of a deprived upbringing because nothing is farther from the truth. I am part of a large and loving family where my parents shared out the nurturing and encouragement in equal shares which at 20% per child must have been very difficult but they more than excelled at it. We were all brought up to appreciate and respect others and ourselves and to accept everyone as an individual with their own feelings and ambitions.
The 'YES' thing was just a natural response to helping others and making their lives a little bit easier in what could seem like a troublesome and often frightening world.
As a child staring off in a life of 'YES' I was always volunteering or otherwise being volunteered for something. It may have been the case that there was a request for a particular job or role and for willing participants to actually step forward from the assembled line. I was quite well known for losing concentration and not paying full attention and so it was perfectly possible that my classmates or the whole school took a collective step back to leave me, staring vacantly, in the box seat.
In this manner I remember, vaguely being dressed as Joseph in a Nativity Play at infants school whereas I would have been more than happy with something like fifth sheep or twentieth Herod Guard. It was in the true manner of productions a silent role but still quite an ordeal facing a school hall full of fellow pupils, their parents and relatives and the staff.
I was also quite a nervy child and you would think that with a regular experience of being thrust into the spotlight I would get used to it but I just did not. In junior school we put on a very ambitious performance of Victorian school life and times. I again found myself pushed up to the front in what must have been the lead role of a scruffy urchin in scenes obvously copied from biscuit tin scenes of Dickensian times or like a set of table mats that my parents had for best sunday dinner times depicting Cries of London Town. Most of my early years, up to age 11 were spent wearing short trousers and so I found myself so attired with a white uniform shirt, waistcoat and oversized flat cap on a stage in the school hall in front of a large audience including the local Member of Parliament. It was a very expansive production with hoop bowling children, lots of Oliver Twist lookalikes, blacked up child labourers from crawling up chimney flues or extracted from under the heavy and hazardous industrial machines and processes of that era. Another non-speaking role but making the most of my talents for looking distracted, vague and distant.
Senior school saw some reprieve from voluntary activities mainly because I was one in a much larger number and could hide and shirk from any tentative requests for the willing and able to do something. If there was however any protracted and awkward silence in the classroom at the announcement of a project or requirement my 'YES' tendency would overwhelm my dominant reluctance. I felt that my stepping up would alleviate any stress or pressure on my fellow pupils.
In such a manner I found myself responsible as part of a small group to drag a heavy canvas sheeting across the gymnasium floor every schoolday morning to protect the polished floor from the footfalls of 400 students who assembled there for hymns, prayers, announcements and the occasional naming and shaming of miscreants and those caught smoking or worse behind the bicycle shed. It was a horrible job, heavy, dusty and choking work. As with a sheet of paper it is only possible to fold the material so many times before it becomes impossible. Imagine the same with a huge, thick and unwieldy acre of rigid cloth that had to be reduced to the size of a duvet cover in order to fit into the store-room. The staff did obviously feel guilty about this task because us volunteers were given a whole days extra holiday after five years service. Probably less of a reward than offered to a Roman Centurion but nevertheless very welcome. Of course the generation of dust and fibres may actually contribute to a much reduced life expectancy from respiratory and lung problems but we do not yet know that.
Out of school life I was regularly asked to read out lessons and prayers in the local Church or at ceremonies where our Church was participating. This implies that I was in demand. In reality it was a very small congregation, illustrated by the fact that my Mother and two sisters made up fifty percent of the choir, and boys with clear voices were in short supply. My delivery from the pulpit, on the altar steps or once from amongst the ruins of an Abbey in an open air act or worship was remarked upon as being loud and precise. That was polite way of saying that I shouted and spoke in a very slow and laboured manner. The elderly and hard of hearing were the most common cross section of the congregation to compliment me. I must have looked a complete and utter Little Lord Fauntleroy and the only twelve year old in the world, apart from royal princes , to own a sports jacket.
My self consciousness and nerves soon got the better of me in public which may have been exacerbated by reaching puberty and realising that I was not very good at drama, or any type of performance and so I retired at age 15 years from such things.
In adult life people still ask you to do things and I once more found myself on committees and in steering groups for different organisations. I discovered some ability to arrange dinner functions and cycle races because the organisational work could be done methodically and in my own time leaving the actual event as just a formality and just a little bit more enjoyable for that.
With age does come, unfortunately, a degree of apathy and cynicism when the call goes out for volunteers. There are always keen fresh faced individuals ready to take up and run with a task and I now find that it is me who takes a rapid step backwards in such circumstances. I feel that I have served my time on the front line of making a fool of myself and am content just to clap and cheer those who step up to the plate.
It has not been a recent discovery or revelation but more of a slow dawning that I was also a 'YES' child, a 'YES' boy and a 'YES' youth.
It has not been a yearning for attention or somehow a reflection of a deprived upbringing because nothing is farther from the truth. I am part of a large and loving family where my parents shared out the nurturing and encouragement in equal shares which at 20% per child must have been very difficult but they more than excelled at it. We were all brought up to appreciate and respect others and ourselves and to accept everyone as an individual with their own feelings and ambitions.
The 'YES' thing was just a natural response to helping others and making their lives a little bit easier in what could seem like a troublesome and often frightening world.
As a child staring off in a life of 'YES' I was always volunteering or otherwise being volunteered for something. It may have been the case that there was a request for a particular job or role and for willing participants to actually step forward from the assembled line. I was quite well known for losing concentration and not paying full attention and so it was perfectly possible that my classmates or the whole school took a collective step back to leave me, staring vacantly, in the box seat.
In this manner I remember, vaguely being dressed as Joseph in a Nativity Play at infants school whereas I would have been more than happy with something like fifth sheep or twentieth Herod Guard. It was in the true manner of productions a silent role but still quite an ordeal facing a school hall full of fellow pupils, their parents and relatives and the staff.
I was also quite a nervy child and you would think that with a regular experience of being thrust into the spotlight I would get used to it but I just did not. In junior school we put on a very ambitious performance of Victorian school life and times. I again found myself pushed up to the front in what must have been the lead role of a scruffy urchin in scenes obvously copied from biscuit tin scenes of Dickensian times or like a set of table mats that my parents had for best sunday dinner times depicting Cries of London Town. Most of my early years, up to age 11 were spent wearing short trousers and so I found myself so attired with a white uniform shirt, waistcoat and oversized flat cap on a stage in the school hall in front of a large audience including the local Member of Parliament. It was a very expansive production with hoop bowling children, lots of Oliver Twist lookalikes, blacked up child labourers from crawling up chimney flues or extracted from under the heavy and hazardous industrial machines and processes of that era. Another non-speaking role but making the most of my talents for looking distracted, vague and distant.
Senior school saw some reprieve from voluntary activities mainly because I was one in a much larger number and could hide and shirk from any tentative requests for the willing and able to do something. If there was however any protracted and awkward silence in the classroom at the announcement of a project or requirement my 'YES' tendency would overwhelm my dominant reluctance. I felt that my stepping up would alleviate any stress or pressure on my fellow pupils.
In such a manner I found myself responsible as part of a small group to drag a heavy canvas sheeting across the gymnasium floor every schoolday morning to protect the polished floor from the footfalls of 400 students who assembled there for hymns, prayers, announcements and the occasional naming and shaming of miscreants and those caught smoking or worse behind the bicycle shed. It was a horrible job, heavy, dusty and choking work. As with a sheet of paper it is only possible to fold the material so many times before it becomes impossible. Imagine the same with a huge, thick and unwieldy acre of rigid cloth that had to be reduced to the size of a duvet cover in order to fit into the store-room. The staff did obviously feel guilty about this task because us volunteers were given a whole days extra holiday after five years service. Probably less of a reward than offered to a Roman Centurion but nevertheless very welcome. Of course the generation of dust and fibres may actually contribute to a much reduced life expectancy from respiratory and lung problems but we do not yet know that.
Out of school life I was regularly asked to read out lessons and prayers in the local Church or at ceremonies where our Church was participating. This implies that I was in demand. In reality it was a very small congregation, illustrated by the fact that my Mother and two sisters made up fifty percent of the choir, and boys with clear voices were in short supply. My delivery from the pulpit, on the altar steps or once from amongst the ruins of an Abbey in an open air act or worship was remarked upon as being loud and precise. That was polite way of saying that I shouted and spoke in a very slow and laboured manner. The elderly and hard of hearing were the most common cross section of the congregation to compliment me. I must have looked a complete and utter Little Lord Fauntleroy and the only twelve year old in the world, apart from royal princes , to own a sports jacket.
My self consciousness and nerves soon got the better of me in public which may have been exacerbated by reaching puberty and realising that I was not very good at drama, or any type of performance and so I retired at age 15 years from such things.
In adult life people still ask you to do things and I once more found myself on committees and in steering groups for different organisations. I discovered some ability to arrange dinner functions and cycle races because the organisational work could be done methodically and in my own time leaving the actual event as just a formality and just a little bit more enjoyable for that.
With age does come, unfortunately, a degree of apathy and cynicism when the call goes out for volunteers. There are always keen fresh faced individuals ready to take up and run with a task and I now find that it is me who takes a rapid step backwards in such circumstances. I feel that I have served my time on the front line of making a fool of myself and am content just to clap and cheer those who step up to the plate.
Monday 22 October 2012
Left handed hammer
A regular spot in the school calendar is allocated to the mass exodus of students off the premises for one to two weeks for the purposes of gaining Work Experience.
I went through the process myself at age 16 but who, at that age actually knows what their vocation will be, apart from the Dalai Lama or those in direct succession to a throne.
The careers teacher at my secondary school had the attitude that she could have had any job she wanted but had obviously failed in that endeavour. Good motivational attitude there then. The school had longstanding links with local companies who in the distant past had expressed willingness to take on a pupil.Some of the associations were, from the list I was provided with, a bit out of date unless you had firm intentions of becoming a fellmonger, cordwainer or powder monkey.
Some employer attitudes were genuinely helpful. They had possibly been in that position themselves or were Old Boys of the school. Other employers simply saw it as one to two weeks of forced and unpaid labour. It was common for the work experience period to coincide with the impulsive ambition of proprietors to clean out the drains, gutters, litter and scrap strewn back yards or ancient dusty attics within the commercial areas of the town.
The choice of placement even to the unsure of mind could make or break the legitimate absence from normal school routine. The usual positions were with law firms, accountants, shop work, builders and in public service organisations. I was faintly interested in land and property so I was matched to a local firm of Surveyors, Valuers and Estate Agents. Dressed smartly I turned up at their town centre premises and was left sitting around for a couple of hours, blushing and getting in the way until one of the Partners asked if he could help, thinking I was a customer. The awkward moments of confirming by phone with the school that the firm had liability and responsibility for me for a week did not help my fragile confidence.
I was, by midday, allocated to the Drawing Office. The firm was very old fashioned but very traditional and covered all the disciplines required to service the landed and property interests of the county. My first period as an intern in the drawing office was a completely new experience. The Land Surveyor was designing a drainage scheme for an agricultural field out by the River Humber Bank in the wilds of Holderness. I assisted in clomping around in the muddy acres with a 3m tall red and white ranging pole whilst the surveyor frantically gesticulated where I should stand, stop, move, stop and so on for the rest of the day. At each point he took a reading of the level from his theodolite. The windy open field and an ever increasing distance between us made the scene quite comical. I returned home at the end of the day with a very ruddy and wind blown appearance.
