He later described the colour of the object ,to the local press reporter, as 'ice-blue'.
This was based on the strong memory of this particular shade in metallic sheen of his first ever brand new car, an Austin Allegro saloon which the sales manager at the local showroom had driven around to the forecourt to present to its proud owner. Within a few years of harsh rural winters and attack by rock-salt the ice blue had dulled to just an indiscriminate blue, speckled with the first perforations of serious corrosion.
The actual colour of the object was perhaps a deeper blue, artificial rather than natural in its appearance. He tried to recall other features, oh, apart from the undeniable fact that the object was frozen solid. It had appeared unannounced in the dead of night . He was entirely sure of that as being a habitual late to bedder he would have surely heard the great noise of its impact through his small homemade cold frame up until the early hours.
That morning upon his awakening and on his usual first dawn patrol of the vegetable patch there was not much to report. No signs of rabbit prints amongst the fresh shoots of the carrots , a few silvery trails of slugs across the path, a wrapper from Danish Bacon held in suspension ,by a light breeze,against the chicken wire of the polythene tunnel sheltering his lettuce crop.Next doors cat had been in the loose bin bags again.
Then he saw the imploded timber and glass of the cold frame and nestled in the debris, like a Faberge Egg, was the solid blue ice-cube.
With a long and slightly warped bamboo garden cane he prodded the blue block. He had overestimated the strength of the thinnest end of the cane and had made no allowances for any strength from the sheer density of the block. The outcome was a sharp snap, a splinter of natural fibres and a very limp and ineffective instrument for subsequent probing. He resorted to a tried and tested kick with his hobnail gardening boots. No movement, no give and no sign of weakness or splinter factor there.
Sensing no immediate threat he moved closer and tentatively sniffed the immediate air for any clues as to composition of the object. There was a specific lowering of temperature at this distance, even above the, what, only three to four degrees of the chilly morning. No odour however. He stared into the deep blueness and could just make out a reflection of his ruddy face and the brightening sky behind.
A long crowbar and shovel could not shift the object. The lip of the sturdy former builders wheelbarrow, used like a sand iron golf club could not get any purchase to attempt a flip and roll of the object.
Within the hour his brother in law arrived. His job at the former Austin Motors showroom, now a car repair workshop, gave him access to a recovery vehicle based on a Leyland Daf cab and chassis. Digging by hand around the still frozen cube the two of them managed to fashion a lifting hoist and under hydraulic power the object was raised and swung out and around onto the flatbed of the truck. Small fragments of the cold frame were not so much embedded in as frozen on.
After a couple of phone calls , one to the local Police House and the other to the Council, the transportation was directed to the nearest Local Authority Facility which was a depot for the winter rocksalt and gritting machines which kept the remote rural area as free as possible from complete whiteout conditions.
Ironically, the same process involving rocksalt that had eaten away at his ice blue Allegro gradually dissolved the blue ice block. In the following weeks of warmer weather there was some vaguely recognisable odour from the crater of cobalt tinted soil which marked the final resting position of the object.
The event made it to the small filler paragraphs of the local paper under the heading of 'Unidentified Frozen Object-UFO gives grief to spring veg'.
Some months later a memo was circulated to the Pilots and Aircrew of Commercial airline flights between Dusseldorf and Ontario. It read ' After crossing the Dutch coast but before crossing the East Yorkshire Coast at the Patrington Spire vector please ensure that purging the tanks of your chemical lavatories is fully completed.'
The mention in the newspaper provided him with celebrity status but there was also a downside from the whole affair. There was an atmosphere of general hilarity on his arrival at the village pub culminating in the depositing of some blue urinal disinfectant cubes in his pint of best ale. Later in the same year his entry, into the local Horticultural Show ,of cold frame nurtured produce, was shamefully vandalised by a liberal sprinkling of blue food colouring and the mounting of a small toy flying saucer in the head of the, until then, odds-on prize winning cauliflower.
(Edited and revamped from last year. Based on a true story from a Holderness, East Yorkshire Village)
Monday, 7 January 2013
Sunday, 6 January 2013
Assorted Nuts
My summer vacation of 1978 was going to be miserable.
I had just left Senior High School with a very poor set of results and prepared myself for yet more cramming if only to get to where my Education Counsellor had said I should be for my age and "with obvious aptitude but abysmal attitude" .
My friends were looking forward to a long, hot lazy New Jersey summer. A time to let loose before parental pressure and conscience kicked in to acheive something at University or a reputable college.
Their raucous and crude intentions free from any semblance of moral supervision did not include me. I had no money or get up and go, so they got up and went without me.
I had tried to line up a job for the duration. The usual menial tasks at the diner, pumping gas and packing bags at the Seven-Eleven had long since been promised to others. That left, frankly, only hanging about around the house dodging criticism and cloaked remarks from Mum and Dad , or succumbing to what I had been trying to avoid but what looked inevitable - voluntary work in the Sunny Oaks Retirement Castle complex or chancing it and offering my services for odd jobs in the neighbourhood. Out of all of the horrible options I chose the latter.
At a cost of a dollar a month I rented a small section of the window space at the nearest General Store to my home. The postcard with details of what I was prepared to do and at what competitive hourly rate sat amongst well crafted, thought out and printed advertisements for dog grooming, mobile chiropody and baby-minding services.
My card in stark contrast was amateurish and childish in style and I did not hold out for a response any time soon.
No sooner had I returned home that my mother answered a phone call and, hand over the speaker, yelled for me to come down and have words. She rolled her eyes when I took the receiver, "It's a woman, a mature woman for you. She says you put a card in Mr Johannson's window". I tried to raise my enthusiasm for what could be my first and only customer. I pronounced the word "Hello" in my best neutral but efficient sounding tone. The voice in response was firm but kind. " I would like to take you on to clear out the garage. My husband has continually failed to do so and now that he has left to teach at summer school in Wichita I am going to get on with it and surprise him".I enquired about her name and the address. I had signed up Mrs Stolz as my first customer.
