The summer is come and gone all too quickly. There is already a sharp chill in the air and although only 7pm it is distinctly dark and morose outside. It will not be long before the clocks change and we will be going to and returning from work in the dark.
The summer months were slow to get going and with June and July almost a write off because of the persistently wet and stormy weather which affected all of the usual seasonal activities of tending the garden, enjoying a few moments of sitting out or even contemplating a trip out to the coast or a countryside walk.
August did come to the rescue of an otherwise washed out high season and for the first time in many years there was a guarantee of successive good days in terms of warm sunshine and dry weather. This was not to everyone's benefit as what was termed "the wettest drought in history" led to hosepipe bans in many parts of the UK.
I try to prolong summer as much as possible. I look forward to getting up early, even on weekdays, to enjoy that fresh start to the day before it gets too hot. I equally savour a long evening of approaching coolness and sunset when it is just nice and civilised to spend time outdoors doing everything or nothing.
One of the last events of the summer is to harvest the Victoria Plums from our sole tree at the bottom of the garden. We planted a sapling some 16 years ago as a project with our young children and also in acknowledgement that we had found out true family home that met and exceeded all our material requirements. Oh, and it was intended to form a screen from neighbours when fully grown.
For the first decade of growth the tree struggled to establish itself. It was a good location to receive sunlight and rainfall and with reasonable shelter from extreme climatic periods. We all crowded around the slim trunk with the first indications of it bearing fruit and would regularly stray down to the far end of the garden to monitor the growth and health of the small and hard olive sized plums.
As the hotter months of the year passed in the inaugral year of maturing the fruit swelled and slowly turned colour from green to a deep purpley red. We returned from our annual 2 weeks leave to find the upper boughs split and hanging down limply under the sheer weight of the sumptious plums. This was distressing to see but the tree was strong enough to survive the inevitable major amputation of the dead weight of wood.
That year we did not know what to do with the masses of fruit. Jam was attempted but remained a bit runny. Kilner jars were filled with liquer and then stuffed with the softer fruits to undergo some sort of transformation to an even more potent alcoholic level. Donations were made to family and friends and we even thought, at one stage, of leaving a boxfull at the driveway gates with an honesty tin for payment if unsupervised by the children. The gardener from a large house, when hearing of our predicament, offered to harvest the still laden upper boughs in return for a precentage of the plunder. His offer was enthusiatically accepted and by early September the tree was bare.
After shedding what was a significant weight the boughs seemed to breathe a sigh and slowly return to their natural height and form.
Every year since the tree has performed well and today, well into September, saw me bring down to the house the last bowlful of the plums. The tail enders were a mixture of firm and sweet ones and those perhaps a bit past their best by their soft and dull texture. The wasps and insects had feasted well on the tree but not to a noticeable detriment to our domestic quota. The obvious drilled and holed plums could be avoided but even an apparently perfect and unblemished one could still surprise with a cluster of larvae or maggots if hastily bitten into or more advisably, cut in half and examined before eating.
All is now safely gathered in and the tree will revert to anonymity until the next growing season. This may be the last harvest from our planted tree as our house is currently up for sale and we are in that life cycle process of trading down. It has been most satisfying and humbling watching the development of our Victoria Plum and a constant reminder of the natural order of things. If we do eventually get moved I will be sure to drive past the old house in late August to check on the crop. It is possible to enter the garden unseen from an adjacent street and over a neighbours fence although with a ladder and large bucket I will have to time my scrumping expedition carefully and meticulously.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Saturday, 15 September 2012
Hopelessly Devoted
It was an impulse purchase, quite an extravagance at the time. It cost the equivalent of a few days provisions for my student existence or even the price of a text book for my course.The feeling of guilt was difficult to suppress but I managed it eventually.
But yet, thirty one years on it represents perhaps the best investment I have ever made because I still have it and at least one third of it is still there to be used.
It was the best of its kind at the time, hence its price tag compared to pale competitor products which promised the same effect but you just knew they would let you down. The brand name exudes respect and with a pedigree earned through reputation for quality, reliability and durability and not advertising images or hype.
I had of course learned the hard way about compromising and going for a cheap version. That fateful decision resulted in a complete malfunction of equipment and consequently an embarrassing and long walk home giving the impression that to the amused public at the sight of me that I, myself, had suffered a meltdown. I made the decision then to go for the best available on the market.
The product was Italian made. That does not perhaps instill the most confidence when you consider that German engineering is held in the highest regard- all of that Vorsprung durch technic stuff. Anything Italian is usually spoken about in terms of spirit, heart and passion which avoids having to answer the question "..but is it actually any good?". Take my wifes car of some years ago, a high mileage Alfa Romeo. I found it full of cuore but only from a distance which was usually with me sat in the cab of a recovery vehicle looking back at the sad and annoyingly frequent sight of it being transported back to our house or direct to the repair shop after yet another breakdown. The snapping of the timing belt was the final performance and not in very good circumstances on a busy city centre roundabout one dark and wet winters night. The Car of the Year 1999 had to be given away for nothing based on a market value of £1500 and a cost of repairs principally a new engine at considerably more. The Alfa is an example of more style than substance.