The next day I was seconded to the Estates Management Department. I was provided with yet another 3m long pole but this time with a paint brush lashed to the top. My brief was to identify all dead trees in a wooded thicket on a managed farm and then paint on a white cross in a prominent position. This would enable a lumberjacking contractor to follow on and fell them. I stress that no training was given. The judgement of life and death in the hands of a 16 year old is both frightening and sobering. Even to this day, I cringe when I drive through that very area and see a large hole through an otherwise lush wooded copse. That was my lasting contribution to the landscape.
Day Three was with the Auction Department with some visits to the homes of the recently deceased to label chattels and with the Valuer identifying the more valuable artworks, silverware , furniture and valuables which would later be catalogued in a forthcoming Sale. In most of the empty and now rather depressing houses it would appear that relatives had already looted the best stuff or otherwise claimed it with a named sticky label.
Day Four was office based as the firm believed that I should have an insight into the administrative practices as well as the outdoor fun stuff. I suspect that the entire compliment of Partners and qualified Surveyors were away on a jolly at the races. I was during my confinement in the office heavily embroiled in the tittle tattle , rumour-mongering and downright bitchiness of the staff as they miraculously ran an efficient office and a poisoned personal life at the same time. This was perhaps my first exposure to the wonders of multi-tasking and using the firms phone for long private phone calls. These were of course the days well before social networking and texting but the world still revolved and managed as well without.
My final day was accompanying one of the Partners on what he explained was a typical working day. A valuation of a house for possible sale, a Survey of a terraced house for a mortgage loan, measurement of a garden in a neighbour dispute , discussion with a house owner of planning potential to demolish the lovely house and build an office park and checking the standard of workmanship on a large building project.
The week had been both interesting and engaging and did shape my actual course of education from therein towards my eventual career as a Surveyor. I had been fortunate in my placement. I did hear a horrendous story where a pupil expressed a preference to work with animals and the school secured him a weeks work experience in a Butchers Shop.
I went through the process myself at age 16 but who, at that age actually knows what their vocation will be, apart from the Dalai Lama or those in direct succession to a throne.
The careers teacher at my secondary school had the attitude that she could have had any job she wanted but had obviously failed in that endeavour. Good motivational attitude there then. The school had longstanding links with local companies who in the distant past had expressed willingness to take on a pupil.Some of the associations were, from the list I was provided with, a bit out of date unless you had firm intentions of becoming a fellmonger, cordwainer or powder monkey.
Some employer attitudes were genuinely helpful. They had possibly been in that position themselves or were Old Boys of the school. Other employers simply saw it as one to two weeks of forced and unpaid labour. It was common for the work experience period to coincide with the impulsive ambition of proprietors to clean out the drains, gutters, litter and scrap strewn back yards or ancient dusty attics within the commercial areas of the town.
The choice of placement even to the unsure of mind could make or break the legitimate absence from normal school routine. The usual positions were with law firms, accountants, shop work, builders and in public service organisations. I was faintly interested in land and property so I was matched to a local firm of Surveyors, Valuers and Estate Agents. Dressed smartly I turned up at their town centre premises and was left sitting around for a couple of hours, blushing and getting in the way until one of the Partners asked if he could help, thinking I was a customer. The awkward moments of confirming by phone with the school that the firm had liability and responsibility for me for a week did not help my fragile confidence.
I was, by midday, allocated to the Drawing Office. The firm was very old fashioned but very traditional and covered all the disciplines required to service the landed and property interests of the county. My first period as an intern in the drawing office was a completely new experience. The Land Surveyor was designing a drainage scheme for an agricultural field out by the River Humber Bank in the wilds of Holderness. I assisted in clomping around in the muddy acres with a 3m tall red and white ranging pole whilst the surveyor frantically gesticulated where I should stand, stop, move, stop and so on for the rest of the day. At each point he took a reading of the level from his theodolite. The windy open field and an ever increasing distance between us made the scene quite comical. I returned home at the end of the day with a very ruddy and wind blown appearance.
The next day I was seconded to the Estates Management Department. I was provided with yet another 3m long pole but this time with a paint brush lashed to the top. My brief was to identify all dead trees in a wooded thicket on a managed farm and then paint on a white cross in a prominent position. This would enable a lumberjacking contractor to follow on and fell them. I stress that no training was given. The judgement of life and death in the hands of a 16 year old is both frightening and sobering. Even to this day, I cringe when I drive through that very area and see a large hole through an otherwise lush wooded copse. That was my lasting contribution to the landscape.
Day Three was with the Auction Department with some visits to the homes of the recently deceased to label chattels and with the Valuer identifying the more valuable artworks, silverware , furniture and valuables which would later be catalogued in a forthcoming Sale. In most of the empty and now rather depressing houses it would appear that relatives had already looted the best stuff or otherwise claimed it with a named sticky label.
Day Four was office based as the firm believed that I should have an insight into the administrative practices as well as the outdoor fun stuff. I suspect that the entire compliment of Partners and qualified Surveyors were away on a jolly at the races. I was during my confinement in the office heavily embroiled in the tittle tattle , rumour-mongering and downright bitchiness of the staff as they miraculously ran an efficient office and a poisoned personal life at the same time. This was perhaps my first exposure to the wonders of multi-tasking and using the firms phone for long private phone calls. These were of course the days well before social networking and texting but the world still revolved and managed as well without.
My final day was accompanying one of the Partners on what he explained was a typical working day. A valuation of a house for possible sale, a Survey of a terraced house for a mortgage loan, measurement of a garden in a neighbour dispute , discussion with a house owner of planning potential to demolish the lovely house and build an office park and checking the standard of workmanship on a large building project.
The week had been both interesting and engaging and did shape my actual course of education from therein towards my eventual career as a Surveyor. I had been fortunate in my placement. I did hear a horrendous story where a pupil expressed a preference to work with animals and the school secured him a weeks work experience in a Butchers Shop.
Sunday 21 October 2012
Red Devil Number Ten
I always felt sorry for an old schoolfriend of mine.
He had a great and distinctive name, the same as an iconic sporting star, one of the 1966 England World Cup winning team, a survivor of the Munich Air Crash which took the lives of some of his Manchester United colleagues and to the present day one of the most worthy ambassadors for club and country that you could hope for, selfless and dedicated to a game in which he earned his living and so many admirers.
You would think then , logically and rationally that my friend Robert or Bob Charlton would have a suitably majestic nickname by association ,one that if overheard would cause people to evoke their own memories of his namesake or make some remark along the lines of ...
"did you know, sonny, that you have the same name as one of the best long range and dead ball kickers in the whole of football?"
Even if tempted to reply " well actually, no-one has ever mentioned that before, who was he?" you could probably dine out or drink for free in any sporting club or football ground bar forever.
The hype machine that runs on the fuel of celebrity places great emphasis on same-named persons or if you happen to be a lookie likie for someone famous even if only one other person sees it in your facial features or mannerisms for a fleeting second or in a certain light.
Everything was set fair for Robert Charlton to sail through his life basking in the reflected glory of Bobby but yet the nickname that attached itself to him was that of "Chunky".
Alliteration is a key factor in many nicknames and so Chunky Charlton eminently met this requirement.
To add further insult this nickname was not even original and bespoke in that it was and remained simultaneously that of his older brother.
In order to differentiate the two there was the cumbersome sub-title of Little Chunky and Big Chunky.
This caused even more confusion as there was only a couple of years between them in age and on just about every day they could , apart from their home life, be within earshot of each other in the same school assembly hall, on the same playing field, in adjacent classrooms, at opposite ends of the canteen and on upper or lower levels of the double decker bus for the journey to and from the village in which they resided.
It is nearly forty years since I first met and went to school with Robert. I moved away with my family in 1979.
We have not met up for perhaps a dozen years but Christmas Cards and a few messages flit through the various media based channels, likes and dislikes seem to be compatible and we feature on a few Linked In forums and shared contact lists.
It is interesting how nicknames persist though and it was just the other day that I was asked out of the blue by another long since seen but mutual friend if I still had any contact with Chunky Charlton. In the instant the faimilar prefix was mentioned I was transported back over the decades.
Although we are now both a lot older, and, in my case, saggy and very grumpy, I can clearly recall what was a momentous period in our young lives.
We both fell for French girls on a school exchange and moped around like lovesick fools for a good many weeks, we regularly got drunk on Double Diamond from a party pack keg even being well under-age for alcohol, we shamelessly chatted up females regarding them as fair game , swopped soft porn but often topically on-message Mayfair Magazines and disgracefully got thrown off a Charity Carol Singing trip on one Christmas Eve for being loud, unruly, disorderly and disrepectful to those whose homes we had been invited to. That last one we could probably attribute to Big Chunky, rightly or wrongly so that otherwise our current senior status and respectability remains unblemished.
Still, who would ever bother to scrutinise the behaviour of anyone in the 1970's.?
He had a great and distinctive name, the same as an iconic sporting star, one of the 1966 England World Cup winning team, a survivor of the Munich Air Crash which took the lives of some of his Manchester United colleagues and to the present day one of the most worthy ambassadors for club and country that you could hope for, selfless and dedicated to a game in which he earned his living and so many admirers.
You would think then , logically and rationally that my friend Robert or Bob Charlton would have a suitably majestic nickname by association ,one that if overheard would cause people to evoke their own memories of his namesake or make some remark along the lines of ...
"did you know, sonny, that you have the same name as one of the best long range and dead ball kickers in the whole of football?"
Even if tempted to reply " well actually, no-one has ever mentioned that before, who was he?" you could probably dine out or drink for free in any sporting club or football ground bar forever.
The hype machine that runs on the fuel of celebrity places great emphasis on same-named persons or if you happen to be a lookie likie for someone famous even if only one other person sees it in your facial features or mannerisms for a fleeting second or in a certain light.
Everything was set fair for Robert Charlton to sail through his life basking in the reflected glory of Bobby but yet the nickname that attached itself to him was that of "Chunky".
Alliteration is a key factor in many nicknames and so Chunky Charlton eminently met this requirement.
To add further insult this nickname was not even original and bespoke in that it was and remained simultaneously that of his older brother.
In order to differentiate the two there was the cumbersome sub-title of Little Chunky and Big Chunky.
This caused even more confusion as there was only a couple of years between them in age and on just about every day they could , apart from their home life, be within earshot of each other in the same school assembly hall, on the same playing field, in adjacent classrooms, at opposite ends of the canteen and on upper or lower levels of the double decker bus for the journey to and from the village in which they resided.
It is nearly forty years since I first met and went to school with Robert. I moved away with my family in 1979.
We have not met up for perhaps a dozen years but Christmas Cards and a few messages flit through the various media based channels, likes and dislikes seem to be compatible and we feature on a few Linked In forums and shared contact lists.
It is interesting how nicknames persist though and it was just the other day that I was asked out of the blue by another long since seen but mutual friend if I still had any contact with Chunky Charlton. In the instant the faimilar prefix was mentioned I was transported back over the decades.
Although we are now both a lot older, and, in my case, saggy and very grumpy, I can clearly recall what was a momentous period in our young lives.
We both fell for French girls on a school exchange and moped around like lovesick fools for a good many weeks, we regularly got drunk on Double Diamond from a party pack keg even being well under-age for alcohol, we shamelessly chatted up females regarding them as fair game , swopped soft porn but often topically on-message Mayfair Magazines and disgracefully got thrown off a Charity Carol Singing trip on one Christmas Eve for being loud, unruly, disorderly and disrepectful to those whose homes we had been invited to. That last one we could probably attribute to Big Chunky, rightly or wrongly so that otherwise our current senior status and respectability remains unblemished.