The next morning I cycled across town past the University Campus and into a quadrangle of smart colonial houses. I had never noticed them before because they were the tied properties for the main Princeton lecturers and luminairies. The attached garage mentioned had no actual room for a car because of a clutter of accumulated boxes, files, cabinets, various pieces of medical looking equipment and dusty volumes of anatomical books.
Mrs Stolz had on stylish dungarees and her hair in a tight scarf but that was the full extent of her participation other than providing lemonade and shop bought cookies. She was obviously not a grafter in the domestic sense or, disappointingly, no Mrs Robinson.
I was instructed to assemble five piles from the garage stored collection.
1) Obvious rubbish for collection by the refuse department
2) Possible garage sale items although I doubt Mrs Stolz knew how to conduct one
3) Charity for the Projects in the city
4) Medical stuff for her husband to sort out on his return.
5) Scrap metal for special disposal.
Within this broad remit was the necessity to move everything from its obviously longstanding positions and I had soon generated a wheezing dust bowl atmosphere even with the up and over door in the up and over position.
The boxes were easy to put into category 4). They were sealed up with stencilled legend of Dr T S-H which I thought might mean Deliver to Some Hospital but later and to my embarrasment I realised they identified Mr Stolz under his professional practising name.
Categories 1) and 2) involved a bit of head scratching and the reluctant involvement of Mrs Stolz who gestured to the effect that I should decide on my own. Her perception of what the Project Dwellers could benefit from amongst category 3) was hilarious. The pile included a fondue set, boxed crystal wine glasses, scatter cushions and some very grand chandeliers. I could imagine these going down well as collateral for a drug deal rather than gracing a damp , cramped apartment. The scrap metal in the last category covered the largest area but comprised the fewest items being mainly old battered cabinets, clunky looking electronic monitors and what I recognised from the school science block as a centrifuge.
There was a sub-group amongst the metal stuff for used surgical equipment, scalpels, clamps and saws which I handled reluctantly and with caution. They were not themselves a source of squeamishness in me, just the thought of where they might have been.
After some 6 hours of work I could make out the back wall of the garage which had previously been well concealed.
Shifting of the last cabinet was impeded by a dead weight inside. The metal door was simply pegged through on the catch and I could pop it out with a swift toe-poke kick. Swinging open, the door revealed a large bell shaped glass vessel with a stagnant, cloudy yellowish liquid.
My father had a similar item from a long forgotten home brewing session which had stunk the place out like a skunk. I agitated the container and , startled, stepped back almost falling over the scrap pile. What looked like a cauliflower ebbed and flowed against the glass. Looking closer after recovering my composure I could make out more detail. The actual shape was more like a giant pickled walnut in texture. No sooner had the thing shown itself to me it disappeared back into the murky solution.
A strange feeling came over me then. I had had enough of manual labour and sweating for a few bucks. Mrs Stolz was reasonably grateful for my efforts and in polite smalltalk enquired about my plans going forward. I told her in determined voice that I was going back to school to improve my grades and prospects. She nodded in middle aged approval but I sensed she was not really listening. I accepted a check as she said she had no cash in the house. It was in the name of Stolz-Harvey but I was too tired to even worry if I was being blatantly scammed.
Many years later I read a story of how a disgraced practitioner at some Eastern University had taken, without consent, the brain of Albert Einstein after landing the job of performing the autopsy on perhaps the greatest scientific mind of all time. Apparently the brain had languished in a preserving jar, somewhere in his house, for about 40 years before being driven in the back of a pick-up to be presented to family and beneficiaries for the furthering of mankind.
My curiosity was raised with my recollection of that sole, soul destroying summer chore and I investigated the story. The internet summary of the facts were hazy and clearly open to interpretation of reputations and events. The displayed image, however, of Einsteins brain as repatriated after its absence, did clearly resemble a yellowish stained pickled walnut.
(Reproduced and re-worked from some time last year. It is, I stress a work of fiction based on something I heard on the radio and fabricated from this kernel of a fantastic tale)
I had just left Senior High School with a very poor set of results and prepared myself for yet more cramming if only to get to where my Education Counsellor had said I should be for my age and "with obvious aptitude but abysmal attitude" .
My friends were looking forward to a long, hot lazy New Jersey summer. A time to let loose before parental pressure and conscience kicked in to acheive something at University or a reputable college.
Their raucous and crude intentions free from any semblance of moral supervision did not include me. I had no money or get up and go, so they got up and went without me.
I had tried to line up a job for the duration. The usual menial tasks at the diner, pumping gas and packing bags at the Seven-Eleven had long since been promised to others. That left, frankly, only hanging about around the house dodging criticism and cloaked remarks from Mum and Dad , or succumbing to what I had been trying to avoid but what looked inevitable - voluntary work in the Sunny Oaks Retirement Castle complex or chancing it and offering my services for odd jobs in the neighbourhood. Out of all of the horrible options I chose the latter.
At a cost of a dollar a month I rented a small section of the window space at the nearest General Store to my home. The postcard with details of what I was prepared to do and at what competitive hourly rate sat amongst well crafted, thought out and printed advertisements for dog grooming, mobile chiropody and baby-minding services.
My card in stark contrast was amateurish and childish in style and I did not hold out for a response any time soon.
No sooner had I returned home that my mother answered a phone call and, hand over the speaker, yelled for me to come down and have words. She rolled her eyes when I took the receiver, "It's a woman, a mature woman for you. She says you put a card in Mr Johannson's window". I tried to raise my enthusiasm for what could be my first and only customer. I pronounced the word "Hello" in my best neutral but efficient sounding tone. The voice in response was firm but kind. " I would like to take you on to clear out the garage. My husband has continually failed to do so and now that he has left to teach at summer school in Wichita I am going to get on with it and surprise him".I enquired about her name and the address. I had signed up Mrs Stolz as my first customer.
The next morning I cycled across town past the University Campus and into a quadrangle of smart colonial houses. I had never noticed them before because they were the tied properties for the main Princeton lecturers and luminairies. The attached garage mentioned had no actual room for a car because of a clutter of accumulated boxes, files, cabinets, various pieces of medical looking equipment and dusty volumes of anatomical books.
