It is always interesting meeting someone for the first time.
There can be a bit of a stand off with awkward silences, a realisation that there is no common ground on the basis of age or upbringing, a wary and mutually suspicious approach or to the contrary you can just hit it off and feel like you have come across a long lost acquaintance.
To get to this latter stage can take a bit of time as I found out just the other day.
I was at a house in Scarborough, North Yorkshire doing an inspection for a prospective buyer.
The purpose of my visit can instil mixed feelings in a home owner. They are, on the one hand, keen to put on a good show in order to progress a sale but at the same time not wanting to seem too keen in case it comes across as anxiety or just wanting to offload, as soon as possible, a money pit, house of horrors, burdensome dwelling or millstone.
This can manifest in what I find to be an amusing attitude of nonchalance or just outright rudeness.
The home owner in this case was immediately a bit distant and prickly. He, in true wartime prisoner style gave forth only name, rank and serial number and I had to force the conversation with the usual pleasantries to find out how long he had lived there, if he had had much work done to the place and the age of the services and fixtures.
Gradually he realised that he had to contribute as much information as I was asking questions but that can have the opposite and rather unhelpful effect of loosening the tongue and before long I was being told his full life story.
I do try to make time for such autobiographical moments because I do genuinely respect and value everyone as individuals with a tale to recount. In a nutshell he had worked for all of his adult life but had taken early retirement due to heart problems. His typical day was now one of long empty hours as a house husband until his wife returned from her own employment. The house, granted, was spotlessly clean and well maintained which was testament to his hard graft even if only in frenetic bursts between bouts of feeling faint and short of breath.
Each room held different illustrations of his life. What was now a spare bedroom was formerly that of his son now grown up and working away from home earning big money doing contracting, in what he was not entirely sure. The kitchen and bathroom had been recently refitted thanks to a matured endowment policy and the decorative work was his own through the whole house, well at least he had managed to do it before his last health scare.
Pride of place went to the garage. It had been a bit of a cold, damp and draughty affair causing his hand and power tools to develop overnight corrosion until, with another small savings policy, he had re roofed and insulated the whole thing transforming it into a cosy, warm and dry retreat and refuge from daily humdrum existence.
It was during my tour of the garage that I remarked on a strange object nestled in a corner by the up and over door.
About two feet tall, conical and in brass and glass I was not sure what it was. I must have lingered briefly musing over the item as the householder noticed and took this to be the catalyst to launch into another chapter of his personal history.
It was a mast head lantern that he had found and salvaged from an ocean going ship whilst diving off the North Yorkshire Coast.
This activity had obviously been quite a passion and for many years prior to his enforced retirement due to ill health. He had travelled widely in pursuit of diving experience from domestic waters to European, The Tropics and in variable underwater conditions of crystal clear and coral blue seas to zero visibility even under strong lights.
The lantern had caught his eye in the murky depths of the North Sea, quite accidentally in that only a small round base section had been protruding from the sea bed giving no idea of what it actually was. In being swept along in a deep current he had simply plunged his hand into the circular void and hung onto it until reaching the surface.
It had certainly cleaned up well, possibly in the former unpleasant incarnation of the garage.
Research into what was evidently a very bounteous maritime graveyard off Whitby and Scarborough, well charted and documented pinpointed the lantern to have come from a vessel wrecked in the 19th Century. Colleagues and friends in his diving club had fared better over the years with genuine treasure trove from clay jars crammed full of gold coins to ships' bells and bits of armaments, flatware, flotsam and jetsam.
I knew a little bit myself about the more famous wrecks in the Yorkshire waters including the Bonhomme Richard, which under the command of John Paul Jones brought the American War of Independence to Bridlington in 1779. This started off a new line of conversation about how the diving fraternity had offered all practical help and local knowledge to National Geographic in their bid to locate the iconic ship but yet this had been completely ignored. Consequently an expensive expedition had been wholly unsuccessful and the secret still remains to this day. He was glad of the fact.
We chatted a bit more about the hazards of deep sea diving and he was able to dispel a few myths which I admit to passing off to my own children when they were younger such as the benefits of urinating in a wet suit (Cornwall Holiday 1998), bodily explosion or implosion due to over rapid surfacing ( Kefalonia 2000), drinking excessive amounts of sea water (Corfu 2002), stepping on a Weaver Fish (Fraisthorpe Beach 2006), how to pick up a live crab (Robin Hoods Bay 2007) and the prospect of being eaten by a Great White Shark in only ankle deep shallows (Coral Sea, Australia 2008).
We could have talked for hours but it was time for me to leave. Incidentally, the house passed the survey with a clean bill of health.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Abandon Chip!
Statistically it must be a sporting record.
I would be interested to hear to the contrary.
Scarborough Football Club, one of the oldest club sides in English Football, founded in 1879, played for 120 years before suffering their first ever relegation.
It had been a modest start with a group from a cricket club in the North Yorkshire seaside town upping stumps in pursuit of another out of season sporting activity to keep limbs and minds active. The next 8 years were as part timers in local leagues and in 1927 the club turned Professional and was accepted into the Midlands League.
The inter war period represented the halcyon days for football at all levels in the country with good levels of support, both in feet on the terraces and monies in the club bank account. The 1937 to 1938 season saw a record attendance at the Seamer Road sports ground of 11,162 against Luton Town in the FA Cup.
In the 1970's Scarborough FC had some further adventures in the same competition and also found themselves playing in the Anglo-Italian Cup where there were victories against Udinese and Parma.
Progress in the lower leagues had been slow but methodical and as Champions of the Conference Division in 1987 under Neil Warnock's managership Scarborough became the first team to reach the mainstream English Football League by such a tortuous route.
The Fourth Division then, or League 2 as it is now known, represented the big time for the club and town. In a pioneering sponsorship a major employer, McCain, famous for its oven chips, purchased the naming rights for the football ground and team shirts and Seamer Road became the McCain Stadium.
The small ground of capacity 6,408 was located on the south side of Scarborough on the western edge of a main approach nestled below steep valley sides including the local landmark and occasional motor bike racing circuit of Olivers Mount.
A famous 3-2 win over Chelsea in the League Cup in 1989 gave the club a giant-killing reputation and there was another good run in the FA Cup in the 1992 to 1993 season before being knocked out 1-0 by Arsenal who were eventual winners over another proud Yorkshire Team in Sheffield Wednesday.
The forays into the inter-league competitions were a bonus including a bit of airplay on BBC's Match of the Day although the club's time in the lowest division was not without it's high points including just losing out on a promotion to Division Three after losing to Torquay in a Play-off.
The circumstances of Scarborough's first ever relegation in 1999 have gone down in football folklore although for the wrong reasons and in favour of another team.
The final day of the season saw Scarborough at home to Peterborough United with rivals for the drop, Carlisle playing Plymouth Argyle.