Still, who would ever bother to scrutinise the behaviour of anyone in the 1970's.?
Saturday 20 October 2012
The Silent Minority or Rod Hull Fan Club
The footpath alongside the River Humber, between the newly blue painted Makro Cash and Carry building and the sharp right angled turn at the old Cod Farm, is a hive of activity at most times of the day, be it a weekday or at the weekend, with a regular spacing of anglers.
It is an exposed location.
A strong westerly wind whipping in from the Humber Bridge can make it a miserable place but made tolerable by the fact that it is somewhere to be by choice and anyway, a green fishing umbrella, lashed to the metal fencing above the flood defence wall can be the cosiest and most peaceful spot in the world, at least for a few hours. Thoughts and worries can tangibly diminish in that time.
They arrive on their bicycles or by car, never alone but in two's, three's or more. It seems to the outsider to be a closely knit bunch, a group of pals but of that level of aquaintance and friendship that means that there is no need to chat or say more than necessary after "now then me old mate".
The sessions have long been planned with reference to the Tide Tables. These can still be bought from most small newsagents in Hull and seem to sell out very quickly. Rods are assembled, tackle attached and then the deft process of threading the nylon line through the eyelets in the face of a gale force wind. This is nothing when compared to the keenness of moist,wind swept eyes and the dexterity of chilled fingers to attach the barbed hook with a proper,deck learned knot. The sort of knot with an actual name.
I have noticed in walking the path that the most popular time in terms of numbers of anglers is on the turn of the tide. There is a precipitous drop onto the sandbank at the base of the flood wall at the lowest tide. Tesco are certainly missing a few of their trolleys from the rib cage like protrusions out of the river bed accompanied by bits of mesh from the deteriorated fencing around what used to be an outdoor go-kart circuit and bits of heavy structural wood from a crumbling wharf. On rare, but increasingly common occasions there can be the carcass of a dead whale, bloated and fetid washed up on the mud. The flow upstream of such a massive volume of water from the distant North Sea cannot fail to bring with it the possibility of a catch.
Heavy ledger weights and multiple lead shot are hung on the line to try to prevent it from being dragged too far towards Goole. The bait of choice is strips of fish from a whitebait or reduced price stock from the nearby Asda's ice decked counter. You cannot fault the combination of patience and undisputed optimism amongst the anglers. I have often asked if they were having any luck. On a straw poll basis the consensus is that it is not the best day to catch anything.
They however persist and stare, mostly down at the returning waters , a finger on the slack line in front of the reel to sense any interest, however casual for the offering on the hook. Eels are usually the reward for a short burst of excitement but I can vouch that if professionally smoked those coaxed out of the muddy Humber are a rare and tasty treat.
The fishing rods stretch across the path at an angle from the fence. They are reluctantly moved, slightly, to make way for other users of the path such as cyclists on the Trans Pennine Trail or walkers. It is a case of weaving through on two wheels or tip toe-ing around severed fish heads and discarded lines. One angler can often be left in charge of multiple rods as their owners go for a wee in the scrubland where accessible from missing sections of security fence or venture down to B and Q, adjacent to Makro to price something up.
The menfolk quickly disperse under some form of non-verbal understanding and within minutes of the first person packing up and packing away the pathway is deserted apart from a few reeling gulls feasting on whatever has been left, intentionally, for them to clean up.
As with most fishing exploits it is not really the outcome that is important but the time spent doing it.
It is an exposed location.
A strong westerly wind whipping in from the Humber Bridge can make it a miserable place but made tolerable by the fact that it is somewhere to be by choice and anyway, a green fishing umbrella, lashed to the metal fencing above the flood defence wall can be the cosiest and most peaceful spot in the world, at least for a few hours. Thoughts and worries can tangibly diminish in that time.
They arrive on their bicycles or by car, never alone but in two's, three's or more. It seems to the outsider to be a closely knit bunch, a group of pals but of that level of aquaintance and friendship that means that there is no need to chat or say more than necessary after "now then me old mate".
The sessions have long been planned with reference to the Tide Tables. These can still be bought from most small newsagents in Hull and seem to sell out very quickly. Rods are assembled, tackle attached and then the deft process of threading the nylon line through the eyelets in the face of a gale force wind. This is nothing when compared to the keenness of moist,wind swept eyes and the dexterity of chilled fingers to attach the barbed hook with a proper,deck learned knot. The sort of knot with an actual name.
I have noticed in walking the path that the most popular time in terms of numbers of anglers is on the turn of the tide. There is a precipitous drop onto the sandbank at the base of the flood wall at the lowest tide. Tesco are certainly missing a few of their trolleys from the rib cage like protrusions out of the river bed accompanied by bits of mesh from the deteriorated fencing around what used to be an outdoor go-kart circuit and bits of heavy structural wood from a crumbling wharf. On rare, but increasingly common occasions there can be the carcass of a dead whale, bloated and fetid washed up on the mud. The flow upstream of such a massive volume of water from the distant North Sea cannot fail to bring with it the possibility of a catch.
Heavy ledger weights and multiple lead shot are hung on the line to try to prevent it from being dragged too far towards Goole. The bait of choice is strips of fish from a whitebait or reduced price stock from the nearby Asda's ice decked counter. You cannot fault the combination of patience and undisputed optimism amongst the anglers. I have often asked if they were having any luck. On a straw poll basis the consensus is that it is not the best day to catch anything.
They however persist and stare, mostly down at the returning waters , a finger on the slack line in front of the reel to sense any interest, however casual for the offering on the hook. Eels are usually the reward for a short burst of excitement but I can vouch that if professionally smoked those coaxed out of the muddy Humber are a rare and tasty treat.
The fishing rods stretch across the path at an angle from the fence. They are reluctantly moved, slightly, to make way for other users of the path such as cyclists on the Trans Pennine Trail or walkers. It is a case of weaving through on two wheels or tip toe-ing around severed fish heads and discarded lines. One angler can often be left in charge of multiple rods as their owners go for a wee in the scrubland where accessible from missing sections of security fence or venture down to B and Q, adjacent to Makro to price something up.
The menfolk quickly disperse under some form of non-verbal understanding and within minutes of the first person packing up and packing away the pathway is deserted apart from a few reeling gulls feasting on whatever has been left, intentionally, for them to clean up.
As with most fishing exploits it is not really the outcome that is important but the time spent doing it.
Friday 19 October 2012
Bread and Butter
My wife's cousin, Graham, was visiting the UK from his naturalised home in Australia recently.
Born in Hull he emigrated with his family over 40 years ago but retains strong and fond memories of his Yorkshire roots.
Quickly recovering from his jet lag after the usual 20 plus hours travelling time between the hemispheres he wanted to have a drive around what had been his old haunts and before breakfast.
There was not much that he recognised along the Hessle Road corridor which is understandable given the process of demolition, clearance and re-development that took place in the inner west Hull area from the 1970's ostensibly in the name of progress. The population from the densely packed terraced Streets, Avenues , Groves and Courts off were given a vision of a new life in the broad open spaces of the satellite estates of the City but at the inevitable cost of community spirit and knowing who your neighbours were.
Road names, previously on the gable ends of well maintained two up and two down homes now hung askew on lamp posts in paralell streets of sparse industrial premises which buzzed with activity in daylight hours but became deserted and unfriendly after dusk.
A few of the larger buildings on the main road were recognised by Graham but were now being used for completely different and unrelated activities from what he knew them as. The old Picture House was a discount shoe warehouse, a former church sold bulky furniture, the Co-Operative Home Stores was the local undertakers. He remarked on how grubby and run down everything looked but to me, seeing the same things on a daily basis, I had not really noticed a decline and stagnation.
I sensed that Graham was also people watching. Perhaps it was a hope to see a face from his past although the memory of a persons features from 40 years ago ,however deep set does not have any built in allowance for the ravages of time, age and circumstances.
Hessle Road has not really changed in terms of footfalls and shopping activity over the decades although not many of the pedestrians , today, carried any bags or provisions as though they just felt they had to be out and about regardless. There may have been nothing much else to do at that time in the morning and being in the great outdoors will have been infinitely more healthy than a damp and mould infused house.
One familiar sight caused much excitement to, up to that moment, a rather weary and demoralised Graham. It was an old property over three floors which formed the end of a long Victorian terrace of shops but had been attached to a rather bland, modern and featureless retail warehouse which was so much at odds with the character of the street. On the end wall just peering out beyond the warehouse was a once grand handwritten sign, now faded but with the name of Dixon's Bakery still legible, just.
A recessed entrance with blue wainscot boarding sat adjacent to a very traditional shop front. The portico, scrolled columns and plate glass window had resisted the pressures for modernisation. There was no brushed aluminium or anodised steel here. Just more woodwork and the same dark blue paintwork. It was still quite early in the morning and business from the bakery appeared to have been brisk because the only items on display were a few oven bottom bread cakes, macaroons, flaky pastry sausage rolls and fairy cakes. Obviously home baked the good were quaintly rough and irregular, all of varying sizes and shapes even though from the same batch.
Graham wandered in and was received by the baker, his wife and a back room full of family members as though he was a long lost relative. They got to chatting and it was at that point that Graham revealed that his father had at one time owned and run the very shop and he himself had lived above the premises for part of his early years.
This led to the resident family bringing out the photo albums and a book of old streetscenes of Hessle Road over the ages. The property featured on various shots in glorious black and white with passers by a bit blurry but identifiable in terms of the period by frock coats, sunday best suits, long pavement sweeping dresses, horses in the background pulling drays and carriages. Other views introduced cars from the 1950's and 60's and beehive and Brylcremed hair styles. The 1970's photos appeared to be in a large dust cloud as the terraced houses, just out of view, were being bulldozed into extinction.
Graham purchased a good proportion of the stock in the window representing somewhat of a bumper trading week for the business and had his picture taken standing at the counter which he said had not changed at all from his recollection of it apart from it seeming lower and less imposing.
This solid surviving piece of his memories was special and precious to Graham and I feel that it did form the highlight of his three week stay with us. Some weeks later I was driving past Dixons Bakery in the late afternoon. The shop window, framed in blue woodwork, seemed to have the same stock left on the shelf from the time of our visit and which Graham had not acquired. I secretly hoped that, with the windfall of sales to that Australian chap the family had taken a well earned break from the business, even just for one day or part of it.
Born in Hull he emigrated with his family over 40 years ago but retains strong and fond memories of his Yorkshire roots.
Quickly recovering from his jet lag after the usual 20 plus hours travelling time between the hemispheres he wanted to have a drive around what had been his old haunts and before breakfast.
There was not much that he recognised along the Hessle Road corridor which is understandable given the process of demolition, clearance and re-development that took place in the inner west Hull area from the 1970's ostensibly in the name of progress. The population from the densely packed terraced Streets, Avenues , Groves and Courts off were given a vision of a new life in the broad open spaces of the satellite estates of the City but at the inevitable cost of community spirit and knowing who your neighbours were.
Road names, previously on the gable ends of well maintained two up and two down homes now hung askew on lamp posts in paralell streets of sparse industrial premises which buzzed with activity in daylight hours but became deserted and unfriendly after dusk.