Mrs Stolz had on stylish dungarees and her hair in a tight scarf but that was the full extent of her participation other than providing lemonade and shop bought cookies. She was obviously not a grafter in the domestic sense or, disappointingly, no Mrs Robinson.
I was instructed to assemble five piles from the garage stored collection.
1) Obvious rubbish for collection by the refuse department
2) Possible garage sale items although I doubt Mrs Stolz knew how to conduct one
3) Charity for the Projects in the city
4) Medical stuff for her husband to sort out on his return.
5) Scrap metal for special disposal.
Within this broad remit was the necessity to move everything from its obviously longstanding positions and I had soon generated a wheezing dust bowl atmosphere even with the up and over door in the up and over position.
The boxes were easy to put into category 4). They were sealed up with stencilled legend of Dr T S-H which I thought might mean Deliver to Some Hospital but later and to my embarrasment I realised they identified Mr Stolz under his professional practising name.
Categories 1) and 2) involved a bit of head scratching and the reluctant involvement of Mrs Stolz who gestured to the effect that I should decide on my own. Her perception of what the Project Dwellers could benefit from amongst category 3) was hilarious. The pile included a fondue set, boxed crystal wine glasses, scatter cushions and some very grand chandeliers. I could imagine these going down well as collateral for a drug deal rather than gracing a damp , cramped apartment. The scrap metal in the last category covered the largest area but comprised the fewest items being mainly old battered cabinets, clunky looking electronic monitors and what I recognised from the school science block as a centrifuge.
There was a sub-group amongst the metal stuff for used surgical equipment, scalpels, clamps and saws which I handled reluctantly and with caution. They were not themselves a source of squeamishness in me, just the thought of where they might have been.
After some 6 hours of work I could make out the back wall of the garage which had previously been well concealed.
Shifting of the last cabinet was impeded by a dead weight inside. The metal door was simply pegged through on the catch and I could pop it out with a swift toe-poke kick. Swinging open, the door revealed a large bell shaped glass vessel with a stagnant, cloudy yellowish liquid.
My father had a similar item from a long forgotten home brewing session which had stunk the place out like a skunk. I agitated the container and , startled, stepped back almost falling over the scrap pile. What looked like a cauliflower ebbed and flowed against the glass. Looking closer after recovering my composure I could make out more detail. The actual shape was more like a giant pickled walnut in texture. No sooner had the thing shown itself to me it disappeared back into the murky solution.
A strange feeling came over me then. I had had enough of manual labour and sweating for a few bucks. Mrs Stolz was reasonably grateful for my efforts and in polite smalltalk enquired about my plans going forward. I told her in determined voice that I was going back to school to improve my grades and prospects. She nodded in middle aged approval but I sensed she was not really listening. I accepted a check as she said she had no cash in the house. It was in the name of Stolz-Harvey but I was too tired to even worry if I was being blatantly scammed.
Many years later I read a story of how a disgraced practitioner at some Eastern University had taken, without consent, the brain of Albert Einstein after landing the job of performing the autopsy on perhaps the greatest scientific mind of all time. Apparently the brain had languished in a preserving jar, somewhere in his house, for about 40 years before being driven in the back of a pick-up to be presented to family and beneficiaries for the furthering of mankind.
My curiosity was raised with my recollection of that sole, soul destroying summer chore and I investigated the story. The internet summary of the facts were hazy and clearly open to interpretation of reputations and events. The displayed image, however, of Einsteins brain as repatriated after its absence, did clearly resemble a yellowish stained pickled walnut.
(Reproduced and re-worked from some time last year. It is, I stress a work of fiction based on something I heard on the radio and fabricated from this kernel of a fantastic tale)
Saturday, 5 January 2013
Twelfth Night
The next best moment to trimming up the house for Christmas is definitely that when all decorations and lights are taken down and packed away.
The tree which has dominated the deep window bay since early December has been systematically undressed.
The high flying Angel and neighbouring star are removed first followed by the methodical unhooking of the most treasured of the baubles from the now brittle boughs. Streaks of tinsel and long chains of icicles are extracted from a tortuous route through the foliage. Three strings of lights follow. These are intentionally looped and wound to avoid tangles and snags but you can guarantee that in 12 months time they will somehow have become intertwined and inseparable.
The non-drop attraction of the tree, when bought, stands for nought with the dragging of the prickly growth across the room and through a series of doorways to reach the garden. The small fragments of green pine will turn up on a regular basis through the rest of the year in the far recesses of the connecting rooms. I hesitate at the thought of loading what remains of the tree into the car for its last journey to be re-cycled at the local tip.
That splash of colour and ornament is, don't get me wrong, a wonderful thing to behold what with all the accompanying tradition, sentiment and reminiscence but as soon as the celebrations of New Year are over there is a feeling of such things being somewhat out of context.
The first few days of January are a realisation of normality. Everyday life and activity resumes, appearing to be in a sober black and white but with a sense of anticipation and excitement about what is ahead.
As a family we do stretch out the lifespan of the trimmings to the very last moment, twelfth night on the 5th of January,(I know, it can also be on the 6th) This coincides with our eldest daughter's birthday on the 4th and everything is kept in place to mark this occasion.
She was expected on Christmas Day some 23 years ago which caused us, as prospective parents to keep our Festive plans on hold. On the due day we ended up having our turkey dinner and plum pudding at the neighbours rather than dashing to the delivery room.
It was strange time in limbo but in wondrous anticipation of receiving a great gift- the first of three blessings for us in the following 5 years.
We will soon be up the rickety ladder into the loft space to carefully stow away the boxes and bags containing our Christmas but we will keep and cherish our memories from this and previous years at the forefront of our minds and emotions.
The tree which has dominated the deep window bay since early December has been systematically undressed.
The high flying Angel and neighbouring star are removed first followed by the methodical unhooking of the most treasured of the baubles from the now brittle boughs. Streaks of tinsel and long chains of icicles are extracted from a tortuous route through the foliage. Three strings of lights follow. These are intentionally looped and wound to avoid tangles and snags but you can guarantee that in 12 months time they will somehow have become intertwined and inseparable.