In direct contrast my acqusition was modest and unassuming and yet has proven to be of exceptional usefulness. It is a small plastic tub container. Matt white when bought but now with 31 years of fingerprints, mostly my own but including a few curious souls who handled it out of curiosity but mostly disbelief in its almost magical properties. The screw top lid in black, gloss coloured but also now worn from use. Around the container the distinctive logo of the company, one of the most iconic in the industry and intimately associated with the top echelon of the sport and its own heroes from the last five decades and perhaps longer.
The contents when I first revealed them were golden, unblemished and of a consistency that engendered confidence in its application on ball bearings, axles in bottom brackets and wheels, gear clusters, headsets, seat tubes and around the small plastic cogs that guide the chain around the drop-out positioned rear gear mechanism. It could be used sparingly because of its richness and that has been more than proven with the passage of time.
What is left in the tub is still potent and virile. There is a slight oily residue where perhaps I failed to store the material away from advised extremes in temperature. Given that I have over more than three decades moved from student digs, back to my parents, my first house purchase and a further 3 homes the environments have been quite varied and not conducive to stability and preservation.
I used the stuff today on those pesky small plastic cogs and the mountain bike became efficiently silent and smooth under pedal power. The distinctive odour of the precious remaining contents evoked many memories of using the elixir of motion. That and Swarfega which is the equivalent of Kryptonite to Superman.
I left a fresh set of grubby fingerprints on the rather battered container as I placed it carefully on a shelf in the garage. It would be a good bike ride in the knowledge that my Campagnolo Grease was carrying me effortlessly and frictionless over road, hill and dale.
But yet, thirty one years on it represents perhaps the best investment I have ever made because I still have it and at least one third of it is still there to be used.
It was the best of its kind at the time, hence its price tag compared to pale competitor products which promised the same effect but you just knew they would let you down. The brand name exudes respect and with a pedigree earned through reputation for quality, reliability and durability and not advertising images or hype.
I had of course learned the hard way about compromising and going for a cheap version. That fateful decision resulted in a complete malfunction of equipment and consequently an embarrassing and long walk home giving the impression that to the amused public at the sight of me that I, myself, had suffered a meltdown. I made the decision then to go for the best available on the market.
The product was Italian made. That does not perhaps instill the most confidence when you consider that German engineering is held in the highest regard- all of that Vorsprung durch technic stuff. Anything Italian is usually spoken about in terms of spirit, heart and passion which avoids having to answer the question "..but is it actually any good?". Take my wifes car of some years ago, a high mileage Alfa Romeo. I found it full of cuore but only from a distance which was usually with me sat in the cab of a recovery vehicle looking back at the sad and annoyingly frequent sight of it being transported back to our house or direct to the repair shop after yet another breakdown. The snapping of the timing belt was the final performance and not in very good circumstances on a busy city centre roundabout one dark and wet winters night. The Car of the Year 1999 had to be given away for nothing based on a market value of £1500 and a cost of repairs principally a new engine at considerably more. The Alfa is an example of more style than substance.
In direct contrast my acqusition was modest and unassuming and yet has proven to be of exceptional usefulness. It is a small plastic tub container. Matt white when bought but now with 31 years of fingerprints, mostly my own but including a few curious souls who handled it out of curiosity but mostly disbelief in its almost magical properties. The screw top lid in black, gloss coloured but also now worn from use. Around the container the distinctive logo of the company, one of the most iconic in the industry and intimately associated with the top echelon of the sport and its own heroes from the last five decades and perhaps longer.
The contents when I first revealed them were golden, unblemished and of a consistency that engendered confidence in its application on ball bearings, axles in bottom brackets and wheels, gear clusters, headsets, seat tubes and around the small plastic cogs that guide the chain around the drop-out positioned rear gear mechanism. It could be used sparingly because of its richness and that has been more than proven with the passage of time.
What is left in the tub is still potent and virile. There is a slight oily residue where perhaps I failed to store the material away from advised extremes in temperature. Given that I have over more than three decades moved from student digs, back to my parents, my first house purchase and a further 3 homes the environments have been quite varied and not conducive to stability and preservation.
I used the stuff today on those pesky small plastic cogs and the mountain bike became efficiently silent and smooth under pedal power. The distinctive odour of the precious remaining contents evoked many memories of using the elixir of motion. That and Swarfega which is the equivalent of Kryptonite to Superman.
I left a fresh set of grubby fingerprints on the rather battered container as I placed it carefully on a shelf in the garage. It would be a good bike ride in the knowledge that my Campagnolo Grease was carrying me effortlessly and frictionless over road, hill and dale.
Friday, 14 September 2012
Educating Archie
Anyone calling at the house and walking from the outer porch to the kitchen remarks about the incline.
It is noticeable. There is a slight upward slope. It can catch you out on the return leg to the front door as there is a gentle and unseen force that pushes you as though you are being ejected by a large and polite but persuasive night club bouncer. It may seem that as a visitor you are being ushered out but in such a welcoming house that is highly unlikely. The momentum created by the slope served as a launch pad for us as children if we were at all apprehensive or reluctant to go to school or to face one of life's challenges.
In the floor there are signs of structural movement.