A few of the larger buildings on the main road were recognised by Graham but were now being used for completely different and unrelated activities from what he knew them as. The old Picture House was a discount shoe warehouse, a former church sold bulky furniture, the Co-Operative Home Stores was the local undertakers. He remarked on how grubby and run down everything looked but to me, seeing the same things on a daily basis, I had not really noticed a decline and stagnation.
I sensed that Graham was also people watching. Perhaps it was a hope to see a face from his past although the memory of a persons features from 40 years ago ,however deep set does not have any built in allowance for the ravages of time, age and circumstances.
Hessle Road has not really changed in terms of footfalls and shopping activity over the decades although not many of the pedestrians , today, carried any bags or provisions as though they just felt they had to be out and about regardless. There may have been nothing much else to do at that time in the morning and being in the great outdoors will have been infinitely more healthy than a damp and mould infused house.
One familiar sight caused much excitement to, up to that moment, a rather weary and demoralised Graham. It was an old property over three floors which formed the end of a long Victorian terrace of shops but had been attached to a rather bland, modern and featureless retail warehouse which was so much at odds with the character of the street. On the end wall just peering out beyond the warehouse was a once grand handwritten sign, now faded but with the name of Dixon's Bakery still legible, just.
A recessed entrance with blue wainscot boarding sat adjacent to a very traditional shop front. The portico, scrolled columns and plate glass window had resisted the pressures for modernisation. There was no brushed aluminium or anodised steel here. Just more woodwork and the same dark blue paintwork. It was still quite early in the morning and business from the bakery appeared to have been brisk because the only items on display were a few oven bottom bread cakes, macaroons, flaky pastry sausage rolls and fairy cakes. Obviously home baked the good were quaintly rough and irregular, all of varying sizes and shapes even though from the same batch.
Graham wandered in and was received by the baker, his wife and a back room full of family members as though he was a long lost relative. They got to chatting and it was at that point that Graham revealed that his father had at one time owned and run the very shop and he himself had lived above the premises for part of his early years.
This led to the resident family bringing out the photo albums and a book of old streetscenes of Hessle Road over the ages. The property featured on various shots in glorious black and white with passers by a bit blurry but identifiable in terms of the period by frock coats, sunday best suits, long pavement sweeping dresses, horses in the background pulling drays and carriages. Other views introduced cars from the 1950's and 60's and beehive and Brylcremed hair styles. The 1970's photos appeared to be in a large dust cloud as the terraced houses, just out of view, were being bulldozed into extinction.
Graham purchased a good proportion of the stock in the window representing somewhat of a bumper trading week for the business and had his picture taken standing at the counter which he said had not changed at all from his recollection of it apart from it seeming lower and less imposing.
This solid surviving piece of his memories was special and precious to Graham and I feel that it did form the highlight of his three week stay with us. Some weeks later I was driving past Dixons Bakery in the late afternoon. The shop window, framed in blue woodwork, seemed to have the same stock left on the shelf from the time of our visit and which Graham had not acquired. I secretly hoped that, with the windfall of sales to that Australian chap the family had taken a well earned break from the business, even just for one day or part of it.
Thursday 18 October 2012
Mary, Mary quite contrary.
The men of the Parks and Gardens Department of the City Council loved their job.
This was on many levels.
They enjoyed the creativity which was demanded of the seasonal work. It was hard,outdoor work but it was, after all outdoors. They were their own masters and timekeepers because only they could dictate the duration of a planting, a trimming, a clearing, a landscaping and a pruning in spite of the best efforts of Management to interfere with schedules, deadlines and budgets.
In the endless battle with Management it was always the case of bullshit baffles brains and bullshit was invariably victorious. Take the number one practice of the Parks and Gardens Men. Sitting in their vans was great. Warm, dry, out of the wind and fine penetrating drizzle. This was frowned upon by the Supervisors who relished the prospect of catching them at it. The explanations given were beyond reproach. It involved a rather technical description of the rate of degrading of mulch at the prevailing temperature of the day or how the sap had to settle down before an incision could be made or the blades of grass had to be perfectly aligned for the mowers to work properly. The background of the Management was not horticultural.
They usually ended up in the Grounds Department after some form of indiscretion in another sector of Local Authority operations. It was a definite relegation although they would try to argue it was more of a sideways move in a career path that was actually stalling and backtracking.
The arrival of a task force shook the very roots of the organisation. It was a trouble shooting, accountancy trained initiative of outsiders specifically employed to slash the budgets of the Council in order to meet the demands of Central Government for austerity in recessionary times. The men of the Parks and Gardens Department were summoned to a meeting early one morning to be told that their services would only be required until the end of the month.
This was devastating news to the workforce. They trudged out to undertake the days tasks which revolved around the planting of the bulbs for the coming season.
Whilst a city-wide activity the focus and a matter of Civic Pride was the annual display on the large traffic island which marked the approach to the town. The island or roundabout sat at the bottom of the hill on a spur from the by-pass.
From the higher ground there was a clear view down and over the often award winning floral show. It was on a different theme every year whether the anniversary of an event in the history of the City or to celebrate organisations and notable citizens.
The men, downhearted in the face of redundancy , toiled ceaselessly in the tilling, fertilising and marking out of the oversized flowerbed. The bulbs were carefully offered up to the prepared ground. The spirits and humour of the men were percieved to visibly and tangibly improve with the forming of the rows for the eventual and simultaneous emergence of daffodils, tulips and crocuses in the following Spring.
As the last of the precious flower bulbs was put to bed the men, in a huddle that only a true band of brothers could pull off , made a pact that whatever their individual circumstances at the time they would all return to the roundabout at the first full bloom of their endeavours.
The ensuing months were difficult for one and all. Jobs of any kind were sparse in a faltering local economy. Green fingers became browned with engine oil, red and raw from manual production line processes, wizened from non-activity, tainted where the grey economy had to be resorted to from necessity through poverty.
Nevertheless, to a man they stood at the top of the hill overlooking the site of their labours. It was some minutes after the April sun had coaxed the flower heads to open up in a glorious bloom of colour and textures. Forgetting for a moment their collective anxieties of debt and insecurity they roared with righteous laughter. The attention to planting had created a wonderful sprawling message of profanity, spelled out in yellow, red, black and a riotous rainbow of shades against the Council and their callous attitude towards a loyal and dedicated workforce.
This was on many levels.
They enjoyed the creativity which was demanded of the seasonal work. It was hard,outdoor work but it was, after all outdoors. They were their own masters and timekeepers because only they could dictate the duration of a planting, a trimming, a clearing, a landscaping and a pruning in spite of the best efforts of Management to interfere with schedules, deadlines and budgets.
In the endless battle with Management it was always the case of bullshit baffles brains and bullshit was invariably victorious. Take the number one practice of the Parks and Gardens Men. Sitting in their vans was great. Warm, dry, out of the wind and fine penetrating drizzle. This was frowned upon by the Supervisors who relished the prospect of catching them at it. The explanations given were beyond reproach. It involved a rather technical description of the rate of degrading of mulch at the prevailing temperature of the day or how the sap had to settle down before an incision could be made or the blades of grass had to be perfectly aligned for the mowers to work properly. The background of the Management was not horticultural.
They usually ended up in the Grounds Department after some form of indiscretion in another sector of Local Authority operations. It was a definite relegation although they would try to argue it was more of a sideways move in a career path that was actually stalling and backtracking.
The arrival of a task force shook the very roots of the organisation. It was a trouble shooting, accountancy trained initiative of outsiders specifically employed to slash the budgets of the Council in order to meet the demands of Central Government for austerity in recessionary times. The men of the Parks and Gardens Department were summoned to a meeting early one morning to be told that their services would only be required until the end of the month.
This was devastating news to the workforce. They trudged out to undertake the days tasks which revolved around the planting of the bulbs for the coming season.
Whilst a city-wide activity the focus and a matter of Civic Pride was the annual display on the large traffic island which marked the approach to the town. The island or roundabout sat at the bottom of the hill on a spur from the by-pass.
From the higher ground there was a clear view down and over the often award winning floral show. It was on a different theme every year whether the anniversary of an event in the history of the City or to celebrate organisations and notable citizens.
The men, downhearted in the face of redundancy , toiled ceaselessly in the tilling, fertilising and marking out of the oversized flowerbed. The bulbs were carefully offered up to the prepared ground. The spirits and humour of the men were percieved to visibly and tangibly improve with the forming of the rows for the eventual and simultaneous emergence of daffodils, tulips and crocuses in the following Spring.
As the last of the precious flower bulbs was put to bed the men, in a huddle that only a true band of brothers could pull off , made a pact that whatever their individual circumstances at the time they would all return to the roundabout at the first full bloom of their endeavours.
The ensuing months were difficult for one and all. Jobs of any kind were sparse in a faltering local economy. Green fingers became browned with engine oil, red and raw from manual production line processes, wizened from non-activity, tainted where the grey economy had to be resorted to from necessity through poverty.
Nevertheless, to a man they stood at the top of the hill overlooking the site of their labours. It was some minutes after the April sun had coaxed the flower heads to open up in a glorious bloom of colour and textures. Forgetting for a moment their collective anxieties of debt and insecurity they roared with righteous laughter. The attention to planting had created a wonderful sprawling message of profanity, spelled out in yellow, red, black and a riotous rainbow of shades against the Council and their callous attitude towards a loyal and dedicated workforce.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
Keep it Under Your Hat
Was it a subconcious and collective decision by the male population of the world to go outside and about their business without a hat?
The whole thought process behind this momentous culture and fashion change must have started somewhere and with one individual because it appeared to have taken place overnight.
When was that momentous day?
Well, certainly towards the end of the decade that was the 1950's. In the preceeding period, in fact going back centuries, the wearing of a hat was a defining thing about your social status, affleunce, influence and intelligence.
I was fascinated to read about the passing of a Law in England in 1571 which made it compulsory and under the sanction of a fine or other equally draconian penalty for those over the age of 6 to wear a hat on Sundays and on National Holidays.
What hat to wear was also dictated to a large extent by your position in the hirearchy of the society of that period. Those of noble or gentlemanly standing could afford and were expected to wear a real hat, something to set them apart from the masses. At the other end of the social scale would be the impoverished and those still in poverty but fortunate enough to be bound in servitude or an apprenticeship. Their headgear usually comprised a basic wool or wool/silk mix flat cap, a bit like a Tam o'shanter. The imposition of such a law may have been primarily to boost a fledgling, emerging but still very much a cottage based textile industry . Lobbying by interested parties with vested interests may not have changed much over subsequent centuries on the basis of the success of the Elizabethan wool mix sales drive and forerunner of the 'Buy English' campaign.
Whatever the background of a person in 16th Century England it was very rare to come across anyone bareheaded. It may have been considered in the utmost bad taste and of poor culture to show forehead, crown, a head of lice infested hair , ringworm ravaged patches or just a plain bald pate.
The hat served as a symbol of respect and was also a means to express support for or against a particular idea or movement. In the former use the taking off, or doffing of a hat was expected in the company of your betters and elders. The throwing up of a hat was the simplest method of showing agreement and sympathy for a cause.
Phrases have persisted in the English language from the halcyon days of hat wearing. If a person of lower class was in need of alms, sustenance or just a favour then the practice of approaching a potential benefactor involved holding your hat in reverence as in 'cap in hand'.
Whilst citizens were compelled to wear a hat it was not a reason for rebellion or protest. The type of hat imposed on the wearer soon became established as a form of social identification, a badge to be proudly worn to show where you were from and that you were happy to remain firmly entrenched there with no real prospects or inclination to better yourself.
