The whole family engaged in a collective dance routine with shouts and hoops of delight at the announcement that Hull is to be UK City of Culture for 2017.
It was an emotional thing, a genuine outpouring of pride and joy for a population badly maligned and mauled in the popular media.
Such has been the tedious monotony of Hull as a butt of jokes about education, it MP's, lifestyle, eating habits, teenage pregnancies and the accent that any attempts to put up a justified response have been eroded and weakened as much as the self esteem and civic pride in the City itself.
The team putting together the bid for the award have done a marvellous service to Hull and they must be the first to be congratulated for their professionalism, humanity, humour and spirit. There is a tremendous short film in circulation which formed the final round of submissions by the shortlisted candidates and I found myself quite silenced and tearful after watching it a few days before the decision was made. It focused on the people of Hull and their quiet determination to succeed in life but also to enjoy themselves and now with the green light for 2017 to let the whole country and wider afield see the great and varied attractions and cultural offerings that its residents have always known about.
I am looking forward to the run up to the momentous year of events and have given some serious thought to what I could contribute.
I have in my 50 years, well at least in the first two decades, partaken in some drama productions. This was not on a voluntary basis but because I was too quiet and painfully shy not to resist being nominated by classmates and teachers. It appeared to have been a case of everyone else taking a step back in perfect unison to leave me supposedly out there implying a willingness to take on any acting part on offer.
My career on the boards started off in infants school in the role of Joseph in the annual Nativity Play. It was a non speaking part but I clearly recall it did entail a lot of standing around, receiving visitors to peer into a straw filled manger and adopting a doting stance towards baby and Mary character.
Perhaps it was only because my Mother had the best adaptive tea towel that I got the role with it being wrapped around my nervous sweaty head with a snake belt.
My CV expanded in Junior School playing the lead in a production which was attended by our local Member of Parliament. Again, a non speaking part so I was conscious of already being type-cast as a silent, docile and placid character actor by the age of about 8.
I did not and indeed to this day never have enjoyed being in the spotlight for anything and the mere recollection of what I was required to do brings out the old sweaty brow , damp nose and clammy hands.
I am sure that I would make a very interesting Case Study for a Psychiatrist based on my rapid rise to small town stardom, followed by a short slippery slope to obscurity all before age 9. Culkin, I have respect for you.
I had a brief return to the stage at age 17 in a drama competition for a youth group, this time with a couple of bits of dialogue but they were fluffed in a hot nervy manner in front of an audience of about twenty in the Memorial Hall in the town.
Apart from a bit of eldest son public speaking at family do's and the occasional presentation at work I have largely been able to evade performing in public. I am therefore convinced that my contribution to Hull's cultural fest will not be in dramatic repertoire.
I did play in a brass band for a few years but did not progress any further than third cornet. I had some success by association with the band and its other diligent and dedicated members in regional competitions, national contests and by the age of 13 had travelled as far as Nottingham and Leicester to cower at the back of a concert hall and expel air into my instrument just hoping and praying that the required sound emerged at the other end.
Many other evenings were spent in a heavily smoke filled and beery practice room or in the equally unhealthy atmospheres of social clubs , Miners Welfares and old folks homes. I never practiced or even took any Royal College of Music Grade Exams and so firmly established the third cornet upturned beer crate as my own.
My Cultural contribution will not therefore be musically based.
I have never been able to juggle, roller skate, walk on stilts, do street magic or possess any other skill or art by which to astound and confound the public.
In terms of the finer things in life I have nothing to show as far as painting, drawing, sketching, sculpting or throwing clay are concerned.
Crafts are not a particular strength in my cultural repertoire be it at a fundamental level of papier mache, balloon animals, wicker articles or even crayoning inside the lines.
I have been known for my attempts at cut and paste and that is something that has come in useful in my adult working life in producing documents to accompany reports and submissions.
I like cycling but would not be willing to be sprayed a lilac metallic colour and sit for hour upon hour on a similarly tinctured bicycle in a still-life action pose for the enjoyment of tourists and shoppers. The same goes for other forms of human statuary, miming or self exhibitionism.
I am the first to admit to not having any street-cred and so performance poetry is a non starter and that would also be the case for stand up comedy or satirical prose.
Technically I have little to offer and so would be useless in offering my services in any lighting, sound or stage production roles. I am shy in coming forward in most things and so front of house activities, promotional work, compering or even ushering are non starters.
In fact I now realise that I have very little to offer in practical terms.
I am not despairing though.
My role in Hull's City of Culture year will still be important and pivotal in that I am widely recognised, well at least in family circles, in possessing a kick-ass high volume and ear splitting whistle through the insertion of two sets of paired fingers to take advantage of a freakishly ample lung capacity which rivals the best aerobic athletes and operatic tenors.
I expect to feature prominently on the recorded transmissions and media reports from the 365 days of cultural events, even if a raucous wolf whistle is not really that appropriate in the particular circumstances of say, a Tea Dance , Chamber Orchestra Recital, Poetry Reading, a Poignantly themed Play or stood gawping at a nice oil painting.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
Chlorine
I am now getting used to living in a City, an inner city area of a city.
Fundamental things are just double checking that doors are secure, not leaving anything outside that is not firmly bolted down or otherwise has its own foundation and being a bit wary about picking up miscellaneous litter even though a well developed sense of good citizenship demands it of you.