At the end of the match at the McCain Stadium and as it stood in both games at 1-1 there was a pitch invasion by the Seasiders in celebration of surviving a twelfth season in the Football League. This was shortly to turn to despair as in Cumbria, in the last kick of the game the Carlisle goalkeeper, Jimmy Glass, in a legendary exploit came up the full length of the pitch and as a corner kick swung in he scored the matchwinner, saving his own team but pushing Scarborough out of the top flight.
It proved to be a very slippery slope and within a few years Scarborough FC were in a dire financial crisis. It was hoped that the Stadium site could be sold for a housing development with the proceeds expected to clear the accumulated debts of £2.5 million as well as providing a surplus to fund a new ground farther out of the town. An old Covenant in the Deeds for the football ground dedicating its use for sporting activities only was an obstacle too big to surmount, any prospects of a last minute salvation foundered and in June 2007 the club ceased to exist.
The title of this blog is taken from a Fanzine for the club showing a sense of topical but black humour.
I drive into Scarborough on a regular basis and the sight of the abandoned and derelict former Stadium site is a poignant reminder of the fortunes of a football team and its loyal supporters and serves as a stern warning to those clubs only just about keeping their heads above the mire of financial meltdown.
I would be interested to hear to the contrary.
Scarborough Football Club, one of the oldest club sides in English Football, founded in 1879, played for 120 years before suffering their first ever relegation.
It had been a modest start with a group from a cricket club in the North Yorkshire seaside town upping stumps in pursuit of another out of season sporting activity to keep limbs and minds active. The next 8 years were as part timers in local leagues and in 1927 the club turned Professional and was accepted into the Midlands League.
The inter war period represented the halcyon days for football at all levels in the country with good levels of support, both in feet on the terraces and monies in the club bank account. The 1937 to 1938 season saw a record attendance at the Seamer Road sports ground of 11,162 against Luton Town in the FA Cup.
In the 1970's Scarborough FC had some further adventures in the same competition and also found themselves playing in the Anglo-Italian Cup where there were victories against Udinese and Parma.
Progress in the lower leagues had been slow but methodical and as Champions of the Conference Division in 1987 under Neil Warnock's managership Scarborough became the first team to reach the mainstream English Football League by such a tortuous route.
The Fourth Division then, or League 2 as it is now known, represented the big time for the club and town. In a pioneering sponsorship a major employer, McCain, famous for its oven chips, purchased the naming rights for the football ground and team shirts and Seamer Road became the McCain Stadium.
The small ground of capacity 6,408 was located on the south side of Scarborough on the western edge of a main approach nestled below steep valley sides including the local landmark and occasional motor bike racing circuit of Olivers Mount.
A famous 3-2 win over Chelsea in the League Cup in 1989 gave the club a giant-killing reputation and there was another good run in the FA Cup in the 1992 to 1993 season before being knocked out 1-0 by Arsenal who were eventual winners over another proud Yorkshire Team in Sheffield Wednesday.
The forays into the inter-league competitions were a bonus including a bit of airplay on BBC's Match of the Day although the club's time in the lowest division was not without it's high points including just losing out on a promotion to Division Three after losing to Torquay in a Play-off.
The circumstances of Scarborough's first ever relegation in 1999 have gone down in football folklore although for the wrong reasons and in favour of another team.
The final day of the season saw Scarborough at home to Peterborough United with rivals for the drop, Carlisle playing Plymouth Argyle.
At the end of the match at the McCain Stadium and as it stood in both games at 1-1 there was a pitch invasion by the Seasiders in celebration of surviving a twelfth season in the Football League. This was shortly to turn to despair as in Cumbria, in the last kick of the game the Carlisle goalkeeper, Jimmy Glass, in a legendary exploit came up the full length of the pitch and as a corner kick swung in he scored the matchwinner, saving his own team but pushing Scarborough out of the top flight.
It proved to be a very slippery slope and within a few years Scarborough FC were in a dire financial crisis. It was hoped that the Stadium site could be sold for a housing development with the proceeds expected to clear the accumulated debts of £2.5 million as well as providing a surplus to fund a new ground farther out of the town. An old Covenant in the Deeds for the football ground dedicating its use for sporting activities only was an obstacle too big to surmount, any prospects of a last minute salvation foundered and in June 2007 the club ceased to exist.
The title of this blog is taken from a Fanzine for the club showing a sense of topical but black humour.
I drive into Scarborough on a regular basis and the sight of the abandoned and derelict former Stadium site is a poignant reminder of the fortunes of a football team and its loyal supporters and serves as a stern warning to those clubs only just about keeping their heads above the mire of financial meltdown.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Jeremy Builders of the 1700's
Those surviving to any sort of maturity or senior age in the Georgian Period were still unlikely to exceed, say, five foot four in height.
I have come to this conclusion not through a careful archive study of that era or having been told that fact through Wikipedia or The History Channel but in a practical and quite painful way.
It is my privilege, in the course of my employment to visit and inspect, on a fairly regular basis, the grand and imposing houses from the 18th Century which are in pretty good supply in many of the East Yorkshire towns and villages.
In all, bar none, my assessment of the average height of its former occupants is based on the frequent clashing of my head as I neglect to stoop my five foot ten form through the low and squat doorways.
There are mitigating circumstances behind what many may regard as inattentiveness, carelessness or just plain stupidity.
I do have my wits about me in a Georgian House mainly because of the requirement of my job to be observant of building defects, problems and shortcomings.
Even if the house was originally built for a historically significant local or national character and at great comparative expense for that period in time with the highest quality of workmanship and materials there is still a possibility of the Master Craftsmen having a bad day on the tools.
I expect that, the same as today ,the approach of a friday afternoon and weekend exerted the same feelings of laziness and complacency on our labouring ancestors, particularly the promise of a Toby Jug quart of strong cider, porter or ale and the luxury of a leisurely clay pipe full of tobacco. The male workforce of time served artisans and their apprentices will also, undoubtedly, have had wife or fiancee troubles, money worries and health problems serving to distract them from applying their skills and diligence to the task in hand.
Take the sheer thickness of a typical 18th Century Manor House. Stone built or in the newly arrived North European building phenomena of clay bricks an external wall could exceed 2 feet from facing to plasterwork finish.
The intention was for such a mass of masonry to resist weathering and inevitable dampness from the British climate and with the added benefit of forming a very sturdy platform on which to build upwards in the absence, otherwise , of a meaningful foundation.
In volume, that is a considerable amount of stone, brick and lime plaster. There will certainly have been a temptation to pack out the supposed solid wall construction with debris, loose stones or even grass and straw and then charge the Client the full amount.