Fast foward a few centuries and hat wearing was heavily influenced in the 1930's and 1940's by the role models of the Big Screen. What better way to emulate the matinee idols of the time than mimicking them in their choice of hat and also their style of wearing it, tipped back as Bogart, tipped forward as Alan Ladd, askew as Cary Grant, optimistic and hopeful as James Stewart.
The other essential accessory for any hat was of course a cigarette with the glow of the tip made cool and chic under the brow of a homburg or fedora.
Any photograph of a streetscene or social gathering in the 1950's, anywhere in the western world emphasised the popularity of hats amongst the male population.
What appears to have sounded the death knell for hat wearing was the decade of the 1960's, a time of big expansive hair, expressions of individualism in huge gatherings, protests about everything and nothing and the real beginnings of social equality. Being upwardly mobile and not ashamed to admit it meant that the symbol of oppression and social stereotyping, deep set in the psyche of the male population just had to be left at home on the hat stand or relegated to the children's dressing up box.
My Grandfather, Dick was of that generation of not being properly dressed without his hat and was, to my fond recollections the last of a long line of my family and ancestry to maintain the trend and fashion on a daily and not just high day and holy day basis. My own Father went through a hat stage but then again that was part of the uniform of a Scout and followed by National Service.
Hat wearing today has come around full circle from the 16th Century but in a more sinister guise. The popular choice by far is the baseball cap but unfortunately this has become more a symbol of an underclass and as a badge of honour attracting unwanted attention and perpetuating a poor representation of those who wear them by the media. In the making of snap judgements about an individual, which is a trait of the less trusting in our society, the baseball cap immediately differentiates and condemns the wearer even though the motivation to be so attired is more of a fashion than any intentional social statement.
Myself and hats?
I attribute my bald head on the poor conditions imposed on my scalp by many years in my youth of the compulsory wearing of cub scout caps and, later, scout berets. I still live in hope of getting a phone call from a firm of lawyers who can guide me through the process of suing for loss of hair and opportunity on a no win, no fee basis.
The whole thought process behind this momentous culture and fashion change must have started somewhere and with one individual because it appeared to have taken place overnight.
When was that momentous day?
Well, certainly towards the end of the decade that was the 1950's. In the preceeding period, in fact going back centuries, the wearing of a hat was a defining thing about your social status, affleunce, influence and intelligence.
I was fascinated to read about the passing of a Law in England in 1571 which made it compulsory and under the sanction of a fine or other equally draconian penalty for those over the age of 6 to wear a hat on Sundays and on National Holidays.
What hat to wear was also dictated to a large extent by your position in the hirearchy of the society of that period. Those of noble or gentlemanly standing could afford and were expected to wear a real hat, something to set them apart from the masses. At the other end of the social scale would be the impoverished and those still in poverty but fortunate enough to be bound in servitude or an apprenticeship. Their headgear usually comprised a basic wool or wool/silk mix flat cap, a bit like a Tam o'shanter. The imposition of such a law may have been primarily to boost a fledgling, emerging but still very much a cottage based textile industry . Lobbying by interested parties with vested interests may not have changed much over subsequent centuries on the basis of the success of the Elizabethan wool mix sales drive and forerunner of the 'Buy English' campaign.
Whatever the background of a person in 16th Century England it was very rare to come across anyone bareheaded. It may have been considered in the utmost bad taste and of poor culture to show forehead, crown, a head of lice infested hair , ringworm ravaged patches or just a plain bald pate.
The hat served as a symbol of respect and was also a means to express support for or against a particular idea or movement. In the former use the taking off, or doffing of a hat was expected in the company of your betters and elders. The throwing up of a hat was the simplest method of showing agreement and sympathy for a cause.
Phrases have persisted in the English language from the halcyon days of hat wearing. If a person of lower class was in need of alms, sustenance or just a favour then the practice of approaching a potential benefactor involved holding your hat in reverence as in 'cap in hand'.
Whilst citizens were compelled to wear a hat it was not a reason for rebellion or protest. The type of hat imposed on the wearer soon became established as a form of social identification, a badge to be proudly worn to show where you were from and that you were happy to remain firmly entrenched there with no real prospects or inclination to better yourself.
Fast foward a few centuries and hat wearing was heavily influenced in the 1930's and 1940's by the role models of the Big Screen. What better way to emulate the matinee idols of the time than mimicking them in their choice of hat and also their style of wearing it, tipped back as Bogart, tipped forward as Alan Ladd, askew as Cary Grant, optimistic and hopeful as James Stewart.
The other essential accessory for any hat was of course a cigarette with the glow of the tip made cool and chic under the brow of a homburg or fedora.
Any photograph of a streetscene or social gathering in the 1950's, anywhere in the western world emphasised the popularity of hats amongst the male population.
What appears to have sounded the death knell for hat wearing was the decade of the 1960's, a time of big expansive hair, expressions of individualism in huge gatherings, protests about everything and nothing and the real beginnings of social equality. Being upwardly mobile and not ashamed to admit it meant that the symbol of oppression and social stereotyping, deep set in the psyche of the male population just had to be left at home on the hat stand or relegated to the children's dressing up box.
My Grandfather, Dick was of that generation of not being properly dressed without his hat and was, to my fond recollections the last of a long line of my family and ancestry to maintain the trend and fashion on a daily and not just high day and holy day basis. My own Father went through a hat stage but then again that was part of the uniform of a Scout and followed by National Service.
Hat wearing today has come around full circle from the 16th Century but in a more sinister guise. The popular choice by far is the baseball cap but unfortunately this has become more a symbol of an underclass and as a badge of honour attracting unwanted attention and perpetuating a poor representation of those who wear them by the media. In the making of snap judgements about an individual, which is a trait of the less trusting in our society, the baseball cap immediately differentiates and condemns the wearer even though the motivation to be so attired is more of a fashion than any intentional social statement.
Myself and hats?
I attribute my bald head on the poor conditions imposed on my scalp by many years in my youth of the compulsory wearing of cub scout caps and, later, scout berets. I still live in hope of getting a phone call from a firm of lawyers who can guide me through the process of suing for loss of hair and opportunity on a no win, no fee basis.
Tuesday 16 October 2012
Farewell to Captain Tom
I was first introduced to Tom over 20 years ago.
A man of diminuitive size but as always with such characters his personality seemed ten feet tall and about as wide. This was no surprise to me based on his upbringing amongst six sisters and a few brothers. He would have had to put up a scrap just to get noticed or even to the dinner table.
Smartly turned out I had him labelled as coming from a mililtary background. He always seemed to be in a suit, shirt and tie, shiny shoes and neatly groomed especially his small whitish grey ,precisely trimmed beard at all times. Perhaps his title of Captain Tom was a bit of a give-away for a disciplined lifetime but in fact it was a rank in the Merchant Navy.
Recently retired he was a rich source of stories and saga's from his days on the great Oceans of the world and I was always interested in listening to him recount things which would overwhelm persons of less commitment. His last on board command was displayed in photographs around his house, a Texaco operated Super Tanker of mega proportions, the sort of vessel that you did your deck inspection on a motorbike.
He confimed to me the facts behind the popular myths of trying to stop and even turn around such a large ship. In actuality it consisted of a very high risk and hazardous operation. Imagine sitting on one of the largest explosive devices and trying to park it next to a refinery or facility representing an even larger potential danger of ignition and conflagration.
I tried to prise out of Tom other information about things I had heard relating to oil tankers such as cracks appearing in a highway a few miles inland from a wharf where a similar sized juggernaut had failed to stop. He was tight lipped about it upholding the ethics of his Profession and neither confirmed nor denied it happened.
In his Service Whites as seen on other pictures he struck an authoritative figure and I can well imagine that he ruled the Bridge without too much trouble from fellow officers and a transient crew.
He was certainly a product of a different time. A Gentleman Seafarer who played hard, worked hard and in his downtime enjoyed the theatre, amateur operatics and all things cultural. He also liked and appreciated a drink but then again that was to be expected as standard for his type of working life where isolation and loneliness, even on a bustling ship, was commonplace for the senior ranks.
At all times he was amiable and good company although he often attracted unsavoury hangers-on during his return from the local pub where he held audience and will have stood out as being a fascinating character.
He was always interested in others and the first to offer assistance and counsel, such was his generous streak. In later years he was in ill health but maintained his spirit and enthusiasm for life with immense courage and steadfastness.
I was sad to hear of his death yesterday.
He will be greatly missed.
I passed his old house today. It is a large, Edwardian semi detached, rendered and colourwashed in a shade of cool ocean blue. The many storied and windowed gable wall occupies a dominant aspect over the busy street. It is not too hard to imagine it to be like the superstructure of an oil tanker and I half expected Tom to be seen at its helm and in his natural element.
A man of diminuitive size but as always with such characters his personality seemed ten feet tall and about as wide. This was no surprise to me based on his upbringing amongst six sisters and a few brothers. He would have had to put up a scrap just to get noticed or even to the dinner table.
Smartly turned out I had him labelled as coming from a mililtary background. He always seemed to be in a suit, shirt and tie, shiny shoes and neatly groomed especially his small whitish grey ,precisely trimmed beard at all times. Perhaps his title of Captain Tom was a bit of a give-away for a disciplined lifetime but in fact it was a rank in the Merchant Navy.
Recently retired he was a rich source of stories and saga's from his days on the great Oceans of the world and I was always interested in listening to him recount things which would overwhelm persons of less commitment. His last on board command was displayed in photographs around his house, a Texaco operated Super Tanker of mega proportions, the sort of vessel that you did your deck inspection on a motorbike.
He confimed to me the facts behind the popular myths of trying to stop and even turn around such a large ship. In actuality it consisted of a very high risk and hazardous operation. Imagine sitting on one of the largest explosive devices and trying to park it next to a refinery or facility representing an even larger potential danger of ignition and conflagration.
I tried to prise out of Tom other information about things I had heard relating to oil tankers such as cracks appearing in a highway a few miles inland from a wharf where a similar sized juggernaut had failed to stop. He was tight lipped about it upholding the ethics of his Profession and neither confirmed nor denied it happened.
In his Service Whites as seen on other pictures he struck an authoritative figure and I can well imagine that he ruled the Bridge without too much trouble from fellow officers and a transient crew.
He was certainly a product of a different time. A Gentleman Seafarer who played hard, worked hard and in his downtime enjoyed the theatre, amateur operatics and all things cultural. He also liked and appreciated a drink but then again that was to be expected as standard for his type of working life where isolation and loneliness, even on a bustling ship, was commonplace for the senior ranks.
At all times he was amiable and good company although he often attracted unsavoury hangers-on during his return from the local pub where he held audience and will have stood out as being a fascinating character.
He was always interested in others and the first to offer assistance and counsel, such was his generous streak. In later years he was in ill health but maintained his spirit and enthusiasm for life with immense courage and steadfastness.
I was sad to hear of his death yesterday.
He will be greatly missed.
I passed his old house today. It is a large, Edwardian semi detached, rendered and colourwashed in a shade of cool ocean blue. The many storied and windowed gable wall occupies a dominant aspect over the busy street. It is not too hard to imagine it to be like the superstructure of an oil tanker and I half expected Tom to be seen at its helm and in his natural element.
Monday 15 October 2012
Alpine for the Pointer
I spent a lot of time in a place called Little Switzerland.