It is a wonderful example of a mosaic tile floor , individual fired pieces carefully crafted and fitted in a continuous covering of colour and interest. It runs some 30 feet in length from the storm porch to a single step down at the back lobby and door to the cellar. It is wide enough to easily pass the family test of leaning seven bicycles abreast against the wall and still with enough room to walk past. At about the middle of the ornate pavement, in the centre of the house, the immaculate tiling and flush jointing is split open and under foot or bike tyre can be heard the rattle of a slightly loosened group of tiles.
As though following a trail your eye is drawn upwards as you stand astride the fractured floor. The ceiling, some ten feet above, is similarly cracked laterally from wall to wall. The doorheads into the two front living rooms are perceptibly out of true but the heavy panelled doors have, by previous owners, been carefully shaved along the upper edge to fit close and snug. My parents bought the house over thirty years ago. The signs of movement were certainly there at that time but contributed the character of a house built in the last few years of the 19th Century.
The Drains Men, McPherson and Archie dug up the rear yard from monday this week to expose the sub ground pipework in pursuit of the actual cause of the problem. After two days of excavating a neat series of trenches and easing in a seemingly endless cable mounted boroscopic camera which threatened to emerge in the pan of the upstairs WC they were still not sure of the source. They then ventured under the house from a vertical hatch in one of the cellar store rooms. Archie went first being younger, more enthusiastic but subordinate to McPherson.
The crawl space was claustrophobic even from my viewpoint in the cellar over the dry chalky laid sub floor. There was a small gap in the sleeper walls which supported the joists and boards and through the breach could be seen a large sized drainage pipe. Both men shuffled across the oversite as though under enemy fire. Emerging, white and perspiring some time later they recounted that thay had found the reason for the fracture in the house.
The cause of the movement has been attributed to a leak from the mysterious, big pipe. It is a strange arrangement and to some extent has lowered my perception of the Victorians as methodical and meticulous house builders. The cast iron downpipe which drains the large roof surfaces on the front of the house is run into the concrete pathway. It woud be expected to direct the rainwater via underground pipework towards the mains drains in the Public Highway which is only a matter of a few feet away. Rather, the pipe turns back and is run under the living room and dining room floorboards , the full depth of the house and is connected to the main rear downpipe. The potential for leakage or a blockage is increased proportionately over thirty feet rather than a mere five or so.
The pipe, the original from the 1890's decade was in cast metal. The regular flow of surface water over the last century had gradually eroded and corroded the lining and although the perforation was minimal it had been enough for water to drip onto the sub site and soften the foundations through the centre section of the house.
The men were as close to ecstatic as two drainage operatives could ever be on the successful outcome to their investigation. Excitedly they discussed pipe guages, tolerances, rubberised push in collars and gravel settings in readiness for repairs which would establish worthy replacement drains for the house for the next hundred or so years.
Mother brought out the best coffee and the four of us stood near the trenches and celebrated as though we were party to the greatest discovery of our lifetimes.
It is noticeable. There is a slight upward slope. It can catch you out on the return leg to the front door as there is a gentle and unseen force that pushes you as though you are being ejected by a large and polite but persuasive night club bouncer. It may seem that as a visitor you are being ushered out but in such a welcoming house that is highly unlikely. The momentum created by the slope served as a launch pad for us as children if we were at all apprehensive or reluctant to go to school or to face one of life's challenges.
In the floor there are signs of structural movement.
It is a wonderful example of a mosaic tile floor , individual fired pieces carefully crafted and fitted in a continuous covering of colour and interest. It runs some 30 feet in length from the storm porch to a single step down at the back lobby and door to the cellar. It is wide enough to easily pass the family test of leaning seven bicycles abreast against the wall and still with enough room to walk past. At about the middle of the ornate pavement, in the centre of the house, the immaculate tiling and flush jointing is split open and under foot or bike tyre can be heard the rattle of a slightly loosened group of tiles.
As though following a trail your eye is drawn upwards as you stand astride the fractured floor. The ceiling, some ten feet above, is similarly cracked laterally from wall to wall. The doorheads into the two front living rooms are perceptibly out of true but the heavy panelled doors have, by previous owners, been carefully shaved along the upper edge to fit close and snug. My parents bought the house over thirty years ago. The signs of movement were certainly there at that time but contributed the character of a house built in the last few years of the 19th Century.
The Drains Men, McPherson and Archie dug up the rear yard from monday this week to expose the sub ground pipework in pursuit of the actual cause of the problem. After two days of excavating a neat series of trenches and easing in a seemingly endless cable mounted boroscopic camera which threatened to emerge in the pan of the upstairs WC they were still not sure of the source. They then ventured under the house from a vertical hatch in one of the cellar store rooms. Archie went first being younger, more enthusiastic but subordinate to McPherson.
The crawl space was claustrophobic even from my viewpoint in the cellar over the dry chalky laid sub floor. There was a small gap in the sleeper walls which supported the joists and boards and through the breach could be seen a large sized drainage pipe. Both men shuffled across the oversite as though under enemy fire. Emerging, white and perspiring some time later they recounted that thay had found the reason for the fracture in the house.