House Builders today heartily discourage prospective buyers from touring their intended acquisition whilst it is being built for the same reason. I have seen a cavity wall full of the wrappers and detritus from packed lunches, bits of wood wedged into shortly to be concealed voids and no amount of brick bits squashed and cajoled into yet more gaps in what appears to be a perfectly finished product upon handover to the buyer.
Armed with historic and contemporary knowledge of builders short cuts and sharp practice you can appreciate that I walk about in a Georgian house in an agitated and probing manner. A good thump on the plasterwork of a thick outer wall, of course out of the earshot of the current owner, can result in an interesting sound of loose and falling materials behind.
Under foot the floors in a Period property also take some careful negotiation. The preference for large dressed Yorkstone slabs is evident in hallways, Garden Passages and the business end of a posh residence, the kitchen, scullery and utility areas. These gravestone dimensioned bits of stone were laid directly onto the soil or with a chalk base and under countless footfalls and fluctuations in ground conditions these can become very uneven and a stumbling hazard.
The best rooms in the house reserved for the 18th Century family had timber floors, warmer being raised off the ground and usually well polished and exposed as a feature. However, if surviving to the present day care must be exercised in a simple walking action due to weakness from rot and decay, wood boring insect and general wear and tear.
The quality of a Georgian House diminishes dramatically on a directly proportional basis both upwards floor by floor and backwards through the accommodation.
Typically orientated to the South are the main habitable rooms. This is logical for natural warmth and light with large multi-paned sash windows. Farther back in the cold damp and dark northerly recesses are the kitchens, pantries and wine cellars. At the top of the house in the draughty and poorly insulated eaves lived any of the domestic staff and servants if not commuting in daily by foot.
The attic accommodation is in contrast most spartan and crude but then again a reminder of your position in the social hierarchy.
I do therefore have to keep my wits about me when inspecting an Old Georgian pile and you may now understand that the matter of a low door casing is very easy, therefore, to miss until too late and that inevitable eye watering clash of head on seasoned timber.
I have come to this conclusion not through a careful archive study of that era or having been told that fact through Wikipedia or The History Channel but in a practical and quite painful way.
It is my privilege, in the course of my employment to visit and inspect, on a fairly regular basis, the grand and imposing houses from the 18th Century which are in pretty good supply in many of the East Yorkshire towns and villages.
In all, bar none, my assessment of the average height of its former occupants is based on the frequent clashing of my head as I neglect to stoop my five foot ten form through the low and squat doorways.
There are mitigating circumstances behind what many may regard as inattentiveness, carelessness or just plain stupidity.
I do have my wits about me in a Georgian House mainly because of the requirement of my job to be observant of building defects, problems and shortcomings.
Even if the house was originally built for a historically significant local or national character and at great comparative expense for that period in time with the highest quality of workmanship and materials there is still a possibility of the Master Craftsmen having a bad day on the tools.
I expect that, the same as today ,the approach of a friday afternoon and weekend exerted the same feelings of laziness and complacency on our labouring ancestors, particularly the promise of a Toby Jug quart of strong cider, porter or ale and the luxury of a leisurely clay pipe full of tobacco. The male workforce of time served artisans and their apprentices will also, undoubtedly, have had wife or fiancee troubles, money worries and health problems serving to distract them from applying their skills and diligence to the task in hand.
Take the sheer thickness of a typical 18th Century Manor House. Stone built or in the newly arrived North European building phenomena of clay bricks an external wall could exceed 2 feet from facing to plasterwork finish.
The intention was for such a mass of masonry to resist weathering and inevitable dampness from the British climate and with the added benefit of forming a very sturdy platform on which to build upwards in the absence, otherwise , of a meaningful foundation.
In volume, that is a considerable amount of stone, brick and lime plaster. There will certainly have been a temptation to pack out the supposed solid wall construction with debris, loose stones or even grass and straw and then charge the Client the full amount.
House Builders today heartily discourage prospective buyers from touring their intended acquisition whilst it is being built for the same reason. I have seen a cavity wall full of the wrappers and detritus from packed lunches, bits of wood wedged into shortly to be concealed voids and no amount of brick bits squashed and cajoled into yet more gaps in what appears to be a perfectly finished product upon handover to the buyer.
Armed with historic and contemporary knowledge of builders short cuts and sharp practice you can appreciate that I walk about in a Georgian house in an agitated and probing manner. A good thump on the plasterwork of a thick outer wall, of course out of the earshot of the current owner, can result in an interesting sound of loose and falling materials behind.
Under foot the floors in a Period property also take some careful negotiation. The preference for large dressed Yorkstone slabs is evident in hallways, Garden Passages and the business end of a posh residence, the kitchen, scullery and utility areas. These gravestone dimensioned bits of stone were laid directly onto the soil or with a chalk base and under countless footfalls and fluctuations in ground conditions these can become very uneven and a stumbling hazard.
The best rooms in the house reserved for the 18th Century family had timber floors, warmer being raised off the ground and usually well polished and exposed as a feature. However, if surviving to the present day care must be exercised in a simple walking action due to weakness from rot and decay, wood boring insect and general wear and tear.
The quality of a Georgian House diminishes dramatically on a directly proportional basis both upwards floor by floor and backwards through the accommodation.
Typically orientated to the South are the main habitable rooms. This is logical for natural warmth and light with large multi-paned sash windows. Farther back in the cold damp and dark northerly recesses are the kitchens, pantries and wine cellars. At the top of the house in the draughty and poorly insulated eaves lived any of the domestic staff and servants if not commuting in daily by foot.
The attic accommodation is in contrast most spartan and crude but then again a reminder of your position in the social hierarchy.
I do therefore have to keep my wits about me when inspecting an Old Georgian pile and you may now understand that the matter of a low door casing is very easy, therefore, to miss until too late and that inevitable eye watering clash of head on seasoned timber.
Monday, 4 November 2013
Porky Pies
For many years my younger brother believed that the huge grey mass of buildings that operated as one of the largest steel factories in Europe at that time, with its multi storey edifice, architectural functionality, frequent emissions of industrial scale steam and, at night, the glow of a dying celestial star was in fact where they made Shredded Wheat breakfast cereal.
The things that young children believe, really.
I was a few years older and was amazed at how this tall tale had been accepted without question. After all, why would the makers of the best breakfast cereal ever choose to be based in Scunthorpe when there were plenty of other and arguably better locations. I think this myth may have come from my parents. I later, when a parent myself, continued the tradition.
My youngest daughter was heart-broken when her favourite toy, a small ,pink fur covered pig became, in her eyes irreparably damaged by a tragic accident involving a staircase. (Fall or deliberate push is still debatable) There was no consoling the small child until, as parents only can do, a massive lie and drama was acted out.
I was charged with contacting the nearest A&E at the D&T (Dolly and Toy Hospital) by accessing a special Directory of Services for Good and Beautiful children. I am not sure, by definition if there is a complimentary volume for bad and ugly offspring.