The name conjurs up all sorts of wonderful vistas, sparklingly clean air, towering snow capped peaks above neatly laid out handerkerchief meadows strewn with daisies, bracing hillside walks above steeply sided valleys, skipping novice nuns and twinkling watercourses cavorting in white water like a meringue topping.
Unfortunately my version was little more than a large hole formed from mineral workings which periodically smelt rank and fetid, regularly flooded, often suffered from landslip to the eroded precipices and I hold personally to blame for the death of our Pointer dog, Toffy as the most likely source of the Weils disease that cut her short in her prime years.
Whoever first named that pit to allude to the beauty and majesty of an Alpine paradise must have not travelled very widely or was hyper active on Toblerone bars. The only possible link between the Swiss nation and the hole in the ground is loose and tenuous in that on the rare occasion that sunlight penetrates the swamp gas and algae infused hazy mist the residual chalk face could possibly and with squinty eyes resemble, perhaps, a light covering of snow, maybe.
I have seen photographs of the place in its heyday as a quarry in the latter part of the 1800's. Considerable activity from men and machines with the raw chalk being dug, chipped, blasted and coerced from its prehistoric resting place and then run out onto the bank of the River Humber where barges and shallow draught vessels waited at wooden quays to be loaded.
The black, bitumenous tower of a windmill remains as a sole surviving structure of what was a small community of houses and works. The operations on the site will have ceased sometime in the early part of the twentieth century and with many subsequent decades of the reclamation by nature back to a wilderness. In less sensitive locations, being close to the river and upwind of a town the large void will have formed a good resource for landfill for a few years at least and it's sister quarry within half a mile inland was commandered by the Council for such a purpose.
A few events transpired to salvage the quarry.
The Humber Bridge was built and the quarry , overlooking the structure, was ideally placed for transformation into a Visitor Centre with childrens play area and a large landscaped bowl shaped public park. The task to make the place hospitable was on a large scale. The only level access point was from the river bank and obstacles included a main line railway and, at that time, a dual carriageway forming the principal approach to Hull from the west. Tunnels were formed in smooth dressed concrete although now heavily disguised in what passes for urbanised art of dubious origin and showing that biology and human anatomy have not been taught in our local schools for some years.
Volunteers and possibly those on community service for urban art atrocities dug into the floor of the quarry and carved out paths and steps, laid down walkways in railway sleepers and cleared a good few tons of litter and deposited waste as a consequence of a free for all fly tipping practice.
The lowest parts were shaped into lagoons and pools but on chalk they invariably filled up and emptied at will. The startling green colour of the stagnant water did serve to warn off those intent on paddling but dogs and even a few skinny dippers could be at first heard and then seen splashing around in the murky shallows.
In the twilight hours and beyond the park was taken over by the youth wing of the society of Arsonists with the charring and collapse of many of the wooden bench seats, picnic tables, sculpture carvings and playground apparatus.
Still, in reasonable daylight and dry conditions it was a regular destination of choice for our young family with buggies, bikes and dog sled team. It took a good 1 mile uphill slog to get there from the house but we would spend many an hour circling the base of the cliffs, dragging sticks, skimming and throwing pebbles into the gaseous flouresecent mire and rescuing the dogs from face offs or worse with those squat ugly breeds and their killer mongrels. For our education there were information points through the park with pictures of dinosaurs, fossils and other illustrations of the local history aspects. It appears that the minerals in the quarry had origins in the carcasses of small crustaceans which had accumulated in the bed of a tropical sea some considerable millenia ago. Whosoever had dumped them in the quarry should have been prosecuted in my opinion.
It was also a place to take sunday visitors and with favourable weather it could be quite a pleasant family and social experience. The children, when small, enjoyed clambouring up the banks and undulations. A shortcut we regularly took skirted the contours up the inner eastern face and over a few years we established a well worn path inspite of the treacherously loose ground, sheer drops and protruding and snaking tree roots that could easily catch out the inattentive. As with most regular haunts they do have only a finite attraction and use and we gradually drifted away from Little Switzerland in favour of lazer quest, bowling and hanging about in shopping malls which the children, now much older, also enjoyed.
A lasting memory is of Toffy the Pointer in her element chasing down a rabbit or squirrel but always and thankfully in vain. Her activities will have been watched by a cautious rat in a hole before its ultimate contribution to her untimely demise.
(Re-issued from 2011. Busy day at work sapped imagination....sorry)
The name conjurs up all sorts of wonderful vistas, sparklingly clean air, towering snow capped peaks above neatly laid out handerkerchief meadows strewn with daisies, bracing hillside walks above steeply sided valleys, skipping novice nuns and twinkling watercourses cavorting in white water like a meringue topping.
Unfortunately my version was little more than a large hole formed from mineral workings which periodically smelt rank and fetid, regularly flooded, often suffered from landslip to the eroded precipices and I hold personally to blame for the death of our Pointer dog, Toffy as the most likely source of the Weils disease that cut her short in her prime years.
Whoever first named that pit to allude to the beauty and majesty of an Alpine paradise must have not travelled very widely or was hyper active on Toblerone bars. The only possible link between the Swiss nation and the hole in the ground is loose and tenuous in that on the rare occasion that sunlight penetrates the swamp gas and algae infused hazy mist the residual chalk face could possibly and with squinty eyes resemble, perhaps, a light covering of snow, maybe.
I have seen photographs of the place in its heyday as a quarry in the latter part of the 1800's. Considerable activity from men and machines with the raw chalk being dug, chipped, blasted and coerced from its prehistoric resting place and then run out onto the bank of the River Humber where barges and shallow draught vessels waited at wooden quays to be loaded.
The black, bitumenous tower of a windmill remains as a sole surviving structure of what was a small community of houses and works. The operations on the site will have ceased sometime in the early part of the twentieth century and with many subsequent decades of the reclamation by nature back to a wilderness. In less sensitive locations, being close to the river and upwind of a town the large void will have formed a good resource for landfill for a few years at least and it's sister quarry within half a mile inland was commandered by the Council for such a purpose.
A few events transpired to salvage the quarry.
The Humber Bridge was built and the quarry , overlooking the structure, was ideally placed for transformation into a Visitor Centre with childrens play area and a large landscaped bowl shaped public park. The task to make the place hospitable was on a large scale. The only level access point was from the river bank and obstacles included a main line railway and, at that time, a dual carriageway forming the principal approach to Hull from the west. Tunnels were formed in smooth dressed concrete although now heavily disguised in what passes for urbanised art of dubious origin and showing that biology and human anatomy have not been taught in our local schools for some years.
Volunteers and possibly those on community service for urban art atrocities dug into the floor of the quarry and carved out paths and steps, laid down walkways in railway sleepers and cleared a good few tons of litter and deposited waste as a consequence of a free for all fly tipping practice.
The lowest parts were shaped into lagoons and pools but on chalk they invariably filled up and emptied at will. The startling green colour of the stagnant water did serve to warn off those intent on paddling but dogs and even a few skinny dippers could be at first heard and then seen splashing around in the murky shallows.
In the twilight hours and beyond the park was taken over by the youth wing of the society of Arsonists with the charring and collapse of many of the wooden bench seats, picnic tables, sculpture carvings and playground apparatus.
Still, in reasonable daylight and dry conditions it was a regular destination of choice for our young family with buggies, bikes and dog sled team. It took a good 1 mile uphill slog to get there from the house but we would spend many an hour circling the base of the cliffs, dragging sticks, skimming and throwing pebbles into the gaseous flouresecent mire and rescuing the dogs from face offs or worse with those squat ugly breeds and their killer mongrels. For our education there were information points through the park with pictures of dinosaurs, fossils and other illustrations of the local history aspects. It appears that the minerals in the quarry had origins in the carcasses of small crustaceans which had accumulated in the bed of a tropical sea some considerable millenia ago. Whosoever had dumped them in the quarry should have been prosecuted in my opinion.
It was also a place to take sunday visitors and with favourable weather it could be quite a pleasant family and social experience. The children, when small, enjoyed clambouring up the banks and undulations. A shortcut we regularly took skirted the contours up the inner eastern face and over a few years we established a well worn path inspite of the treacherously loose ground, sheer drops and protruding and snaking tree roots that could easily catch out the inattentive. As with most regular haunts they do have only a finite attraction and use and we gradually drifted away from Little Switzerland in favour of lazer quest, bowling and hanging about in shopping malls which the children, now much older, also enjoyed.
A lasting memory is of Toffy the Pointer in her element chasing down a rabbit or squirrel but always and thankfully in vain. Her activities will have been watched by a cautious rat in a hole before its ultimate contribution to her untimely demise.
(Re-issued from 2011. Busy day at work sapped imagination....sorry)
Sunday 14 October 2012
Miss His Dales Diary
Me and The Boy had seen someone up ahead on the path along the flood bank of the river Humber.
We were moving along quite well on our mountain bikes but did not appear to be making up any ground on the single figure. If a dog walker or rambler we would soon be right up behind them, relying on them having a good sense of hearing or just a sixth sense of another presence to be on alert to make a subtle move to one side, elbows in or pause and face us. We are generally quite polite and say our thank you's for any granting of a right of passage although generally the footpath signs request cyclists to give way to walkers.
Most are quite happy to exchange pleasantries, others remain vaguely unsociable and a few just look flabbergasted that anyone has spoken to them at all.
The most amusing like-minded outdoorsie types are usually a group of mature ladies who can be quite engrossed in a conversation, putting the world or their relationships to rights whilst we wait patiently for them to realise that we are there at all. If they have been discussing their men-folk in their side by side pedestrian huddle, Me and The Boy can sense them regarding us with a combination of annoyance and grudging stereotypical acceptance as we scoot past and ride on.
The lone figure in the distance turned out to be a man on an old bike. He had struggled to manouvre through the kissing gate at the end of the river walkway which best entails a movement to hoist the bike up on its back wheel and push it through like a rearing horse whilst hanging on to the handlebars. He had not managed to heave up the heavy metal tubed cycle and had undertaken more of a twenty point turn in small precise increments in the confined space.
He engaged us in a good afternoon and remarked how mild it was for well into October. Obviously knowledgeable of things in the natural world he asked if we had been able to observe the family of stoats cavorting about on the bankside in the sunshine. We had not, but then we can be quite vocal between ourselves and generally noisy giving a running commentary on the state of the path, warning of a looming pothole, tyre sidewall threatening half brick or just a very muddy, muddy puddle. Nature has plenty of notice to make itself invisible when we are around.
We were keen to keep going and not seize up. He continued to discuss the varieties of creatures available for viewing which, at that very moment in the low tide basin included, well I thought he said, a ruddy duck and an Oyster Catcher although he could have been swearing about the first one. Swans and Geese were also apparently in abundance but we had not, heads down and watching our progress, seen anything of these creatures.
We mentioned that we were heading inland and cross country to ascend Spout Hill.
I had wanted to introduce to The Boy the prospect of climbing Spout Hill more by persuasion and a casual mention that it might be a reasonable thing to do. By this understated and subtle policy I felt that he may be more amenable to doing it. Our passing aquaintance, upon the words Spout Hill , partook of a very sharp intake of breathe, uttered a profanity and rolled his eyes simulating an oxygen starved brain from a muscle wrenching activity. I presumed from this dramatic reaction that he indeed knew of Spout Hill and in his younger days may actually have been up it on a bike.