The non-drop attraction of the tree, when bought, stands for nought with the dragging of the prickly growth across the room and through a series of doorways to reach the garden. The small fragments of green pine will turn up on a regular basis through the rest of the year in the far recesses of the connecting rooms. I hesitate at the thought of loading what remains of the tree into the car for its last journey to be re-cycled at the local tip.
That splash of colour and ornament is, don't get me wrong, a wonderful thing to behold what with all the accompanying tradition, sentiment and reminiscence but as soon as the celebrations of New Year are over there is a feeling of such things being somewhat out of context.
The first few days of January are a realisation of normality. Everyday life and activity resumes, appearing to be in a sober black and white but with a sense of anticipation and excitement about what is ahead.
As a family we do stretch out the lifespan of the trimmings to the very last moment, twelfth night on the 5th of January,(I know, it can also be on the 6th) This coincides with our eldest daughter's birthday on the 4th and everything is kept in place to mark this occasion.
She was expected on Christmas Day some 23 years ago which caused us, as prospective parents to keep our Festive plans on hold. On the due day we ended up having our turkey dinner and plum pudding at the neighbours rather than dashing to the delivery room.
It was strange time in limbo but in wondrous anticipation of receiving a great gift- the first of three blessings for us in the following 5 years.
We will soon be up the rickety ladder into the loft space to carefully stow away the boxes and bags containing our Christmas but we will keep and cherish our memories from this and previous years at the forefront of our minds and emotions.
Friday, 4 January 2013
Allotment
The promise of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow is a very tantalising thing particularly as the whole spectrum of gossamer continually evades being followed or captured and will not therefore relinquish the prize-ever.
Such must have been the over-riding feeling for a man that I was asked to meet some years ago in order to discuss what was, in hushed tones, a potentially lucrative property deal.
Of course, my experience in the property market and in business generally has firmly taught me that if something sounds too good to be true then it surely is. However, that does not discourage many from pursuing it anyway just in case it does happen to be the deal of a lifetime.
I drove to the home of this particular man. It was a small, modest terraced house amongst many similar forming part of the 1930's suburban expansion of Hull. The garden was nicely kept, neatly cut square of lawn, dug over and planted borders, small lavender hedge leading up to the front door. The net curtain in the bay window twitched as I touched the gate and the man was waiting on the doorstep by the time I had negotiated the short tarmac pathway through the forecourt. He confirmed his identity to me and as he did not drive, "never had" he proudly stated, we set off in my car.
No specific direction was indicated. He glanced nervously around as though fearful we were being tailed. Just past the Boothferry Park football ground of Hull City some 2 miles away from his house I was instructed to pull over and park up. He had some difficulty alighting from the car with stiff joints and I noticed his rather scruffy long black coat, pin stripe trousers with turn-ups and good pair of sensible shoes. He could have been, in age, anywhere between 55 and 80. Stubble on chin and cheeks, thinning grey hair and prominent red veins on his face and forehead.
I followed him along the main footpath past a few semi detached houses and then we darted down a narrow, unmade footway, chain link fenced between the last pair of houses and the start of a longer terraced block. The three foot wide path soon opened out into a large open space dotted with small sheds and greenhouses, bamboo canes standing like slalom gates and a faint whitish mist of a bonfire.
The land, private allotment land was, by my rough reckoning about two acres in size. I had not known of it's existence as it nestled in the centre of a built up suburban area and with the footway the only access point. Quite an oasis of production with well tended vegetable plots and soft fruit bushes and even some exotic specimens of grapes amongst what had once been intact glasshouses.
The man explained that he had been approached by someone who had expressed an interest in buying some bits of the allotments. There was an offer on the table of a few hundred pounds for each designated allotment plot and this, I calculated did add up to a fairly tidy figure if extrapolated across the whole parcel of land.
However, I was aware of the tricks and deceptions of the Site Finders and Land Buyers who regularly exploited the ignorance and poverty of many in similar situations in order to assemble a good body of land which could, for the initial investment of pennies be sold to a National House Builder for hundreds of thousands of pounds. Some complicated assembly projects could take a decade of subterfuge, confidentiality clauses and the taking out of options as a calculated gamble of getting Planning Permission for the highest possible value use. In most cases the waiting game was well worth it.
I looked around. This one would test the patience and nerve of the Site Finder. There were upwards of 30 sheds so multiple owners and interests to consider. I asked the man which bit belonged to him. His expansive arm movement caught me by surprise. He was indicating that he was monarch of all we could see.
It appears that he had worked the allotment for the last 30 years amongst a longstanding community of like minded hortculturalists and veg growers. They had become firm pals wiling away many hours just yards away from each other and enjoying the quiet communion of a small patch they could call their own. The open space was a cloister away from their small and densely packed terraced houses where only weeds could grow throught the forecourt and yard concrete. Their numbers, of course dwindled progressively every year either through death or the invitation to live with family elsewhere in the country. When an allotment strip was surrendered my contact willingly took it over, lock, stock and wheel-barrow for a reasonable financial consideration. On an hours, days , weeks and years worked basis the remuneration to his buddies was pitiful, but faced with possible expenses for relocation or funeral charges the recipients themselves or their widows were grateful.
So, it transpired that my man owned two acres of potentially prime development land. It would take outside money to buy a house on the road frontage for demolition to create a suitable access road but otherwise everything seemed to indicate that the rainbow's end was all pervading in this very spot. I told the man that he should gather together all the paperwork and the Legal Title documents and keep them safe. "The What?" he said. He owned the land in its entirety but had no actual proof to that effect. All transactions had been strictly for cash and on a handshake where the beneficiary of his generosity was, of course, alive or with his immediate dependants. "Would that be a problem?" he asked.
Within eighteen months a large National House Builder had developed the site with tightly packed detached executive boxes along the length of a winding cul de sac road.
I had lost touch with the man shortly after breaking the news to him that his expectations of a windfall would probably not materialise. He was understandably devastated by my news. The sad part was that he had never even considered any added value to his own site assembly from development. He just loved the thought of owning all that he saw and could walk around in the course of his allotment working day. The arrival of the Site Finder had in fact been as unwelcome as discovering black fly infestation on his cultivated roses or the signs of a nightime feasting by snails on his delicate lettuce plants.