My mock conversation with the fictitious Dolly and Toy Hospital receptionist was, according to my wife, quite a performance involving a bit of small talk, some general comments on the weather, a mutual dislike of lawyers and, this I dispute, not a little bit of flirting.
Anyway, I managed to charm my way into getting an appointment with the equally elusive chief physician for that very afternoon. My daughter and I sat on her bed with, and briefed, the listless pink pig on the pre-operation procedure but tried to keep up beat. Neither of us were sure if the little animal was even tolerant of pigicillin.
Foolishly, and in retrospect downright asking for a legal action, as we knew not what we were doing, we bound up the middle of the pig with a crepe bandage finished with a neatly tied bow.
There were tears as I drove away but after wiping my eyes I could see the road a lot better.
My daughter waved me off, her face trusting and expectant. A few minutes later, as I left the Municipal Tip minus a pink pig, I had already planned the next stage of the deception.
The toy was a couple of years old but due to a massive overstocking following wildly optimistic estimates of potential sales the large catalogue store in town had plenty of surplus stock, still. I was pleased and relieved initially but then a bit annoyed. The economic laws of over supply and minimal demand meant that the price had now fallen by a massive 60% from the panic fuelled purchase a couple of years before. We had fallen for the massive hype and very persuasive advertising campaign for the pink pig. We had been suckered into believing that if we had failed to purchase that product that year, our child would be forever scarred with emotional stress through the lack of toy based affirmation in parental love.
We vowed never to fall into that parental trap again.
In successive years however, we were tricked into purchasing the so-called top toys every time. At the back of the garage lies a pile of micro-scooters, Toy Story action figures, Talking Elmo's and other discarded scrap heap playthings.
My daughter demanded regular updates on the progress of the patient. She was understandably upset that she could not visit in person but as I further explained, the location had to be kept ultra-secret. I forget now why that was so.
The receptionist at the Dolly and Toy Hospital was most helpful although was becoming a bit too familiar and I had to get my wife to make the calls subsequently. Sooner than expected we got the great news that the patient was being released. I speculated to my daughter that there must have been a shortage of hospital beds on account of a massive upsurge in brittle plastic problems with early Barbie Dolls and Action Man's horse.
I set off to collect the patient.
The "order by phone and collect in store" function worked perfectly. Following completion of the purchase I discarded the packaging for the replacement pig in the bins at the multi storey car park in town. The crepe bandage, removed at the rubbish skip at the internment of the old pig was carefully re-attached. They could have been identical twins.
As a nice touch, I attached a small, unused corn plaster to its left foot. The homecoming was marvellous to behold. Child and pink pig reunited and ecstatic. There was calm again in the cosmos.
Some years later we, as parents, did admit to our deviousness but our daughter was quite nonchalant about the whole thing. I think she had suspected this ruse all along but was appreciative of the effort we had put in on her behalf.
The new pink pig resides in the attic with successive 'Toys of the Year' and dines out regularly on the story of its miraculous recovery and the unconditional love of a small girl.
(edited from November 2011, yep, a busy day at work today......)
The things that young children believe, really.
I was a few years older and was amazed at how this tall tale had been accepted without question. After all, why would the makers of the best breakfast cereal ever choose to be based in Scunthorpe when there were plenty of other and arguably better locations. I think this myth may have come from my parents. I later, when a parent myself, continued the tradition.
My youngest daughter was heart-broken when her favourite toy, a small ,pink fur covered pig became, in her eyes irreparably damaged by a tragic accident involving a staircase. (Fall or deliberate push is still debatable) There was no consoling the small child until, as parents only can do, a massive lie and drama was acted out.
I was charged with contacting the nearest A&E at the D&T (Dolly and Toy Hospital) by accessing a special Directory of Services for Good and Beautiful children. I am not sure, by definition if there is a complimentary volume for bad and ugly offspring.
My mock conversation with the fictitious Dolly and Toy Hospital receptionist was, according to my wife, quite a performance involving a bit of small talk, some general comments on the weather, a mutual dislike of lawyers and, this I dispute, not a little bit of flirting.
Anyway, I managed to charm my way into getting an appointment with the equally elusive chief physician for that very afternoon. My daughter and I sat on her bed with, and briefed, the listless pink pig on the pre-operation procedure but tried to keep up beat. Neither of us were sure if the little animal was even tolerant of pigicillin.
Foolishly, and in retrospect downright asking for a legal action, as we knew not what we were doing, we bound up the middle of the pig with a crepe bandage finished with a neatly tied bow.
There were tears as I drove away but after wiping my eyes I could see the road a lot better.
My daughter waved me off, her face trusting and expectant. A few minutes later, as I left the Municipal Tip minus a pink pig, I had already planned the next stage of the deception.
The toy was a couple of years old but due to a massive overstocking following wildly optimistic estimates of potential sales the large catalogue store in town had plenty of surplus stock, still. I was pleased and relieved initially but then a bit annoyed. The economic laws of over supply and minimal demand meant that the price had now fallen by a massive 60% from the panic fuelled purchase a couple of years before. We had fallen for the massive hype and very persuasive advertising campaign for the pink pig. We had been suckered into believing that if we had failed to purchase that product that year, our child would be forever scarred with emotional stress through the lack of toy based affirmation in parental love.
We vowed never to fall into that parental trap again.
In successive years however, we were tricked into purchasing the so-called top toys every time. At the back of the garage lies a pile of micro-scooters, Toy Story action figures, Talking Elmo's and other discarded scrap heap playthings.
My daughter demanded regular updates on the progress of the patient. She was understandably upset that she could not visit in person but as I further explained, the location had to be kept ultra-secret. I forget now why that was so.
The receptionist at the Dolly and Toy Hospital was most helpful although was becoming a bit too familiar and I had to get my wife to make the calls subsequently. Sooner than expected we got the great news that the patient was being released. I speculated to my daughter that there must have been a shortage of hospital beds on account of a massive upsurge in brittle plastic problems with early Barbie Dolls and Action Man's horse.
I set off to collect the patient.
The "order by phone and collect in store" function worked perfectly. Following completion of the purchase I discarded the packaging for the replacement pig in the bins at the multi storey car park in town. The crepe bandage, removed at the rubbish skip at the internment of the old pig was carefully re-attached. They could have been identical twins.
As a nice touch, I attached a small, unused corn plaster to its left foot. The homecoming was marvellous to behold. Child and pink pig reunited and ecstatic. There was calm again in the cosmos.
Some years later we, as parents, did admit to our deviousness but our daughter was quite nonchalant about the whole thing. I think she had suspected this ruse all along but was appreciative of the effort we had put in on her behalf.
The new pink pig resides in the attic with successive 'Toys of the Year' and dines out regularly on the story of its miraculous recovery and the unconditional love of a small girl.