The subject slope was a regular venue for cycling clubs to run their winter Hillclimb competitions. I had walked up it, huffing and puffing a few times but surprisingly had never myself been up it on two wheels. On a particularly icy day some years ago I had been surveying one the of the stone built houses built out of the steep bank. My footing was at best precarious on the road surface of hard packed snow and rather comically I started to slide across the frontage, scribbling frantically on my observations as though on a conveyor belt.
Introduced to the mythical proportions of Spout Hill there was a brief look of fear and trepidation on The Boy's face. I found this disconcerting because he had developed quite a liking and aptitude for attacking an upward slope to such an extent that I was frequently left behind to struggle to keep up with him.
Spout Hill was two miles further on. The approach was flat and fast but I was conscious of conserving some energy. The Boy asked, in timid voice, where was this hill?. As we turned a corner at the old village pump I just pointed skywards. I believe The Boy uttered something rude at this point. I just gasped 'see you at the top....or at home" and so it began.
A good session of mechanical attention in the garage a few days earlier had resolved a sticky gear changer and I now had full use of the smallest chainring. I engaged this immediately the road started to rise and persisted to pedal furiously making slow and labourious but nevertheless some forward motion. The Boy, with 19 less gears than me was waltzing away and up like a natural born climber. My chest heaved and my breathing became faster and more wheezy. Perhaps I should have signed up for the Well Man Clinic after all. The gradient did warrant a single black arrow on my Ordnance Survey Sheet although I am convinced that a truer representation may have affected by the fading or abrasion of the symbols on what was after all an old map.
At the halfway point on the hill there is a gap in the north bank where a public footpath converges from Brantingham Dale below. The Boy had already passed this point but I slowed up, if that was possible given my pitiful average speed, and pulled over. He must have wondered if I had decided to retire from cycling at this point. We have an unwritten understanding. Climb off and you have to sell your bike. This is very open to interpretation and if you feign falling off, or as footballers do simulation, in a circumstance of giving up then there may be a right of appeal.
I did however have a valid and strongly personal reason for stopping. The clearing had, in the winter of the previous year, been the meeting point for family to celebrate the life and times of my Father who had died a few months before in the July. Mother had read out one of her poems and in a prevailing wind a fine shower of Father's ashes was distributed in one of his favourite walking locations and indeed a very beautiful part of East Yorkshire.
I offered up, at that welcome pause in my ascent, a prayer of thanksgiving for the memory of my Father and a cheeky comment that I had lost some weight and was well into my cycling again after a bit of a falling out in terms of ability and confidence in recent times. He will have been happy about this. I could sense his spirit was with me on Spout Hill and our brief communion gave me fresh momentum and impetus to power on, relatively speaking, to the crest and to the prize, firmly second place to The Boy, of a fantastic long distance and clear view over the valley below.
We were moving along quite well on our mountain bikes but did not appear to be making up any ground on the single figure. If a dog walker or rambler we would soon be right up behind them, relying on them having a good sense of hearing or just a sixth sense of another presence to be on alert to make a subtle move to one side, elbows in or pause and face us. We are generally quite polite and say our thank you's for any granting of a right of passage although generally the footpath signs request cyclists to give way to walkers.
Most are quite happy to exchange pleasantries, others remain vaguely unsociable and a few just look flabbergasted that anyone has spoken to them at all.
The most amusing like-minded outdoorsie types are usually a group of mature ladies who can be quite engrossed in a conversation, putting the world or their relationships to rights whilst we wait patiently for them to realise that we are there at all. If they have been discussing their men-folk in their side by side pedestrian huddle, Me and The Boy can sense them regarding us with a combination of annoyance and grudging stereotypical acceptance as we scoot past and ride on.
The lone figure in the distance turned out to be a man on an old bike. He had struggled to manouvre through the kissing gate at the end of the river walkway which best entails a movement to hoist the bike up on its back wheel and push it through like a rearing horse whilst hanging on to the handlebars. He had not managed to heave up the heavy metal tubed cycle and had undertaken more of a twenty point turn in small precise increments in the confined space.
He engaged us in a good afternoon and remarked how mild it was for well into October. Obviously knowledgeable of things in the natural world he asked if we had been able to observe the family of stoats cavorting about on the bankside in the sunshine. We had not, but then we can be quite vocal between ourselves and generally noisy giving a running commentary on the state of the path, warning of a looming pothole, tyre sidewall threatening half brick or just a very muddy, muddy puddle. Nature has plenty of notice to make itself invisible when we are around.
We were keen to keep going and not seize up. He continued to discuss the varieties of creatures available for viewing which, at that very moment in the low tide basin included, well I thought he said, a ruddy duck and an Oyster Catcher although he could have been swearing about the first one. Swans and Geese were also apparently in abundance but we had not, heads down and watching our progress, seen anything of these creatures.
We mentioned that we were heading inland and cross country to ascend Spout Hill.
I had wanted to introduce to The Boy the prospect of climbing Spout Hill more by persuasion and a casual mention that it might be a reasonable thing to do. By this understated and subtle policy I felt that he may be more amenable to doing it. Our passing aquaintance, upon the words Spout Hill , partook of a very sharp intake of breathe, uttered a profanity and rolled his eyes simulating an oxygen starved brain from a muscle wrenching activity. I presumed from this dramatic reaction that he indeed knew of Spout Hill and in his younger days may actually have been up it on a bike.
The subject slope was a regular venue for cycling clubs to run their winter Hillclimb competitions. I had walked up it, huffing and puffing a few times but surprisingly had never myself been up it on two wheels. On a particularly icy day some years ago I had been surveying one the of the stone built houses built out of the steep bank. My footing was at best precarious on the road surface of hard packed snow and rather comically I started to slide across the frontage, scribbling frantically on my observations as though on a conveyor belt.
Introduced to the mythical proportions of Spout Hill there was a brief look of fear and trepidation on The Boy's face. I found this disconcerting because he had developed quite a liking and aptitude for attacking an upward slope to such an extent that I was frequently left behind to struggle to keep up with him.
Spout Hill was two miles further on. The approach was flat and fast but I was conscious of conserving some energy. The Boy asked, in timid voice, where was this hill?. As we turned a corner at the old village pump I just pointed skywards. I believe The Boy uttered something rude at this point. I just gasped 'see you at the top....or at home" and so it began.
A good session of mechanical attention in the garage a few days earlier had resolved a sticky gear changer and I now had full use of the smallest chainring. I engaged this immediately the road started to rise and persisted to pedal furiously making slow and labourious but nevertheless some forward motion. The Boy, with 19 less gears than me was waltzing away and up like a natural born climber. My chest heaved and my breathing became faster and more wheezy. Perhaps I should have signed up for the Well Man Clinic after all. The gradient did warrant a single black arrow on my Ordnance Survey Sheet although I am convinced that a truer representation may have affected by the fading or abrasion of the symbols on what was after all an old map.
At the halfway point on the hill there is a gap in the north bank where a public footpath converges from Brantingham Dale below. The Boy had already passed this point but I slowed up, if that was possible given my pitiful average speed, and pulled over. He must have wondered if I had decided to retire from cycling at this point. We have an unwritten understanding. Climb off and you have to sell your bike. This is very open to interpretation and if you feign falling off, or as footballers do simulation, in a circumstance of giving up then there may be a right of appeal.
I did however have a valid and strongly personal reason for stopping. The clearing had, in the winter of the previous year, been the meeting point for family to celebrate the life and times of my Father who had died a few months before in the July. Mother had read out one of her poems and in a prevailing wind a fine shower of Father's ashes was distributed in one of his favourite walking locations and indeed a very beautiful part of East Yorkshire.
I offered up, at that welcome pause in my ascent, a prayer of thanksgiving for the memory of my Father and a cheeky comment that I had lost some weight and was well into my cycling again after a bit of a falling out in terms of ability and confidence in recent times. He will have been happy about this. I could sense his spirit was with me on Spout Hill and our brief communion gave me fresh momentum and impetus to power on, relatively speaking, to the crest and to the prize, firmly second place to The Boy, of a fantastic long distance and clear view over the valley below.
Saturday 13 October 2012
Being Run Over
I have been run over twice in my life, to date.
The circumstances of both runnings over were very similar which can be taken as an indication of either a freakish coincidence or just my failure to learn from the first time to avert the repeat on the second occasion.
In my defence I was not at all at fault at either time. I was a victim to the recklessness and inattention of the other parties .The collisions both took place in the dark and with me on my bicycle. The perpetrators were motorists.
My first assailant was quite a celebrity in that he had been the first person in the UK to win a legal action for loss of marital rights arising from an accident he had had a few years before. He did not, to his credit and character, attribute his careless driving on the night he met me head-on to the sad and mournful loss of his testicles as they parted company from the rest of his body. That is what apparently happened in the process of his undercarriage getting caught on the handlebars of his motorbike as he was thrown forward and clear after a shunt from behind. The thought of the pain and the later realisation of the tragic loss of a favourite organ did serve to mute my own discomfort at the time of my involuntary dismount. I had been fortunate in exiting sideways rather than up and over. In fact he was quite sympathetic to my plight and was more than prepared to drive me and what was left of my bike to any destination of my choice. I just wanted to get back home.
The second time was a lucky escape. I was in the middle of the road making a move to turn right into a junction lit up like Blackpool Illuminations on wheels when a pair of car headlights approaching me suddenly developed into four abreast. The slow progress of a queue of vehicles along a series of slow bends had frustrated a following driver. The sight of a long and apparently clear straight road was the catalyst for him to stamp on the accelerator and take the line in one go. Unfortunately I was in his way and in full acceptance of getting hit by the overtaking car I just relaxed awaiting the inevitable impact. This action or rather inaction did, I am convinced, save my life. The driver only noticed me at the peak of his speed. His rapid deceleration amid screeching brakes and a long scorch mark on the tarmac meant that he hit me at aboout 30mph rather than 60mph. I rolled up his bonnet and in a foetal position, by chance and not intention, I smashed his windscreen with my upper shoulder before being thrown clear in the road. I expected another vehicle to hit me but everything, as they always say, had become grossly exaggerrated in slow motion and then it was deathly quiet.
I cannot remember what happened between the impact and being bundled into an ambulance. I may have been a bit sarcastic to the driver whilst he looked on anxiously but give myself too much credit for being that lucid and understandable in the circumstances.
My bike had taken a good part of the impact and I was glad to have paid a bit more for a quality frame of tempered metal which had prevented me from being skewered by a set of inflexible steel tubes of a cheaper machine.
The paramedics were intent on taking me to the local Hospital but I insisted that apart from a bruised upper shoulder, a few pulled ligaments and the grief I felt for my bike I could be counted as the walking wounded. The ambulance, arriving at my parents house caused quite a stir and with the crushed, fractured and dismantled frame emerging first I can remember the look on my mother's face in expectation of what I would look like when I eventually got manhandled out of the back doors.
They say that those fit in body recover quickly from an injury that would lay other people up for a long time. I returned to work the next day. In hindsight that was a bad decision. The real victim of my accident turned out to be one of the car owners in the Municipal car park that day. My stiff shoulder prevented me from turning around and negotiating a proper reversing movement. In a sickening crash and tinkle of car body parts I careered into the vehicle.
What with excess payments and hire car costs the Insurance settlements for both events just about cancelled each other out. Sadly,I have never been able to replace the deceased bike.
The circumstances of both runnings over were very similar which can be taken as an indication of either a freakish coincidence or just my failure to learn from the first time to avert the repeat on the second occasion.