The cause of the movement has been attributed to a leak from the mysterious, big pipe. It is a strange arrangement and to some extent has lowered my perception of the Victorians as methodical and meticulous house builders. The cast iron downpipe which drains the large roof surfaces on the front of the house is run into the concrete pathway. It woud be expected to direct the rainwater via underground pipework towards the mains drains in the Public Highway which is only a matter of a few feet away. Rather, the pipe turns back and is run under the living room and dining room floorboards , the full depth of the house and is connected to the main rear downpipe. The potential for leakage or a blockage is increased proportionately over thirty feet rather than a mere five or so.
The pipe, the original from the 1890's decade was in cast metal. The regular flow of surface water over the last century had gradually eroded and corroded the lining and although the perforation was minimal it had been enough for water to drip onto the sub site and soften the foundations through the centre section of the house.
The men were as close to ecstatic as two drainage operatives could ever be on the successful outcome to their investigation. Excitedly they discussed pipe guages, tolerances, rubberised push in collars and gravel settings in readiness for repairs which would establish worthy replacement drains for the house for the next hundred or so years.
Mother brought out the best coffee and the four of us stood near the trenches and celebrated as though we were party to the greatest discovery of our lifetimes.
Thursday, 13 September 2012
Lost and Found; Twisted Monarch
We stood just off the circular path around the Battle ground of Bosworth Field.
Another of the regularly placed information boards in multi-european languages was read with interest but importantly testified that we were looking over the spot where Richard the Third, King of England for only two short years from 1483 to 1485, is reputed to have been slain.
It was a poignant moment because only the evening before we had been to Stratford upon Avon to see a production of the Shakespeare Play about the very man. He was just 32 years old.
It is quite common and inevitable with the passage of time that the reputation of a single figure can fluctuate from a great and noble King to a calculating murderer. It is on the same theme as a terrorist in his own time being regarded as a freedom fighter by later generations.
Richard III was a fascinating character made both dramatic and sinister by his physical appearance caused by scoliosis of the spine depicting him as shuffling and stooping and with a crooked, shambling action in movement. He may have been confined to anonymity by these deformities but showed great fortitude, self belief, self preservation and ruthlessness through his achievements in his time.
He was the last Yorkist King of England and, in his demise on the battlefield, the last monarch since Harold at Hastings to die in such a way.
After the defeat of his army with his death his body was taken away for internment at the Church of The Greyfriars in the City of Leicester but the building and any memorial were lost either through conspiracy, carelessness or just through the relentless progress of urban redevelopment over the subsequent half a millennia.
The historic site of the Church became a surface car park in the 1960's and it was only until a couple of months ago that a determined and co-ordinated effort was made to excavate in the quest for his alleged resting place.
Just a few days ago the bones of an adult male were found under the position of the former church choir. The evidence to support that this is actually Richard III is either very coincidental or compelling.
The skull shows signs of impact damage. The removal of the body on horseback from Bosworth was reputed to have been rather haphazard and with reports of the trailing head striking the parapet of a bridge on its way from the killing fields.
The spine has an embedded arrowhead to a depth to cause immediate death which was a typical form of fatal injury in medieval warfare.
Interestingly the course of the skeletal spine shows distortion and curvature consistent with scoliosis.
The archaeological project has been wide ranging as befits the potentially momentous discovery of a key character in our nations history. Descendants, some sixteen generations down the line, have been forthcoming in providing swabs for DNA testing which will take place in the quiet, sombre and civilised environment of a laboratory.
If subsequently and irrefutably confirmed to be Richard the Third, I expect the debate will really begin about what to do with him and the measures of determining whether he was a good king or a psychopath will be applied in judgement.
Another of the regularly placed information boards in multi-european languages was read with interest but importantly testified that we were looking over the spot where Richard the Third, King of England for only two short years from 1483 to 1485, is reputed to have been slain.
It was a poignant moment because only the evening before we had been to Stratford upon Avon to see a production of the Shakespeare Play about the very man. He was just 32 years old.
It is quite common and inevitable with the passage of time that the reputation of a single figure can fluctuate from a great and noble King to a calculating murderer. It is on the same theme as a terrorist in his own time being regarded as a freedom fighter by later generations.
Richard III was a fascinating character made both dramatic and sinister by his physical appearance caused by scoliosis of the spine depicting him as shuffling and stooping and with a crooked, shambling action in movement. He may have been confined to anonymity by these deformities but showed great fortitude, self belief, self preservation and ruthlessness through his achievements in his time.
He was the last Yorkist King of England and, in his demise on the battlefield, the last monarch since Harold at Hastings to die in such a way.
After the defeat of his army with his death his body was taken away for internment at the Church of The Greyfriars in the City of Leicester but the building and any memorial were lost either through conspiracy, carelessness or just through the relentless progress of urban redevelopment over the subsequent half a millennia.
The historic site of the Church became a surface car park in the 1960's and it was only until a couple of months ago that a determined and co-ordinated effort was made to excavate in the quest for his alleged resting place.
Just a few days ago the bones of an adult male were found under the position of the former church choir. The evidence to support that this is actually Richard III is either very coincidental or compelling.
The skull shows signs of impact damage. The removal of the body on horseback from Bosworth was reputed to have been rather haphazard and with reports of the trailing head striking the parapet of a bridge on its way from the killing fields.