I never saw or heard of him again but on passing, a couple of years later, the former Show House, the best plot of the whole development at the entrance to the housing estate I noticed the vaguely familiar sight of a very neat square of lawn, freshly dug borders with a very good stock of hardy perennials and a trimmed lavender hedge leading up to the front door.
Reproduced from 2011 but dedicated to my daughter, Hannah, aged 23 years today and doing her final year dissertation on the subject of allotments
Such must have been the over-riding feeling for a man that I was asked to meet some years ago in order to discuss what was, in hushed tones, a potentially lucrative property deal.
Of course, my experience in the property market and in business generally has firmly taught me that if something sounds too good to be true then it surely is. However, that does not discourage many from pursuing it anyway just in case it does happen to be the deal of a lifetime.
I drove to the home of this particular man. It was a small, modest terraced house amongst many similar forming part of the 1930's suburban expansion of Hull. The garden was nicely kept, neatly cut square of lawn, dug over and planted borders, small lavender hedge leading up to the front door. The net curtain in the bay window twitched as I touched the gate and the man was waiting on the doorstep by the time I had negotiated the short tarmac pathway through the forecourt. He confirmed his identity to me and as he did not drive, "never had" he proudly stated, we set off in my car.
No specific direction was indicated. He glanced nervously around as though fearful we were being tailed. Just past the Boothferry Park football ground of Hull City some 2 miles away from his house I was instructed to pull over and park up. He had some difficulty alighting from the car with stiff joints and I noticed his rather scruffy long black coat, pin stripe trousers with turn-ups and good pair of sensible shoes. He could have been, in age, anywhere between 55 and 80. Stubble on chin and cheeks, thinning grey hair and prominent red veins on his face and forehead.
I followed him along the main footpath past a few semi detached houses and then we darted down a narrow, unmade footway, chain link fenced between the last pair of houses and the start of a longer terraced block. The three foot wide path soon opened out into a large open space dotted with small sheds and greenhouses, bamboo canes standing like slalom gates and a faint whitish mist of a bonfire.
The land, private allotment land was, by my rough reckoning about two acres in size. I had not known of it's existence as it nestled in the centre of a built up suburban area and with the footway the only access point. Quite an oasis of production with well tended vegetable plots and soft fruit bushes and even some exotic specimens of grapes amongst what had once been intact glasshouses.
The man explained that he had been approached by someone who had expressed an interest in buying some bits of the allotments. There was an offer on the table of a few hundred pounds for each designated allotment plot and this, I calculated did add up to a fairly tidy figure if extrapolated across the whole parcel of land.
However, I was aware of the tricks and deceptions of the Site Finders and Land Buyers who regularly exploited the ignorance and poverty of many in similar situations in order to assemble a good body of land which could, for the initial investment of pennies be sold to a National House Builder for hundreds of thousands of pounds. Some complicated assembly projects could take a decade of subterfuge, confidentiality clauses and the taking out of options as a calculated gamble of getting Planning Permission for the highest possible value use. In most cases the waiting game was well worth it.
I looked around. This one would test the patience and nerve of the Site Finder. There were upwards of 30 sheds so multiple owners and interests to consider. I asked the man which bit belonged to him. His expansive arm movement caught me by surprise. He was indicating that he was monarch of all we could see.
It appears that he had worked the allotment for the last 30 years amongst a longstanding community of like minded hortculturalists and veg growers. They had become firm pals wiling away many hours just yards away from each other and enjoying the quiet communion of a small patch they could call their own. The open space was a cloister away from their small and densely packed terraced houses where only weeds could grow throught the forecourt and yard concrete. Their numbers, of course dwindled progressively every year either through death or the invitation to live with family elsewhere in the country. When an allotment strip was surrendered my contact willingly took it over, lock, stock and wheel-barrow for a reasonable financial consideration. On an hours, days , weeks and years worked basis the remuneration to his buddies was pitiful, but faced with possible expenses for relocation or funeral charges the recipients themselves or their widows were grateful.
So, it transpired that my man owned two acres of potentially prime development land. It would take outside money to buy a house on the road frontage for demolition to create a suitable access road but otherwise everything seemed to indicate that the rainbow's end was all pervading in this very spot. I told the man that he should gather together all the paperwork and the Legal Title documents and keep them safe. "The What?" he said. He owned the land in its entirety but had no actual proof to that effect. All transactions had been strictly for cash and on a handshake where the beneficiary of his generosity was, of course, alive or with his immediate dependants. "Would that be a problem?" he asked.
Within eighteen months a large National House Builder had developed the site with tightly packed detached executive boxes along the length of a winding cul de sac road.
I had lost touch with the man shortly after breaking the news to him that his expectations of a windfall would probably not materialise. He was understandably devastated by my news. The sad part was that he had never even considered any added value to his own site assembly from development. He just loved the thought of owning all that he saw and could walk around in the course of his allotment working day. The arrival of the Site Finder had in fact been as unwelcome as discovering black fly infestation on his cultivated roses or the signs of a nightime feasting by snails on his delicate lettuce plants.
I never saw or heard of him again but on passing, a couple of years later, the former Show House, the best plot of the whole development at the entrance to the housing estate I noticed the vaguely familiar sight of a very neat square of lawn, freshly dug borders with a very good stock of hardy perennials and a trimmed lavender hedge leading up to the front door.
Reproduced from 2011 but dedicated to my daughter, Hannah, aged 23 years today and doing her final year dissertation on the subject of allotments
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Thinking Blue Sky
I got a bit carried away on New Years Day.
There was a bright blue sky after a succession of dreary days over the Festive period .
My seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D) had, up until then, firmly taken over giving me that all pervading sense of doom and gloom. This, inspite of my getting everything on my Christmas list and more.
If there is even the narrowest, flimsiest beam of sunlight through a hole made by a small bird in cloud cover you will find me basking in its glorious warmth, face turned upwards, arms swept back in solar worshipping pose. Unfortunately, if in full public view on the street, outside a shop or in open space this may look a bit weird.