(edited from November 2011, yep, a busy day at work today......)
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Match.Com
For the first time in some considerable period I found myself actually moving along in the same direction as everyone else.
Read what you will into that statement but in the pursuit of everyday life I invariably find that I am moving very much against the tide of i) popular opinion ii) current thinking, iii) fashion iv) trends v) traffic vi) pedestrian flows vii) convention and viii) common sense.
In most of the eight cases above, I am not doing anything intentional or even by accident. Furthermore I am not trying to make a protest or statement or establish an image, persona or reputation.
It is just that it happens.
Granted, I may not be aware that I am swimming against the tide because I am generally a bit impressionable, gullible and that awful but apt pairing of words, docile and placid. I do not see these labels as necessarily an insult, in fact, in a world hurtling along at breakneck and impersonal speeds these qualities make me a bit of an oasis, a place of serenity and as I like to imagine, a small eddying pool in the white water of life.
Dream on you may say.
If you are not running with the bulls, jumping with the trout, perching with the birds on the power lines or following the sheep it appears that you are a freak, a person to be avoided and a nobody.
As so well put in the "Life of Brian", we are all individuals, together now, "Yes, we are all individuals" and yet we do our best to just merge with everyone else in an anonymous and faceless mass.
So, to return to finding myself in the same plane and tangent as the majority. I was on foot, merged with the human tide on the way to see my first Premier League game of this season of our home town team of Hull City.
Two remarkable things are combined in that previous sentence.
The first, I was walking to a match followed by the fact that I had a ticket.
A recent house move back to the City from the leafy suburbs has meant that I am but a fifteen minute or so medium to fast paced walk from the Stadium. The inaugral weekend in the house coincided with Hull City's first home game in the top flight following a fantastic season in the Championship and a runner up position with automatic promotion. I was a bit disappointed that the crowd noise did not carry as far as the new place but it could have simply been down to the wind being in the wrong direction.
Two passes had been kindly provided by a good friend and his family who were away on holiday and would otherwise miss the game against Sunderland.
Such is the dispersed nature of Premiership teams in the North East of England that a visit by Sunderland was as good as a local derby game.
Match Day had arrived and I felt at age 50, the same levels of excitement and anticipation as I had at the age of 12 when my Father had taken me to my first proper game at Scunthorpe United, then and indeed almost as always in the lower divisions, the old Fourth as it was.
I have always been football mad. At age 7, I avidly collected, and still have, the official 1970 World Cup album. The packets of cards were, I think a sixpence but in the run up to Decimalisation there was also the labelled dual price of two and a half new pence. In a large plastic storage box, still waiting to be lodged somewhere following the house move, there are further large albums for the English Football League covering 1971 to 1974 and a few hand made scrapbooks including the 1978 World Cup in which I painstakingly recorded every game, goal scorer, incident and conspiracy.
In 2002 my business was doing well and so four seats were purchased at the brand new KC Stadium. It was equally motivated to regularly see games as much as an endorsement for Hull City who were showing signs, for the first time in a decade, of stability, investment and some potential for acheivement.
The credit crisis in 2009 saw a heart wrenching but financially prudent decision to sell up the seats although I had participated fully in the glorious campaign which saw City, for the first time in the Premier League.
In the last 4 years I have been able to attend, perhaps, half a dozen games. Most of the tickets were won regularly in a prize draw run by through a Bank Cash Machine and the others when I was the guest of friends of friends or just taking up the offer of spares.
I was extremely grateful regardless of the circumstances of kind offers and donations.
I had missed the match day build after relinquishing the seats and tried my best to keep up with the live commentary and TV coverage of Hull City as well as catching the news and gossip from those who still went regularly.
It is quite amazing how much gardening, car washing and how many domestic chores can be completed from 2pm to 6pm on a saturday in the football season with just the radio for company. I just hope that this information does not fall into the hands of those soccer widows, left to mind the home and children on a matchday weekend.
The sheer novelty of being able to walk to the Stadium was therefore an absolute thrill for me. Left turn at my garden gate, out of the leafy grove, left again past the amber and black flashes of colour insidethe numerous pavement cafes, bistros and bars, right and left after about half a mile and then through the turnstiles.
There is something quite enthralling about emerging into the daylight from under the terraces on an early November afternoon and seeing the floodlights already streaming down onto a beautifully verdant pitch. There was some disorientation on my part on taking my donated seat as it was the first time, ever, that I had been in the East Stand. It is the best for atmosphere and passionate fans and a direct contrast to my former seats in the more sedate and reserved two tier West Stand.
The quality of play by Hull City was better than I had seen for some time. I did struggle to recognise any of the players in the new top flight squad although I am still of the opinion, perhaps once again contrary to general opinion that the Wembley play-off final victory in 2008 was the pinnacle of performance for one of the greatest under-acheiving football teams in existence. (at least so far.....)
As per usual, I then found myself struggling against the directional flow of the masses . I had stayed in my seat until well after the half time whistle had blown, just to absorb the sights and sounds of the Stadium. It was therefore my own fault in delaying that glorious dash up to the pie and pint kiosk until everyone else was making their own way back for the rest of the match.
Read what you will into that statement but in the pursuit of everyday life I invariably find that I am moving very much against the tide of i) popular opinion ii) current thinking, iii) fashion iv) trends v) traffic vi) pedestrian flows vii) convention and viii) common sense.
In most of the eight cases above, I am not doing anything intentional or even by accident. Furthermore I am not trying to make a protest or statement or establish an image, persona or reputation.
It is just that it happens.
Granted, I may not be aware that I am swimming against the tide because I am generally a bit impressionable, gullible and that awful but apt pairing of words, docile and placid. I do not see these labels as necessarily an insult, in fact, in a world hurtling along at breakneck and impersonal speeds these qualities make me a bit of an oasis, a place of serenity and as I like to imagine, a small eddying pool in the white water of life.
Dream on you may say.
If you are not running with the bulls, jumping with the trout, perching with the birds on the power lines or following the sheep it appears that you are a freak, a person to be avoided and a nobody.
As so well put in the "Life of Brian", we are all individuals, together now, "Yes, we are all individuals" and yet we do our best to just merge with everyone else in an anonymous and faceless mass.
So, to return to finding myself in the same plane and tangent as the majority. I was on foot, merged with the human tide on the way to see my first Premier League game of this season of our home town team of Hull City.
Two remarkable things are combined in that previous sentence.
The first, I was walking to a match followed by the fact that I had a ticket.
A recent house move back to the City from the leafy suburbs has meant that I am but a fifteen minute or so medium to fast paced walk from the Stadium. The inaugral weekend in the house coincided with Hull City's first home game in the top flight following a fantastic season in the Championship and a runner up position with automatic promotion. I was a bit disappointed that the crowd noise did not carry as far as the new place but it could have simply been down to the wind being in the wrong direction.