The spine has an embedded arrowhead to a depth to cause immediate death which was a typical form of fatal injury in medieval warfare.
Interestingly the course of the skeletal spine shows distortion and curvature consistent with scoliosis.
The archaeological project has been wide ranging as befits the potentially momentous discovery of a key character in our nations history. Descendants, some sixteen generations down the line, have been forthcoming in providing swabs for DNA testing which will take place in the quiet, sombre and civilised environment of a laboratory.
If subsequently and irrefutably confirmed to be Richard the Third, I expect the debate will really begin about what to do with him and the measures of determining whether he was a good king or a psychopath will be applied in judgement.
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
Room with a View
They may be young adults in their 20's and taking responsibility for their own lives and actions but to parents their offspring are still as small, vulnerable and in need of constant care and direction as though they were still infants.
This is the further stage in our family life with eldest daughter just deposited at a strange house ahead of her final year at University. Younger daughter has recently graduated and is in lodgings in another City where she is in her first full time employment. Youngest, our son. is at home amongst a suite of rooms vacated by his sisters.
It is not necessary to go into specifics about the location, postcode, demographic or crime statistics for this new neighbourhood but suffice to say it would not make it onto a relocation, relocation, relocation type TV programme but may feature regularly on Police Action type features.
Our first impression of the street, claustrophobic and with unusually narrow fronted three storey Victorian terraced houses was founded in the dark. After a bit of a stressful drive on the M1 and hastily drawn up arrangements to collect the house key from someone behind twin decks at a rave we were not, as parents, really expecting too much.
Perhaps the weekly rent of £35 plus bills should have given a clue. Although I try to be optimistic and positive I am still firmly of the opinion that if something, like a cheap rent for a student house , is too good to be true then it invariably is not. In this case it appeared, before opening the front door, to be a fair reflection of quality and condition. I stepped over a discarded, split and discharging bin bag between the tailgate of the car and the gateway. Nudging the item with my foot I was startled by a movement within the black polythene but reassured by the emergence of a rolling plastic pop bottle rather than a rodent or close relative.
The forecourt, raised and shallow behind an old brick wall was well overlooked by a good proportion of the housing opposite and in true middle class style when confronted by an inner city environment I clicked, re-clicked and clicked again the central locking on the car as though the accompanying flash of orange hazards would ward off unwanted attentions from behind net and partly drawn curtaining.
Another high step over the threshold and then an excited daughter as she explored the immediate ground floor living room, stair lobby, kitchen and boiler room. I noticed my wife drop her shoulders in an expression of acceptance of a student house and its characteristic fusty, musty odours but in this case, mixed in with a nicotine aroma. The first two years of the Uni course had been in brand new purpose built student apartments which represented everything a concerned and doting parent could hope for in a home away from home. The shoulder movement was subtle so as not to deflate the thrill of the moment.
I busied myself in examining the arrangement of heavy duty locks and bolts on the front door and found them quite impressive. Daughters room was on the first floor at the top of a very steep and tortuously turned staircase. Such was the gradient that I could stand half way up the flight and simply push bags and boxes at head height directly onto the landing.
In an earlier existence as a single family dwelling her room may have extended the full, albeit scant width of the house but as a concession to modern standards it had been partitioned to form an indoor bathroom and across a window that would have been a welcome second source of natural light. I understand that spartan and sparse are the new in-vogue styles for a 21st century lifestyle. The room followed the trend but on an enforced basis because of the restricted size rather than a commitment to a populist creed. Having transferred the contents of the car boot to the room there was hardly enough space to get into it. I again busied myself checking the sturdy mortice lock into her room.
Our son, helpful in the transit operation between car and house commented after one of the trips that for the calibre of the street there was certainly a higher than average concentration of BMW's with tinted windows than he had seen for a long time, apart from some celubrious parts of Bayswater and Kensington.
Daughter settled in instantaneously and was already talking about staying there for Christmas.
Me and the Wife were a bit emotional about the whole thing and also that daughter had not arranged any contents insurance cover. If the Insurance Company wanted any details I had busied myself memorising the types and brands of internal locks.
Feelings at such a time can be very mixed.
On the one hand you are very proud of your offspring taking up great opportunities to enrich their lives and futures but on the other it is hard to accept that they are indeed grown up. We were reassured, as we drove away over the speed bumps, by the fact that daughter had just spent the last 12 months living in Brooklyn, New York with no great dramas or concerns and had become assimilated into that vibrant, multi cultural environment. This location by comparison could appear rather suburban, pedestrian and boring.
This is the further stage in our family life with eldest daughter just deposited at a strange house ahead of her final year at University. Younger daughter has recently graduated and is in lodgings in another City where she is in her first full time employment. Youngest, our son. is at home amongst a suite of rooms vacated by his sisters.
It is not necessary to go into specifics about the location, postcode, demographic or crime statistics for this new neighbourhood but suffice to say it would not make it onto a relocation, relocation, relocation type TV programme but may feature regularly on Police Action type features.
Our first impression of the street, claustrophobic and with unusually narrow fronted three storey Victorian terraced houses was founded in the dark. After a bit of a stressful drive on the M1 and hastily drawn up arrangements to collect the house key from someone behind twin decks at a rave we were not, as parents, really expecting too much.