I do feel however that people are aware and sympathetic to my plight and that of countless others with the disorder as I hear them say "Look at that S.A.D bastard" or words to that effect.
The desire to venture out into the early morning of 1st January 2013 was strong, whether a genuine burst of energy from fat reserves intentionally nurtured over the pre-ceeding week or from a desire to be rid of a fuzziness of brain and senses after rolling in at 3.30am from a celebration with the in-laws.
What to do?
In previous years it has tended to be a trip out to the seaside and often as not that strange sensation of walking on frozen sand. Bracing, bone chilling and ultimately tiring but in a satisfying way. The delights of that experience are invariably followed by that horrible pit of the stomach realisation that there is a Penalty Charge Notice on the car windscreen having wrongly assumed there to be a free day of parking on the cliff top.
The Boy mentioned that he was missing going out on push-bikes after our regular totting up of 100 plus miles per week over the last four months and so the decision was made.Bike ride it would be. Disgracefully the two mountain bikes remained muddy and grubby from the last trip out in late November but illogically everything worked well. The chain only needed a bit of easing to pass smoothly over the toothed ring, gear block and changers.
The weather enforced break for winter had resulted in all of our flashy but functional gear being put away and it took a couple of hours to locate the lycra based and windproof attire at the back of cupboards.
We were hoping to be out on the road by 11am. Viewed from indoors the day looked positively summery but accompanying the clear sky was a temperature of only four degrees Celsius and a strong westerly wind that had just sprung up from zero on the Beaufort Scale to sufficient power to frantically rustle next doors heavily leafed Eucalyptus tree.
Me and The Boy had a non-speaking and purely intuitive understanding not to be too hard or critical of the first amongst us to be physically sick from the resumption of effort. After the initial rude awakening of corpuscles, arteries and lungs from a brief but artistic stretching exercise on the driveway it was left turn at the gate and up the gradual but long climb to the main road. I was not able to ask The Boy if he felt alright because I was incapable of the multi-tasking of breathing and talking. On the positive side I felt as unfit as I had at the same stage of a ride in the summer rather than my expectation of being dead in the saddle.
Our objective was a short, sharp crossing of the Humber Bridge, at one time the world's longest single span suspension bridge but now something further down the top 10. The attempt, on paper, should be straight forward but it was in fact complicated by the collective decision of large family groups and dog walkers to also take advantage of the nice weather for socialising and exercise along the broad pedestrian pathway set below the level of the carriageway. The westerly wind was strong enough to warrant the wearing of assorted hats by the assorted walkers and the younger, persuaded or co-erced to participate amongst their number wore their new headphones reverberating with bass and drum.
The outcome; complete oblivion to two fluorescently clad cyclists showing off at speed until distracted by a long spindly shadow creeping over their own. What had promised to be an easy ride turned into a protracted series of stops, starts, weaving, dodging, evasive moves around buggies and loose small children and not a few hard stares of disdain and disapproval, from all parties.
I had not started a cycling year so early for perhaps two decades. One cycle does not however make a summer and the weather had returned to drab and dreary by the very next day.
In anticipation of another ride out we are wholly at the mercy of the climate and daylight hours for the coming months.
Currently there are only just under eight hours of daylight per day assuming minimal influences from cloud cover. By the end of January this should have improved somewhat to just over 9 hours. There are only weekend slots available for a cycle, what with working commitments and the competition for time with the usual saturday and sunday chores and obligations. There can therefore be only two certainties. Me and The Boy will not be up to full fitness for some months and Trolls, being susceptible to Sunlight Affected Disorder in a big way will have nothing much to worry about until about March.
There was a bright blue sky after a succession of dreary days over the Festive period .
My seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D) had, up until then, firmly taken over giving me that all pervading sense of doom and gloom. This, inspite of my getting everything on my Christmas list and more.
If there is even the narrowest, flimsiest beam of sunlight through a hole made by a small bird in cloud cover you will find me basking in its glorious warmth, face turned upwards, arms swept back in solar worshipping pose. Unfortunately, if in full public view on the street, outside a shop or in open space this may look a bit weird.
I do feel however that people are aware and sympathetic to my plight and that of countless others with the disorder as I hear them say "Look at that S.A.D bastard" or words to that effect.
The desire to venture out into the early morning of 1st January 2013 was strong, whether a genuine burst of energy from fat reserves intentionally nurtured over the pre-ceeding week or from a desire to be rid of a fuzziness of brain and senses after rolling in at 3.30am from a celebration with the in-laws.
What to do?
In previous years it has tended to be a trip out to the seaside and often as not that strange sensation of walking on frozen sand. Bracing, bone chilling and ultimately tiring but in a satisfying way. The delights of that experience are invariably followed by that horrible pit of the stomach realisation that there is a Penalty Charge Notice on the car windscreen having wrongly assumed there to be a free day of parking on the cliff top.
The Boy mentioned that he was missing going out on push-bikes after our regular totting up of 100 plus miles per week over the last four months and so the decision was made.Bike ride it would be. Disgracefully the two mountain bikes remained muddy and grubby from the last trip out in late November but illogically everything worked well. The chain only needed a bit of easing to pass smoothly over the toothed ring, gear block and changers.
The weather enforced break for winter had resulted in all of our flashy but functional gear being put away and it took a couple of hours to locate the lycra based and windproof attire at the back of cupboards.
We were hoping to be out on the road by 11am. Viewed from indoors the day looked positively summery but accompanying the clear sky was a temperature of only four degrees Celsius and a strong westerly wind that had just sprung up from zero on the Beaufort Scale to sufficient power to frantically rustle next doors heavily leafed Eucalyptus tree.
Me and The Boy had a non-speaking and purely intuitive understanding not to be too hard or critical of the first amongst us to be physically sick from the resumption of effort. After the initial rude awakening of corpuscles, arteries and lungs from a brief but artistic stretching exercise on the driveway it was left turn at the gate and up the gradual but long climb to the main road. I was not able to ask The Boy if he felt alright because I was incapable of the multi-tasking of breathing and talking. On the positive side I felt as unfit as I had at the same stage of a ride in the summer rather than my expectation of being dead in the saddle.