Two passes had been kindly provided by a good friend and his family who were away on holiday and would otherwise miss the game against Sunderland.
Such is the dispersed nature of Premiership teams in the North East of England that a visit by Sunderland was as good as a local derby game.
Match Day had arrived and I felt at age 50, the same levels of excitement and anticipation as I had at the age of 12 when my Father had taken me to my first proper game at Scunthorpe United, then and indeed almost as always in the lower divisions, the old Fourth as it was.
I have always been football mad. At age 7, I avidly collected, and still have, the official 1970 World Cup album. The packets of cards were, I think a sixpence but in the run up to Decimalisation there was also the labelled dual price of two and a half new pence. In a large plastic storage box, still waiting to be lodged somewhere following the house move, there are further large albums for the English Football League covering 1971 to 1974 and a few hand made scrapbooks including the 1978 World Cup in which I painstakingly recorded every game, goal scorer, incident and conspiracy.
In 2002 my business was doing well and so four seats were purchased at the brand new KC Stadium. It was equally motivated to regularly see games as much as an endorsement for Hull City who were showing signs, for the first time in a decade, of stability, investment and some potential for acheivement.
The credit crisis in 2009 saw a heart wrenching but financially prudent decision to sell up the seats although I had participated fully in the glorious campaign which saw City, for the first time in the Premier League.
In the last 4 years I have been able to attend, perhaps, half a dozen games. Most of the tickets were won regularly in a prize draw run by through a Bank Cash Machine and the others when I was the guest of friends of friends or just taking up the offer of spares.
I was extremely grateful regardless of the circumstances of kind offers and donations.
I had missed the match day build after relinquishing the seats and tried my best to keep up with the live commentary and TV coverage of Hull City as well as catching the news and gossip from those who still went regularly.
It is quite amazing how much gardening, car washing and how many domestic chores can be completed from 2pm to 6pm on a saturday in the football season with just the radio for company. I just hope that this information does not fall into the hands of those soccer widows, left to mind the home and children on a matchday weekend.
The sheer novelty of being able to walk to the Stadium was therefore an absolute thrill for me. Left turn at my garden gate, out of the leafy grove, left again past the amber and black flashes of colour insidethe numerous pavement cafes, bistros and bars, right and left after about half a mile and then through the turnstiles.
There is something quite enthralling about emerging into the daylight from under the terraces on an early November afternoon and seeing the floodlights already streaming down onto a beautifully verdant pitch. There was some disorientation on my part on taking my donated seat as it was the first time, ever, that I had been in the East Stand. It is the best for atmosphere and passionate fans and a direct contrast to my former seats in the more sedate and reserved two tier West Stand.
The quality of play by Hull City was better than I had seen for some time. I did struggle to recognise any of the players in the new top flight squad although I am still of the opinion, perhaps once again contrary to general opinion that the Wembley play-off final victory in 2008 was the pinnacle of performance for one of the greatest under-acheiving football teams in existence. (at least so far.....)
As per usual, I then found myself struggling against the directional flow of the masses . I had stayed in my seat until well after the half time whistle had blown, just to absorb the sights and sounds of the Stadium. It was therefore my own fault in delaying that glorious dash up to the pie and pint kiosk until everyone else was making their own way back for the rest of the match.
Saturday, 2 November 2013
Freebius Stuffus; The Romans in Britain.
What have the Romans ever done for us?
Well, for my family they have certainly provided a lot of free stuff over the years and to my parents with five children and my own three wonderful youngsters that has been, on many days-out, a deity send.
I am a firm believer that there is some educational content and value in everything.
This could be a strong material fact, an anecdote or just, my speciality, an unverifiable piece of urban mythology.
It is little wonder that my children, when growing up, became a bit confused when, on what they thought was just an enjoyable day trip out they would be bombarded with some useful and some not so useful facts about things we drove past. That could be a building, a type of tree, a funny shop name, a rare car, a very distant aircraft or even a strange or suspicious looking pedestrian. In most instances, through the speed we were travelling or the lateness of my actual noticing of the interesting item, the children would have nothing to see as the essential illustration of my fact or statement. This would involve some complex explanations for the ensuing 10 minutes involving frequent hands off the steering wheel. Everything was, without the visual explanation, totally out of any context.
Roman things are, by design, the perfect free educational resource.
A Roman road, wonderfully straight and some good miles long provides the opportunity for me to have a rolling brief on its engineering, logistics and purpose. I will intentionally plan a long journey to include a stretch of Roman road. Sometimes I may be surprised by an arrow straight trunk road which just appears after a particularly car-sickness inducing series of bends, rises and falls. This starts my contention with the children or indeed any passengers at the time as to whether we are on a true Roman road or just a concession to a modern by-pass or much needed overtaking opportunity to clear a backlog behind labouring juggernauts and caravans.
Gradually, by such subversive indoctrination my children, now all adults, have come to recognise the trademarks of a Roman road and I swell with pride if they identify such before I have had a chance to remark.
I have, for all the free stuff out there, been known to pay the often extortionate entry fee to visit the best surviving artefacts of the Romans in Britain.
Vindolanda in Northumberland is well worth the large amount of denarius' that are handed over to the youth dressed most unsuitably for the chill of the north-east in sandles and body armour. Actually, the latter is very useful for a night out in Newcastle.
Hadrians Wall is also a good free resource but any educational content has to be paid for by a bit of a hard long walk across rough terrain and we have only tended to do this on the way back from a holiday in Scotland or well out of season if we have managed to get away for autumn half term or a spring break.
We are very regular visitors to the City of York which has an abundance of free stuff from the walls and defensive buildings to fragments of stone pilfered after the Roman abandonment and then used in later construction. Unwittingly, the period may well have been remembered not so much for the architecture, engineering and culture as the greatest for the supply of hardcore, rubble and dressed stone for Anglo-Saxon housing and patios.
My favourite feature in York is the incongrous pillar of very mixed materials which stands close to the Minster. It was found in flat pack kit form in an early excavation and subsequently re-assembled. If you get to see it you will understand that there were no actual instructions provided. It may even be upside down which, from my own experience of self assembly, can easily happen.
I spent a year of an internship in Lincoln, another great Roman garrison and cultural centre. More free stuff around the Cathedral and Castle, a stone gateway,some spa baths. One of the partners in the firm I worked for had a house built on Roman foundations and I was invited to see them having expressed an interest in such things. The stonework was perfectly preserved and accessible from the cellar. The craftsmanship was beautiful to behold.
Of course the labouring will have been done by slaves with their Roman Masters getting all the glory.
My strongest memory of Roman artefacts also emphasised the cruelty and hardship of that period of, lets face it, occupation by a mighty foreign power.