Perhaps the weekly rent of £35 plus bills should have given a clue. Although I try to be optimistic and positive I am still firmly of the opinion that if something, like a cheap rent for a student house , is too good to be true then it invariably is not. In this case it appeared, before opening the front door, to be a fair reflection of quality and condition. I stepped over a discarded, split and discharging bin bag between the tailgate of the car and the gateway. Nudging the item with my foot I was startled by a movement within the black polythene but reassured by the emergence of a rolling plastic pop bottle rather than a rodent or close relative.
The forecourt, raised and shallow behind an old brick wall was well overlooked by a good proportion of the housing opposite and in true middle class style when confronted by an inner city environment I clicked, re-clicked and clicked again the central locking on the car as though the accompanying flash of orange hazards would ward off unwanted attentions from behind net and partly drawn curtaining.
Another high step over the threshold and then an excited daughter as she explored the immediate ground floor living room, stair lobby, kitchen and boiler room. I noticed my wife drop her shoulders in an expression of acceptance of a student house and its characteristic fusty, musty odours but in this case, mixed in with a nicotine aroma. The first two years of the Uni course had been in brand new purpose built student apartments which represented everything a concerned and doting parent could hope for in a home away from home. The shoulder movement was subtle so as not to deflate the thrill of the moment.
I busied myself in examining the arrangement of heavy duty locks and bolts on the front door and found them quite impressive. Daughters room was on the first floor at the top of a very steep and tortuously turned staircase. Such was the gradient that I could stand half way up the flight and simply push bags and boxes at head height directly onto the landing.
In an earlier existence as a single family dwelling her room may have extended the full, albeit scant width of the house but as a concession to modern standards it had been partitioned to form an indoor bathroom and across a window that would have been a welcome second source of natural light. I understand that spartan and sparse are the new in-vogue styles for a 21st century lifestyle. The room followed the trend but on an enforced basis because of the restricted size rather than a commitment to a populist creed. Having transferred the contents of the car boot to the room there was hardly enough space to get into it. I again busied myself checking the sturdy mortice lock into her room.
Our son, helpful in the transit operation between car and house commented after one of the trips that for the calibre of the street there was certainly a higher than average concentration of BMW's with tinted windows than he had seen for a long time, apart from some celubrious parts of Bayswater and Kensington.
Daughter settled in instantaneously and was already talking about staying there for Christmas.
Me and the Wife were a bit emotional about the whole thing and also that daughter had not arranged any contents insurance cover. If the Insurance Company wanted any details I had busied myself memorising the types and brands of internal locks.
Feelings at such a time can be very mixed.
On the one hand you are very proud of your offspring taking up great opportunities to enrich their lives and futures but on the other it is hard to accept that they are indeed grown up. We were reassured, as we drove away over the speed bumps, by the fact that daughter had just spent the last 12 months living in Brooklyn, New York with no great dramas or concerns and had become assimilated into that vibrant, multi cultural environment. This location by comparison could appear rather suburban, pedestrian and boring.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Four Corners of The World
He was correct in saying that Britain was a nation of shopkeepers.
Of course it was not intended as a sentimental testimony nor a compliment on the versatility of the retail sector in a time of war.
It was however wholly misguided because the corner shops in particular were the very foundations of family life in our densely populated towns and cities.
It is sad now to come across what had been a corner shop. The characteristics are still there with the brickwork by which the large display frontage was enclosed standing out in sharp contrast to the remainder of the weathered and soot infused masonry from thousands of domestic hearths.
The scrollwork of the shop front usually survives and perhaps the faint traces of a proudly etched proprietors name can just be discerned in a certain light or from a defiined angle. If converted to a house there is usually a door and window with the appearance of being out of scale and alien to the street frontage.
There is no mistaking the old shop forecourt around which a fence or boundary is attempted but it has been a short cut and right of way for a century and that is a difficult momentum to curtail, like an elephant walk.
The four corners of the junctions of old urban streets would be occupied by shops. Typically, a greengrocers, newsagent/tobacconist, butcher and baker. Their shop lights in the darker seasonal mornings and closing in nights would guide the local population to their places of work or home again. The resonance of the bell atop the heavy panelled doors giving reassurance and comfort to those still under the covers.
The customers would be personally known to the shop keepers and the regular purchases prepared for collection such was the routine and regularity of visits and acquisitions. In hard economic times the proprietors would provide a credit system to be settled on the next pay day and would be understanding of family problems and hardships. This was engendered by the fact that they were also local residents living behind and above the shop.
Small children would be handed the cigarettes, tobacco and roll-ups for their parents or older siblings with no questions asked. This would invariably extend to beer, paraffin for heaters and all manner of what we would regard today as prohibited goods or hazards to the young.
The display windows would appear to be magical in the eyes of the children. Many play and idling hours would be spent around the shop front and the goods on show would become a strong memory well into the adult years so that a mock-up in a streetlife museum evokes strong emotions and nostalgia.
The nicknames of shop keepers would also persist whether reflecting some character trait, temperament or just a rhyme concocted around their christian or surnames. They were a hub for the streets which intersected and helped to make sure that everyones circumstances and business were known, not in a bad or gloating way but out of genuine concern even if whispered as a hearsay or rumour.