Our objective was a short, sharp crossing of the Humber Bridge, at one time the world's longest single span suspension bridge but now something further down the top 10. The attempt, on paper, should be straight forward but it was in fact complicated by the collective decision of large family groups and dog walkers to also take advantage of the nice weather for socialising and exercise along the broad pedestrian pathway set below the level of the carriageway. The westerly wind was strong enough to warrant the wearing of assorted hats by the assorted walkers and the younger, persuaded or co-erced to participate amongst their number wore their new headphones reverberating with bass and drum.
The outcome; complete oblivion to two fluorescently clad cyclists showing off at speed until distracted by a long spindly shadow creeping over their own. What had promised to be an easy ride turned into a protracted series of stops, starts, weaving, dodging, evasive moves around buggies and loose small children and not a few hard stares of disdain and disapproval, from all parties.
I had not started a cycling year so early for perhaps two decades. One cycle does not however make a summer and the weather had returned to drab and dreary by the very next day.
In anticipation of another ride out we are wholly at the mercy of the climate and daylight hours for the coming months.
Currently there are only just under eight hours of daylight per day assuming minimal influences from cloud cover. By the end of January this should have improved somewhat to just over 9 hours. There are only weekend slots available for a cycle, what with working commitments and the competition for time with the usual saturday and sunday chores and obligations. There can therefore be only two certainties. Me and The Boy will not be up to full fitness for some months and Trolls, being susceptible to Sunlight Affected Disorder in a big way will have nothing much to worry about until about March.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Droopy Drawers. Is that your Vinyl Answer?
He was certainly no Perry Mason.
The revelation by Dee that it was goodbye to romance had been like a shot in the dark to him.
"I want it more", she had said, "I don't know why I've stuck it with a fool like you, more obsessed with the Almighty Dollar than me. You were once my hero, a killer of giants, my centre of eternity"
She had been planning to steal away, tonight, never to be part again of that crazy train of a relationship. There was as she had said, no easy way out but she would shed no more tears on that road to nowhere.
He secretly knew that they had been running out of time, when he'd overheard her on the phone, "Mama, I'm coming home. I love you all". It was a case of the countdown begins.
Thank God for that bomb-shell he thought, for the first time feeling alive after being so tired. He was coming out of a mental black rain.
His ultimate sin? Perhaps waiting for darkness and the demon alcohol. It had made him bark at the moon. He had hit the depths but there was no thought of a suicide solution. He was a firm believer in that. "You're no different" he uttered under his breath.
It was, he realised, time to slow down.
Mr Crowley was confident that he was going to be alright. "See you on the other side " he scoffed at his critics. Lightning strikes but once. He could hear them eating their own words.
Tomorrow he would be flying high again, over the mountains and into a sunset like a fire in the sky.
The aircraft accelerated down the long runway and he was airborne banking sharply over Ozzy Osbourne International Airport, Birmingham.
(Compiled from album tracks from the playlist of Ozzy Osbourne. A short story inspired by the proposals by Birmingham, UK to rename the International Airport in honour of one of their famous sons. This follows the trend set by John Lennon Airport in Liverpool and George Best Airport in Belfast)
Guesses as to how many song titles are in the story on the message board please. No Prizes offered, just an honorary place at the table of the Godfather of Heavy Metal and an apprenticeship with the Prince of Darkness.
The revelation by Dee that it was goodbye to romance had been like a shot in the dark to him.
"I want it more", she had said, "I don't know why I've stuck it with a fool like you, more obsessed with the Almighty Dollar than me. You were once my hero, a killer of giants, my centre of eternity"
She had been planning to steal away, tonight, never to be part again of that crazy train of a relationship. There was as she had said, no easy way out but she would shed no more tears on that road to nowhere.
He secretly knew that they had been running out of time, when he'd overheard her on the phone, "Mama, I'm coming home. I love you all". It was a case of the countdown begins.
Thank God for that bomb-shell he thought, for the first time feeling alive after being so tired. He was coming out of a mental black rain.
His ultimate sin? Perhaps waiting for darkness and the demon alcohol. It had made him bark at the moon. He had hit the depths but there was no thought of a suicide solution. He was a firm believer in that. "You're no different" he uttered under his breath.
It was, he realised, time to slow down.
Mr Crowley was confident that he was going to be alright. "See you on the other side " he scoffed at his critics. Lightning strikes but once. He could hear them eating their own words.
Tomorrow he would be flying high again, over the mountains and into a sunset like a fire in the sky.
The aircraft accelerated down the long runway and he was airborne banking sharply over Ozzy Osbourne International Airport, Birmingham.
(Compiled from album tracks from the playlist of Ozzy Osbourne. A short story inspired by the proposals by Birmingham, UK to rename the International Airport in honour of one of their famous sons. This follows the trend set by John Lennon Airport in Liverpool and George Best Airport in Belfast)
Guesses as to how many song titles are in the story on the message board please. No Prizes offered, just an honorary place at the table of the Godfather of Heavy Metal and an apprenticeship with the Prince of Darkness.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Leeds United, I forgive you
The New Year.
I always start out with the best of intentions.
I usually have a few Resolutions which involve a pledge to give up chocolate, take more exercise, read more books and learn something new like a language or a skill with bricklaying being a particular favourite. Within a couple of days, whilst wistfully eating my way through the leftovers of a Cadbury selection box, lounging about on the settee, shunning the activity of turning a page, not even being lucid enough to put together a meaningful sentence to anyone and looking out of the window at that tumbled down wall , I realise that I have failed miserably, well not even miserably because that implies that I had some attempt to uphold my promises in the first place.
The start of a New Year also brings about a frame of mind and opportunity to review your life and hopefully put into practice those lessons learned from hard knocks and bitter experiences that have loomed up in life's broad pageant to date.
This year of 2013 is also my fiftieth, yes, that's right, it is the new 35, and what an opportunity to combine this momentus half century landmark with something magnanimous.