In the mid 1970's my father took me to the site of an archaeological dig in a field just adjacent to the busy A15 or better known Ermine Street, the M1 of the invaders. Maps of the locality between Lincoln and the Humber crossings on the way up to York showed many villa sites. Prime real estate for those qualifying for freedom from military or civil service. Scant reward for a retirement at 35 but with a life expectancy of not much more.
The field was quiet after the ponytailed and dungaree archaeologists had left for the day. The site had been throwing up bits of mosaic tile and pantile fragments for many years under the farmers plough or from treasure seekers. A large rectangular shape had been revealed after careful removal of tons of topsoil. I could make out detail from my school projects on villas, some hypercaust pieces from the underfloor heating, labelled pieces of pottery still partly embedded in the ground and short stretches of partly intact but largely jumbled up tessera (Resource book; The Romans in Britain for ages 8 to 11. Published in 1970).
Then, in the four outer corners of the excavation I saw four metal collection trays, upturned as though to protect or hide something being worked on. Ever curious and a bit nosy I lifted up one of the trays.
Huddled in the corner was the skeletal remains of a small baby. This was the same for the other three corners. I was shocked but also a bit morbidly fascinated by this discovery. My father explained that the babies would have been sacrificed for a favourable blessing for the villa by the deities. I was already following the train of thought about who would supply babies for this barbaric practice.
The field was soon returned to the farmer after meticulous recording and removal to a local musuem of the most important items. I hoped that the babies had received a suitable and respectful memorial if they had been left where they had been put to the sword.
Well, for my family they have certainly provided a lot of free stuff over the years and to my parents with five children and my own three wonderful youngsters that has been, on many days-out, a deity send.
I am a firm believer that there is some educational content and value in everything.
This could be a strong material fact, an anecdote or just, my speciality, an unverifiable piece of urban mythology.
It is little wonder that my children, when growing up, became a bit confused when, on what they thought was just an enjoyable day trip out they would be bombarded with some useful and some not so useful facts about things we drove past. That could be a building, a type of tree, a funny shop name, a rare car, a very distant aircraft or even a strange or suspicious looking pedestrian. In most instances, through the speed we were travelling or the lateness of my actual noticing of the interesting item, the children would have nothing to see as the essential illustration of my fact or statement. This would involve some complex explanations for the ensuing 10 minutes involving frequent hands off the steering wheel. Everything was, without the visual explanation, totally out of any context.
Roman things are, by design, the perfect free educational resource.
A Roman road, wonderfully straight and some good miles long provides the opportunity for me to have a rolling brief on its engineering, logistics and purpose. I will intentionally plan a long journey to include a stretch of Roman road. Sometimes I may be surprised by an arrow straight trunk road which just appears after a particularly car-sickness inducing series of bends, rises and falls. This starts my contention with the children or indeed any passengers at the time as to whether we are on a true Roman road or just a concession to a modern by-pass or much needed overtaking opportunity to clear a backlog behind labouring juggernauts and caravans.
Gradually, by such subversive indoctrination my children, now all adults, have come to recognise the trademarks of a Roman road and I swell with pride if they identify such before I have had a chance to remark.
I have, for all the free stuff out there, been known to pay the often extortionate entry fee to visit the best surviving artefacts of the Romans in Britain.
Vindolanda in Northumberland is well worth the large amount of denarius' that are handed over to the youth dressed most unsuitably for the chill of the north-east in sandles and body armour. Actually, the latter is very useful for a night out in Newcastle.
Hadrians Wall is also a good free resource but any educational content has to be paid for by a bit of a hard long walk across rough terrain and we have only tended to do this on the way back from a holiday in Scotland or well out of season if we have managed to get away for autumn half term or a spring break.
We are very regular visitors to the City of York which has an abundance of free stuff from the walls and defensive buildings to fragments of stone pilfered after the Roman abandonment and then used in later construction. Unwittingly, the period may well have been remembered not so much for the architecture, engineering and culture as the greatest for the supply of hardcore, rubble and dressed stone for Anglo-Saxon housing and patios.
My favourite feature in York is the incongrous pillar of very mixed materials which stands close to the Minster. It was found in flat pack kit form in an early excavation and subsequently re-assembled. If you get to see it you will understand that there were no actual instructions provided. It may even be upside down which, from my own experience of self assembly, can easily happen.
I spent a year of an internship in Lincoln, another great Roman garrison and cultural centre. More free stuff around the Cathedral and Castle, a stone gateway,some spa baths. One of the partners in the firm I worked for had a house built on Roman foundations and I was invited to see them having expressed an interest in such things. The stonework was perfectly preserved and accessible from the cellar. The craftsmanship was beautiful to behold.
Of course the labouring will have been done by slaves with their Roman Masters getting all the glory.
My strongest memory of Roman artefacts also emphasised the cruelty and hardship of that period of, lets face it, occupation by a mighty foreign power.
In the mid 1970's my father took me to the site of an archaeological dig in a field just adjacent to the busy A15 or better known Ermine Street, the M1 of the invaders. Maps of the locality between Lincoln and the Humber crossings on the way up to York showed many villa sites. Prime real estate for those qualifying for freedom from military or civil service. Scant reward for a retirement at 35 but with a life expectancy of not much more.
The field was quiet after the ponytailed and dungaree archaeologists had left for the day. The site had been throwing up bits of mosaic tile and pantile fragments for many years under the farmers plough or from treasure seekers. A large rectangular shape had been revealed after careful removal of tons of topsoil. I could make out detail from my school projects on villas, some hypercaust pieces from the underfloor heating, labelled pieces of pottery still partly embedded in the ground and short stretches of partly intact but largely jumbled up tessera (Resource book; The Romans in Britain for ages 8 to 11. Published in 1970).
Then, in the four outer corners of the excavation I saw four metal collection trays, upturned as though to protect or hide something being worked on. Ever curious and a bit nosy I lifted up one of the trays.
Huddled in the corner was the skeletal remains of a small baby. This was the same for the other three corners. I was shocked but also a bit morbidly fascinated by this discovery. My father explained that the babies would have been sacrificed for a favourable blessing for the villa by the deities. I was already following the train of thought about who would supply babies for this barbaric practice.
The field was soon returned to the farmer after meticulous recording and removal to a local musuem of the most important items. I hoped that the babies had received a suitable and respectful memorial if they had been left where they had been put to the sword.
Friday, 1 November 2013
Tequila and the art of dry walling
I have just come across the happiest workforce in the world and in the most unlikely location.
I am not sure how they got to that particular point in time but theirs must have been a very interesting journey indeed.
I am talking about my time spent today in the company of the Mexican builders of East Hull.
They were working on a refurbishment of a post war built terraced house on one of the outer rim Local Authority Estates. I could hear something like a party going on as I pulled up in the car. Latin beats and rhythms blasted out of the open front door, not just a tape or CD recording but an actual live broadcast from the Old Country interspersed with what definitely sounded like commercial adverts and chat show phone-ins.