In my defence I was not at all at fault at either time. I was a victim to the recklessness and inattention of the other parties .The collisions both took place in the dark and with me on my bicycle. The perpetrators were motorists.
My first assailant was quite a celebrity in that he had been the first person in the UK to win a legal action for loss of marital rights arising from an accident he had had a few years before. He did not, to his credit and character, attribute his careless driving on the night he met me head-on to the sad and mournful loss of his testicles as they parted company from the rest of his body. That is what apparently happened in the process of his undercarriage getting caught on the handlebars of his motorbike as he was thrown forward and clear after a shunt from behind. The thought of the pain and the later realisation of the tragic loss of a favourite organ did serve to mute my own discomfort at the time of my involuntary dismount. I had been fortunate in exiting sideways rather than up and over. In fact he was quite sympathetic to my plight and was more than prepared to drive me and what was left of my bike to any destination of my choice. I just wanted to get back home.
The second time was a lucky escape. I was in the middle of the road making a move to turn right into a junction lit up like Blackpool Illuminations on wheels when a pair of car headlights approaching me suddenly developed into four abreast. The slow progress of a queue of vehicles along a series of slow bends had frustrated a following driver. The sight of a long and apparently clear straight road was the catalyst for him to stamp on the accelerator and take the line in one go. Unfortunately I was in his way and in full acceptance of getting hit by the overtaking car I just relaxed awaiting the inevitable impact. This action or rather inaction did, I am convinced, save my life. The driver only noticed me at the peak of his speed. His rapid deceleration amid screeching brakes and a long scorch mark on the tarmac meant that he hit me at aboout 30mph rather than 60mph. I rolled up his bonnet and in a foetal position, by chance and not intention, I smashed his windscreen with my upper shoulder before being thrown clear in the road. I expected another vehicle to hit me but everything, as they always say, had become grossly exaggerrated in slow motion and then it was deathly quiet.
I cannot remember what happened between the impact and being bundled into an ambulance. I may have been a bit sarcastic to the driver whilst he looked on anxiously but give myself too much credit for being that lucid and understandable in the circumstances.
My bike had taken a good part of the impact and I was glad to have paid a bit more for a quality frame of tempered metal which had prevented me from being skewered by a set of inflexible steel tubes of a cheaper machine.
The paramedics were intent on taking me to the local Hospital but I insisted that apart from a bruised upper shoulder, a few pulled ligaments and the grief I felt for my bike I could be counted as the walking wounded. The ambulance, arriving at my parents house caused quite a stir and with the crushed, fractured and dismantled frame emerging first I can remember the look on my mother's face in expectation of what I would look like when I eventually got manhandled out of the back doors.
They say that those fit in body recover quickly from an injury that would lay other people up for a long time. I returned to work the next day. In hindsight that was a bad decision. The real victim of my accident turned out to be one of the car owners in the Municipal car park that day. My stiff shoulder prevented me from turning around and negotiating a proper reversing movement. In a sickening crash and tinkle of car body parts I careered into the vehicle.
What with excess payments and hire car costs the Insurance settlements for both events just about cancelled each other out. Sadly,I have never been able to replace the deceased bike.
Friday 12 October 2012
Statistics, Statistics and lies
I have, this week, reached the tremendous milestone of over 10,000 pageviews since I started this self indulgent alter-ego project in August 2011.
I am not entirely convinced by what constitutes a 'pageview' count in the Bloggosphere and therefore, in actuality, the true number of those reading my daily pages will be considerably lower.
I admit that I do get a thrill from the statistics column of the blog, more so the source of the audience which shows a casual interest or a mistaken browsing than the other figures. I did not start my ramblings, ravings, musings, political incorrectness, rumours, hearsay, scandal, mumbo-jumbo, speculations, outrageous reminiscences, mis-spellings, poor grammar, historical confusions, fictional liberties and factual misrepresentations as a numbers game but from a desire to just put things in writing before they disappeared from my memory and consciousness.
I have enjoyed the discipline of writing every day although this has involved very early or very late sittings at the keyboard of a worn out laptop with sticky keys and a tendency of mine to strike that key, in a bleary eyed moment, that causes an hour or more's work to just disappear with no trace or chance of recovery.
In daylight hours I keep a notebook. The now second volume has many indicipherable scribbles as a consequence of that bad habit of writing and driving. What seems like brilliant ideas and themes when they first fall out of the roller ball pen or stunted wet-weather pencil , are on later review gibberish and infantile. I still, invariably, write these up though and they are still gibberish and infantile but disguised in many, many more words, sentences and paragraphs.
I did toy with the idea, briefly, of sending a story or two to a magazine or publication. Having registered with a resource who match writings with publishers I find that there is very little demand for my offerings. The main reason is that my blogs are just too long. There tends to be a limit of 1000 words for a typical submission of a short story or fact based article and I am way over any such wordage and do not have the inclination or skill to slash and edit these down to an acceptable level.
I have a dedicated but small band of followers to thank for tirelessly logging on.
I have thought about joining up with a Counselling service to offer some hope of relief and sympathy to these folks. Others have declined to register as a follower but I respect their reticence to do so because, again, I am not doing this as a numbers game. A few have left comments, mostly encouraging but mainly to correct a liberty or untruth that has formed the core of a particular piece of writing .The one anonymous comment I received freaked me out completely because it was a bit obsessive and geeky and made me think if I could be making better use of my idling hours by sleeping or perhaps learning knitting or bridge.
I apologise to those who have logged on to 'One Last Soul' thinking they were loyally following rock band Black Country Communion from whom I borrowed the song title. It is after all a meaningful, melancholic and evocative one. Apparently the same thoughts will have crossed the minds of many other organisations, religious denominations and individuals based on the thousands and thousands of internet references to the same phrase and wording.
I may even have received, in error, the benefit of a pageview count from those thinking I was a fan of James Last but who I undertand is still with us in mind, body and small goatee beard.
Those devoted to the Rough Guide Travel Books may have mistaken my blog title as a reference to a publication about visiting the South Korean capital before it becomes too spoilt by development.
Those interested in prolonging the life of their favourite pair of shoes may have mis-read the title as a miraculous method of patching up footwear.
White slave traders with a poorer comprehension of English may have mis read the title as being a classified advertisement for a Scottish girl in 'One Lass to Sell'.
I have also thought that those in a sober idealogical frame of mind or equally in a drunken stupor, outraged at the way that this country is being run, might have put in a random search for chat rooms about posh David as ' One arsehole' and landed on my pages.
I have accumulated a large pageview count from Russia which has now passed an otherwise impressive running total from the United States. This may be due to inclement weather or just austerity preventing them from getting out and about rather than confined to a computer screen. There are also strange peaks of activity with a simultaneous eight or more pageviews on any one day from Lebanon and Venezuela. I like to think that this is an English Language Class logging on but more likely to have practical experience of grammatical incorrectness. There are many countries of just a single pageview over the 14 months of my output. These are from more exotic and distant lands but as thrilling to me as my Moscow or New York statistics.
I decline to look at the statistical traffic sources figures because they will only show the truth that a vast percentage of my pageviews result from auto-dialer machines, boiler room operations, call centres and those intent on stealing my identity and bank account details.
I say thank you to all for the last 14 months. To paraphrase the character of Sir Humphrey in Yes Minister, 'I am not a high flyer, rather a low flyer with occasional bursts of wind'. Heres to flying.
I am not entirely convinced by what constitutes a 'pageview' count in the Bloggosphere and therefore, in actuality, the true number of those reading my daily pages will be considerably lower.
I admit that I do get a thrill from the statistics column of the blog, more so the source of the audience which shows a casual interest or a mistaken browsing than the other figures. I did not start my ramblings, ravings, musings, political incorrectness, rumours, hearsay, scandal, mumbo-jumbo, speculations, outrageous reminiscences, mis-spellings, poor grammar, historical confusions, fictional liberties and factual misrepresentations as a numbers game but from a desire to just put things in writing before they disappeared from my memory and consciousness.
I have enjoyed the discipline of writing every day although this has involved very early or very late sittings at the keyboard of a worn out laptop with sticky keys and a tendency of mine to strike that key, in a bleary eyed moment, that causes an hour or more's work to just disappear with no trace or chance of recovery.
In daylight hours I keep a notebook. The now second volume has many indicipherable scribbles as a consequence of that bad habit of writing and driving. What seems like brilliant ideas and themes when they first fall out of the roller ball pen or stunted wet-weather pencil , are on later review gibberish and infantile. I still, invariably, write these up though and they are still gibberish and infantile but disguised in many, many more words, sentences and paragraphs.
I did toy with the idea, briefly, of sending a story or two to a magazine or publication. Having registered with a resource who match writings with publishers I find that there is very little demand for my offerings. The main reason is that my blogs are just too long. There tends to be a limit of 1000 words for a typical submission of a short story or fact based article and I am way over any such wordage and do not have the inclination or skill to slash and edit these down to an acceptable level.
I have a dedicated but small band of followers to thank for tirelessly logging on.
I have thought about joining up with a Counselling service to offer some hope of relief and sympathy to these folks. Others have declined to register as a follower but I respect their reticence to do so because, again, I am not doing this as a numbers game. A few have left comments, mostly encouraging but mainly to correct a liberty or untruth that has formed the core of a particular piece of writing .The one anonymous comment I received freaked me out completely because it was a bit obsessive and geeky and made me think if I could be making better use of my idling hours by sleeping or perhaps learning knitting or bridge.
I apologise to those who have logged on to 'One Last Soul' thinking they were loyally following rock band Black Country Communion from whom I borrowed the song title. It is after all a meaningful, melancholic and evocative one. Apparently the same thoughts will have crossed the minds of many other organisations, religious denominations and individuals based on the thousands and thousands of internet references to the same phrase and wording.
I may even have received, in error, the benefit of a pageview count from those thinking I was a fan of James Last but who I undertand is still with us in mind, body and small goatee beard.
Those devoted to the Rough Guide Travel Books may have mistaken my blog title as a reference to a publication about visiting the South Korean capital before it becomes too spoilt by development.
Those interested in prolonging the life of their favourite pair of shoes may have mis-read the title as a miraculous method of patching up footwear.
White slave traders with a poorer comprehension of English may have mis read the title as being a classified advertisement for a Scottish girl in 'One Lass to Sell'.
I have also thought that those in a sober idealogical frame of mind or equally in a drunken stupor, outraged at the way that this country is being run, might have put in a random search for chat rooms about posh David as ' One arsehole' and landed on my pages.
I have accumulated a large pageview count from Russia which has now passed an otherwise impressive running total from the United States. This may be due to inclement weather or just austerity preventing them from getting out and about rather than confined to a computer screen. There are also strange peaks of activity with a simultaneous eight or more pageviews on any one day from Lebanon and Venezuela. I like to think that this is an English Language Class logging on but more likely to have practical experience of grammatical incorrectness. There are many countries of just a single pageview over the 14 months of my output. These are from more exotic and distant lands but as thrilling to me as my Moscow or New York statistics.
I decline to look at the statistical traffic sources figures because they will only show the truth that a vast percentage of my pageviews result from auto-dialer machines, boiler room operations, call centres and those intent on stealing my identity and bank account details.
I say thank you to all for the last 14 months. To paraphrase the character of Sir Humphrey in Yes Minister, 'I am not a high flyer, rather a low flyer with occasional bursts of wind'. Heres to flying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)