Gradually the arrival of the motor car and the development of the High Streets threatened the status and viability of the corner shop. The upwardly mobile local population moved on to the newer housing in the suburbs and strong ties and loyalties to the shops became inevitably diminished.
A few battled on but could not compete with the Discount Stores and large Supermarket chains. The display windows became dull and sparse. Clear glass became shrouded in the self adhesive livery of smaller independent shop chains. Graffitti and litter collected on the previously proudly kept brickwork and forecourt. Conversion to housing soon followed but not so as to eradicate the origins of the commerce and philanthropy that had been conducted there for decades.
Sterilised and impersonal In-Store counters killed off the butcher and baker from the terraced streets. Aisles and aisles of fresh and varied but genetically uniform fruit and veg made the corner shop produce look shabby and ugly. Newspapers and tobacco were being sold just about anywhere.
It is rare now to see any surviving corner shops. If any have lasted they are likely to be operating as a Ladies Hairdressers but as a mere shadow of their former bustling use. Still, even these neighbourhood salons could be at risk if Tesco decide to do cut price haircuts.
Of course it was not intended as a sentimental testimony nor a compliment on the versatility of the retail sector in a time of war.
It was however wholly misguided because the corner shops in particular were the very foundations of family life in our densely populated towns and cities.
It is sad now to come across what had been a corner shop. The characteristics are still there with the brickwork by which the large display frontage was enclosed standing out in sharp contrast to the remainder of the weathered and soot infused masonry from thousands of domestic hearths.
The scrollwork of the shop front usually survives and perhaps the faint traces of a proudly etched proprietors name can just be discerned in a certain light or from a defiined angle. If converted to a house there is usually a door and window with the appearance of being out of scale and alien to the street frontage.
There is no mistaking the old shop forecourt around which a fence or boundary is attempted but it has been a short cut and right of way for a century and that is a difficult momentum to curtail, like an elephant walk.
The four corners of the junctions of old urban streets would be occupied by shops. Typically, a greengrocers, newsagent/tobacconist, butcher and baker. Their shop lights in the darker seasonal mornings and closing in nights would guide the local population to their places of work or home again. The resonance of the bell atop the heavy panelled doors giving reassurance and comfort to those still under the covers.
The customers would be personally known to the shop keepers and the regular purchases prepared for collection such was the routine and regularity of visits and acquisitions. In hard economic times the proprietors would provide a credit system to be settled on the next pay day and would be understanding of family problems and hardships. This was engendered by the fact that they were also local residents living behind and above the shop.
Small children would be handed the cigarettes, tobacco and roll-ups for their parents or older siblings with no questions asked. This would invariably extend to beer, paraffin for heaters and all manner of what we would regard today as prohibited goods or hazards to the young.
The display windows would appear to be magical in the eyes of the children. Many play and idling hours would be spent around the shop front and the goods on show would become a strong memory well into the adult years so that a mock-up in a streetlife museum evokes strong emotions and nostalgia.
The nicknames of shop keepers would also persist whether reflecting some character trait, temperament or just a rhyme concocted around their christian or surnames. They were a hub for the streets which intersected and helped to make sure that everyones circumstances and business were known, not in a bad or gloating way but out of genuine concern even if whispered as a hearsay or rumour.
Gradually the arrival of the motor car and the development of the High Streets threatened the status and viability of the corner shop. The upwardly mobile local population moved on to the newer housing in the suburbs and strong ties and loyalties to the shops became inevitably diminished.
A few battled on but could not compete with the Discount Stores and large Supermarket chains. The display windows became dull and sparse. Clear glass became shrouded in the self adhesive livery of smaller independent shop chains. Graffitti and litter collected on the previously proudly kept brickwork and forecourt. Conversion to housing soon followed but not so as to eradicate the origins of the commerce and philanthropy that had been conducted there for decades.
Sterilised and impersonal In-Store counters killed off the butcher and baker from the terraced streets. Aisles and aisles of fresh and varied but genetically uniform fruit and veg made the corner shop produce look shabby and ugly. Newspapers and tobacco were being sold just about anywhere.
It is rare now to see any surviving corner shops. If any have lasted they are likely to be operating as a Ladies Hairdressers but as a mere shadow of their former bustling use. Still, even these neighbourhood salons could be at risk if Tesco decide to do cut price haircuts.
Monday, 10 September 2012
Butlins- The Iron Age Years
Planning a holiday can be a stressful time, a self fulfilling prophecy whereby you become so exhausted in the booking and logistical process that you just need a holiday to recover.
The package holiday of the 1970's was revolutionary in that it required very little organisation apart from spending monies, clothing, flip flops and getting to the airport or point of departure on time and either sober or not. The saturation of short haul flight European Resorts between June and August by the English caused a reaction to this form of recreation and fellow countrymen, wanting to give the impression of being a bit more cultured and adventurous looked to other parts of the globe. The Spanish Riviera was too much like Clacton and sights were set on a 5 hour plus flight time which encompassed the Greek Islands, Egypt and Turkey or to arguably more exotic destinations such as Dominican Republic, Mexico and South East Asia.