I poked my head into the hallway.
A cacophony of noises covering the majority of building trades emanated from the kitchen beyond.
Power tools, hammering, pipe bending, sawing, tea making and sweeping up.
I was a bit reluctant to intrude on the hive of activity but was spotted by one of the Mexican workers who welcomed me in, as though showing me to a table in a South American themed eatery. In between passages of Spanish dialect talk radio the six members of the workforce sang along, in tune and word perfect to the ballads and standards.
There was a certain melancholy in their sonorous voices, no doubt brought on by the cold and damp November weather in the North of England and a fleeting, passing recollection of their native land, and its contrast of hot and dry climate.
I felt like I was partaking in a sort of fluid dance through the house in evading the large sheets of dusty plasterboard which were brought in from a delivery van and then noisily fixed onto the existing papered ceilings.
My route from room to room was also impeded by the fact that the house had not been cleared of furniture and belongings.
The living room was full of the personal effects of the previous occupiers under a light but all penetrating covering of dust. It must have been considerably more cluttered had not the three piece suite been ejected onto the front lawn along with amongst other detritus of everyday life, a ladies sheer black brassiere. It was a bit of a surreal sight.
I fell out of the back door after two of the Mexicans had manhandled the pine kitchen table away from its former barricading position. The yard was also littered with the remains of goods and chattels, a drastically leaning storage shed and a burnt out Wendy House.
Work continued and I had to squeeze up the staircase around stored piles of building materials. Brushing up against the stairwell wall had left, as I looked back from the landing, a sweeping mark and then I realised that this was due to the transfer of the residues from wall to the back of my suit jacket. I was totally plastered in the actual meaning of that otherwise much misused term.
There was more mayhem in the first floor rooms with furniture including bunk beds, loose chairs, mounds of linen (dirty) and yet more building materials and tools.
All of the upstairs windows were wide open and I was glad of that as otherwise the atmosphere would have been humid, stifling and choking. I thought for a moment that perhaps the Mexicans lived and slept on site but that would not have been possible in the cramped space of the otherwise decent sized house.
The music and happiness continued amongst the men, no doubt contributing to the lightning fast progress of the renovations and refurbishments. I had been in a good many properties where the workers were just plain grumpy, disillusioned and simply running down the clock until knocking off time.
Before I realised about 45 minutes had elapsed. Such was the infectious ambience that I was reluctant to leave and did entertain the thought of rolling up my sleeves and joining in. I was after all from the South originally, well Aylesbury.
The actual standard of work was, to be frank, not very good and I would have a lot to write about in my report for the prospective purchaser. To give the Mexicans the benefit of the doubt I had turned up in the middle of the project and there was a very good possibility that they would turn things around in a few days. I would have to recommend a re-inspection when the works had been completed and indeed looked forward to a further visit although the builders will, in reality, have been long gone to the next job.
For the rest of the day I found myself humming a medley of James Last-esque South of the Border melodies and with a definite lightness in spirit and foot.
I like to think that my Mexicans were in fact a full Mariachi Band just filling in between a busy programme of evening and weekend bookings. That made me smile and tap my feet. "Ole`".
I am not sure how they got to that particular point in time but theirs must have been a very interesting journey indeed.
I am talking about my time spent today in the company of the Mexican builders of East Hull.
They were working on a refurbishment of a post war built terraced house on one of the outer rim Local Authority Estates. I could hear something like a party going on as I pulled up in the car. Latin beats and rhythms blasted out of the open front door, not just a tape or CD recording but an actual live broadcast from the Old Country interspersed with what definitely sounded like commercial adverts and chat show phone-ins.
I poked my head into the hallway.
A cacophony of noises covering the majority of building trades emanated from the kitchen beyond.
Power tools, hammering, pipe bending, sawing, tea making and sweeping up.
I was a bit reluctant to intrude on the hive of activity but was spotted by one of the Mexican workers who welcomed me in, as though showing me to a table in a South American themed eatery. In between passages of Spanish dialect talk radio the six members of the workforce sang along, in tune and word perfect to the ballads and standards.
There was a certain melancholy in their sonorous voices, no doubt brought on by the cold and damp November weather in the North of England and a fleeting, passing recollection of their native land, and its contrast of hot and dry climate.
I felt like I was partaking in a sort of fluid dance through the house in evading the large sheets of dusty plasterboard which were brought in from a delivery van and then noisily fixed onto the existing papered ceilings.
My route from room to room was also impeded by the fact that the house had not been cleared of furniture and belongings.
The living room was full of the personal effects of the previous occupiers under a light but all penetrating covering of dust. It must have been considerably more cluttered had not the three piece suite been ejected onto the front lawn along with amongst other detritus of everyday life, a ladies sheer black brassiere. It was a bit of a surreal sight.
I fell out of the back door after two of the Mexicans had manhandled the pine kitchen table away from its former barricading position. The yard was also littered with the remains of goods and chattels, a drastically leaning storage shed and a burnt out Wendy House.
Work continued and I had to squeeze up the staircase around stored piles of building materials. Brushing up against the stairwell wall had left, as I looked back from the landing, a sweeping mark and then I realised that this was due to the transfer of the residues from wall to the back of my suit jacket. I was totally plastered in the actual meaning of that otherwise much misused term.
There was more mayhem in the first floor rooms with furniture including bunk beds, loose chairs, mounds of linen (dirty) and yet more building materials and tools.
All of the upstairs windows were wide open and I was glad of that as otherwise the atmosphere would have been humid, stifling and choking. I thought for a moment that perhaps the Mexicans lived and slept on site but that would not have been possible in the cramped space of the otherwise decent sized house.
The music and happiness continued amongst the men, no doubt contributing to the lightning fast progress of the renovations and refurbishments. I had been in a good many properties where the workers were just plain grumpy, disillusioned and simply running down the clock until knocking off time.
Before I realised about 45 minutes had elapsed. Such was the infectious ambience that I was reluctant to leave and did entertain the thought of rolling up my sleeves and joining in. I was after all from the South originally, well Aylesbury.
The actual standard of work was, to be frank, not very good and I would have a lot to write about in my report for the prospective purchaser. To give the Mexicans the benefit of the doubt I had turned up in the middle of the project and there was a very good possibility that they would turn things around in a few days. I would have to recommend a re-inspection when the works had been completed and indeed looked forward to a further visit although the builders will, in reality, have been long gone to the next job.
For the rest of the day I found myself humming a medley of James Last-esque South of the Border melodies and with a definite lightness in spirit and foot.
I like to think that my Mexicans were in fact a full Mariachi Band just filling in between a busy programme of evening and weekend bookings. That made me smile and tap my feet. "Ole`".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)