To this end I am thinking about handing out forgiveness, for what I have long since regarded as misdemeanours against me, to the perpetrators whether they have been individuals, groups, companies or the world at large.
Life is far too short to carry around thoughts of retribution for petty issues and my sanity, blood pressure and overall stress levels would benefit significantly from letting these things just evaporate in an all enveloping sense of forgiveness.
In thinking through this intention I have realised how much it is in my nature to hold a grudge on the most silly and stupid things which could, in the most part, not even be seen as a transgression or even a minor personal slight. On a year to year basis however the magnitude of these issues has grown out of all proportion and that I have just come to appreciate this , only now, is a very sorry state of affairs indeed. I may actually have shortened my life expectancy by carrying around these poisoned and festering thoughts of absolutely no consequence whatsoever in the greater scheme of things.
I have attempted to place this roster of forgiveness in some sort of ascending date order;
Whoever burnt down the Co-Operative Store in Abingdon, Bucks in 1968. It was our local shop and sold the best 'pick and mix' in my world as at 5 years old.
Class 2d at Westgarth County Primary, Bury St Edmunds for protecting the identity of someone who walked off with my collection, my prized collection of Dinky, Matchbox and Hotwheels cars on the occasion of a 'bring yours toys to school day' in or around 1971.
My Gran, for her thinking but not actually saying that I killed her Jack Russell dog in revenge for her seeing off my pet cat. I was not to know that the building site where I took Ruff for a walk on that fateful day in 1975 was covered with rat poison.
The Corporate Banking Department at Lloyds Bank for their terrible attitude to, and treatment of my Father in or around 1978. He was a Good Person and Bank Manager in that order.
Paul Weller, Rick Buckler and Bruce Foxton, collectively The Jam, for their denial in 1980 of being Mods when that was the last thing that faithful fans and followers wanted to hear especially after buying all their records and wearing their Dad's suit and winkle picker shoes to local disco's.
A group of youths in Fallowfield, Manchester who in 1981 gave me my first sensation of a punch in the face when I refused them a handful of chips in the street.
Three girlfriends who over the period of 1981 to 1985 dumped me which can be a devastating feeling to a young lad.
Leeds United. No explanation required for anyone who likes and appreciates football as a beautiful game but with my team, Hull City, doing them over twice this season I felt they could do with a break.
Ford Motor Company. Producers of my first company car, a 1.6 Diesel Fiesta, in which I scared myself when it failed to reach 50mph in third gear in attempting to overtake a slow moving lorry on the by-pass in 1986.
Sardines, fresh ones on which I blame my appendicitus at the age of 46.
Forgiven and forgotten. I feel better already.
I always start out with the best of intentions.
I usually have a few Resolutions which involve a pledge to give up chocolate, take more exercise, read more books and learn something new like a language or a skill with bricklaying being a particular favourite. Within a couple of days, whilst wistfully eating my way through the leftovers of a Cadbury selection box, lounging about on the settee, shunning the activity of turning a page, not even being lucid enough to put together a meaningful sentence to anyone and looking out of the window at that tumbled down wall , I realise that I have failed miserably, well not even miserably because that implies that I had some attempt to uphold my promises in the first place.
The start of a New Year also brings about a frame of mind and opportunity to review your life and hopefully put into practice those lessons learned from hard knocks and bitter experiences that have loomed up in life's broad pageant to date.
This year of 2013 is also my fiftieth, yes, that's right, it is the new 35, and what an opportunity to combine this momentus half century landmark with something magnanimous.
To this end I am thinking about handing out forgiveness, for what I have long since regarded as misdemeanours against me, to the perpetrators whether they have been individuals, groups, companies or the world at large.
Life is far too short to carry around thoughts of retribution for petty issues and my sanity, blood pressure and overall stress levels would benefit significantly from letting these things just evaporate in an all enveloping sense of forgiveness.
In thinking through this intention I have realised how much it is in my nature to hold a grudge on the most silly and stupid things which could, in the most part, not even be seen as a transgression or even a minor personal slight. On a year to year basis however the magnitude of these issues has grown out of all proportion and that I have just come to appreciate this , only now, is a very sorry state of affairs indeed. I may actually have shortened my life expectancy by carrying around these poisoned and festering thoughts of absolutely no consequence whatsoever in the greater scheme of things.
I have attempted to place this roster of forgiveness in some sort of ascending date order;
Whoever burnt down the Co-Operative Store in Abingdon, Bucks in 1968. It was our local shop and sold the best 'pick and mix' in my world as at 5 years old.
Class 2d at Westgarth County Primary, Bury St Edmunds for protecting the identity of someone who walked off with my collection, my prized collection of Dinky, Matchbox and Hotwheels cars on the occasion of a 'bring yours toys to school day' in or around 1971.
My Gran, for her thinking but not actually saying that I killed her Jack Russell dog in revenge for her seeing off my pet cat. I was not to know that the building site where I took Ruff for a walk on that fateful day in 1975 was covered with rat poison.
The Corporate Banking Department at Lloyds Bank for their terrible attitude to, and treatment of my Father in or around 1978. He was a Good Person and Bank Manager in that order.
Paul Weller, Rick Buckler and Bruce Foxton, collectively The Jam, for their denial in 1980 of being Mods when that was the last thing that faithful fans and followers wanted to hear especially after buying all their records and wearing their Dad's suit and winkle picker shoes to local disco's.
A group of youths in Fallowfield, Manchester who in 1981 gave me my first sensation of a punch in the face when I refused them a handful of chips in the street.
Three girlfriends who over the period of 1981 to 1985 dumped me which can be a devastating feeling to a young lad.
Leeds United. No explanation required for anyone who likes and appreciates football as a beautiful game but with my team, Hull City, doing them over twice this season I felt they could do with a break.
Ford Motor Company. Producers of my first company car, a 1.6 Diesel Fiesta, in which I scared myself when it failed to reach 50mph in third gear in attempting to overtake a slow moving lorry on the by-pass in 1986.
Sardines, fresh ones on which I blame my appendicitus at the age of 46.
Forgiven and forgotten. I feel better already.
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