Travelling in itself was a sophisticated experience and demands were made for a luxury holiday in all senses of the word. The more grading stars and features of an exclusive calibre the better. The bubble of cheap and spontaneous travel would soon be set to burst and in more recent years austerity, recession and even ecological concessions have had an impact on our annual jaunts to distant parts. We now have to consider our own carbon footprint and how to offset the environmental impact of jet travel, yet more cause for anxiety and soul searching.
I have just come across the perfect antidote to this dilemna.
How about a weeks vacation as a member of an Iron Age Village in Denmark?
The venue is Sagnlandet Lejre translated as 'Land of Legends' a cultural centre which, in addition to the main Iron Age Village has in remaining ascending date order, a Stone Age Camp, Viking Market and 19th Century Farm setting.
It is not a case of just booking a place but having to apply and meet specific criteria in order for what is in effect a socio-economic experiment to work.
It must be one of the few holidays where you do not need to take a full suitcase because everything authentically stone age is provided. The village is a group of seven wattle and daub and thatched houses and a Smithy set amongst what is described as the sacrificial bog. Each house takes between 4 and 8 persons and priority is given to a full household from the same family group as long as there is a sufficient age range from young children to seniors. Occupants, not termed as guests are required to undertake daily tasks as part of a co-operative covering grinding flour, fetching water, forging iron, chopping wood and gathering wild plants. Hours are not that authentic being 10am to 5pm rather than dawn to dusk. The activity only takes place during the summer months so as not to expose sensitive and cossetted 21st Century folk to other seasonal hardships.
Those going up for the experience are more than likely to have an idea what they are to encounter. Otherwise Customer Services would be extremely busy explaining the absence of Wi-Fi, sachets of instant coffee and a trouser press in the mud huts. Some may attend out of genuine empathy with the period , others as some form of purge or detox from modern life.
A degree of weight loss may be expected from the tone of the Welcome Pack consisting of cereals, milk, cream, meat, beans, apples, nuts, onions and mushrooms.
It is not however all chores and smelting. Those Iron Agers obviously knew how to enjoy themselves in the great outdoors and on offer are fire making, fashioning iron implements, rustic baking and if an exchange visit could be arranged with the Stone Age Camp much fun could be had with competitive stone pulling and striving to make the best dug out boat from a tree trunk.
Who says that different cultures cannot live and thrive in perfect harmony?
The package holiday of the 1970's was revolutionary in that it required very little organisation apart from spending monies, clothing, flip flops and getting to the airport or point of departure on time and either sober or not. The saturation of short haul flight European Resorts between June and August by the English caused a reaction to this form of recreation and fellow countrymen, wanting to give the impression of being a bit more cultured and adventurous looked to other parts of the globe. The Spanish Riviera was too much like Clacton and sights were set on a 5 hour plus flight time which encompassed the Greek Islands, Egypt and Turkey or to arguably more exotic destinations such as Dominican Republic, Mexico and South East Asia.
Travelling in itself was a sophisticated experience and demands were made for a luxury holiday in all senses of the word. The more grading stars and features of an exclusive calibre the better. The bubble of cheap and spontaneous travel would soon be set to burst and in more recent years austerity, recession and even ecological concessions have had an impact on our annual jaunts to distant parts. We now have to consider our own carbon footprint and how to offset the environmental impact of jet travel, yet more cause for anxiety and soul searching.
I have just come across the perfect antidote to this dilemna.
How about a weeks vacation as a member of an Iron Age Village in Denmark?
The venue is Sagnlandet Lejre translated as 'Land of Legends' a cultural centre which, in addition to the main Iron Age Village has in remaining ascending date order, a Stone Age Camp, Viking Market and 19th Century Farm setting.
It is not a case of just booking a place but having to apply and meet specific criteria in order for what is in effect a socio-economic experiment to work.
It must be one of the few holidays where you do not need to take a full suitcase because everything authentically stone age is provided. The village is a group of seven wattle and daub and thatched houses and a Smithy set amongst what is described as the sacrificial bog. Each house takes between 4 and 8 persons and priority is given to a full household from the same family group as long as there is a sufficient age range from young children to seniors. Occupants, not termed as guests are required to undertake daily tasks as part of a co-operative covering grinding flour, fetching water, forging iron, chopping wood and gathering wild plants. Hours are not that authentic being 10am to 5pm rather than dawn to dusk. The activity only takes place during the summer months so as not to expose sensitive and cossetted 21st Century folk to other seasonal hardships.
Those going up for the experience are more than likely to have an idea what they are to encounter. Otherwise Customer Services would be extremely busy explaining the absence of Wi-Fi, sachets of instant coffee and a trouser press in the mud huts. Some may attend out of genuine empathy with the period , others as some form of purge or detox from modern life.
A degree of weight loss may be expected from the tone of the Welcome Pack consisting of cereals, milk, cream, meat, beans, apples, nuts, onions and mushrooms.
It is not however all chores and smelting. Those Iron Agers obviously knew how to enjoy themselves in the great outdoors and on offer are fire making, fashioning iron implements, rustic baking and if an exchange visit could be arranged with the Stone Age Camp much fun could be had with competitive stone pulling and striving to make the best dug out boat from a tree trunk.
Who says that different cultures cannot live and thrive in perfect harmony?
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