That does paint a bit of a picture of insecurity and secularisation but in fact the relocation to the City has been a tremendous thing on many, many different levels. It is just a bit irksome that I did not think about doing it a decade or more ago.
I now have everything on my doorstep whereas in the suburban area recently vacated it took a car journey or long and tedious walk to get anywhere to do even the basics of everyday life.
The supermarket, in fact a choice of three, multiple free to use cash machines, a Post Office, excellent Chippie, baker, butcher and if you really need it, no doubt, a candlestick maker are all to hand. That is even before really exploring the new neighbourhood and its other delights behind eastern European language shop fronts, aromatic ethnic food stores, coffee shops, bars and bistros.
There is just not enough time to get around the surrounding streets, dwell on corners, gawp into shop windows and sit at a pavement cafe sipping a latte whilst watching the world go by.
I am at a stage in my fledgling status as an inner city dweller when I am just inventing a task or mission which takes me out and about for the sheer novelty and pleasure of being a part of the hustle and bustle. In a tenuous excuse I have ventured out to buy a ridiculously pricey cup cake, a newspaper, two bicycle tyre inner tubes, a dvd, a pair of socks and to cap it all I won two prizes out of a purchase of 5 raffle tickets at a Methodist Church Street Fair.
Life just does not get better than that and all within 200 metres of my house.
Day or night I will set out to the supermarket, through the narrow cut-through where I am on speaking terms with a large and mainly grumpy Staffordshire Terrier, to acquire a whimsical bunch of leeks, a packet of ready mixed batter or a bar of chocolate but only because I can. I do of course get dressed and wear stout shoes because, and rightly so. Tesco's do have a ban on shoppers in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers as has previously been a regular sight in the Metropolis.
All of my immediate needs are therefore more than adequately serviced in my new environment.
What more does a man need?
Well, at 6.25am yesterday morning I set off on foot , a bit bleary eyed down the street with my tactical gear bag over my shoulder.
At 6.28am I pushed the button on the pedestrian crossing over the main approach road to the City Centre and 1 minute later joined the back of the queue at the Swimming Baths.
I was excited to be joining the ranks of the early risers at the Municipal Pool.
It is a beautiful building from 1905. High vaulted and skylight glazed above the azure waters (although backlit at that time on a winters morning). The layout is one of those that was commonplace in my early years with the changing cubicles on the actual pool side so that those unwilling to part with 20p for a locker can just leave the door open and keep an eye on their clothes and towels.
It was a bit of a scrap to get a place in one of the swim lanes and I assumed a slow pace in the wake of two large ladies who were actually surprisingly swift in gliding through the water whilst engaged in a range of conversational topics. They stopped at the end of each length as though to summarise their discussions and I could get past or at least for a short time.
Enthusiastic and stylish crawlers and full head immersion breast strokers in goggles ensured a good level of movement of the waters surface and in between trying to catch my breath I was regularly and resoundedly slapped in the face by turbulent chlorine infused waves. Each one completion of a length by me meant they passed me four times.
My route from deep to shallow end became more and more indirect and erratic as further swimmers joined in the adults only session.
I soon reached my target of 10 lengths, a deliberate test distance to see how lungs, arms, legs and very un-web like fingers would cope with a new form of exercise. I was genuinely exhausted as I hauled my body up the stainless steel ladder onto the poolside.
The others in the pool carried on towards their own personal goals and imagined glories.
I was back home by 6.58am tucking into two shredded wheat, a pint of tea and a spoonful of peanut butter scooped straight from the jar before any of the family were even stirring from their slumbers.
Fundamental things are just double checking that doors are secure, not leaving anything outside that is not firmly bolted down or otherwise has its own foundation and being a bit wary about picking up miscellaneous litter even though a well developed sense of good citizenship demands it of you.
That does paint a bit of a picture of insecurity and secularisation but in fact the relocation to the City has been a tremendous thing on many, many different levels. It is just a bit irksome that I did not think about doing it a decade or more ago.
I now have everything on my doorstep whereas in the suburban area recently vacated it took a car journey or long and tedious walk to get anywhere to do even the basics of everyday life.
The supermarket, in fact a choice of three, multiple free to use cash machines, a Post Office, excellent Chippie, baker, butcher and if you really need it, no doubt, a candlestick maker are all to hand. That is even before really exploring the new neighbourhood and its other delights behind eastern European language shop fronts, aromatic ethnic food stores, coffee shops, bars and bistros.
There is just not enough time to get around the surrounding streets, dwell on corners, gawp into shop windows and sit at a pavement cafe sipping a latte whilst watching the world go by.
I am at a stage in my fledgling status as an inner city dweller when I am just inventing a task or mission which takes me out and about for the sheer novelty and pleasure of being a part of the hustle and bustle. In a tenuous excuse I have ventured out to buy a ridiculously pricey cup cake, a newspaper, two bicycle tyre inner tubes, a dvd, a pair of socks and to cap it all I won two prizes out of a purchase of 5 raffle tickets at a Methodist Church Street Fair.
Life just does not get better than that and all within 200 metres of my house.
Day or night I will set out to the supermarket, through the narrow cut-through where I am on speaking terms with a large and mainly grumpy Staffordshire Terrier, to acquire a whimsical bunch of leeks, a packet of ready mixed batter or a bar of chocolate but only because I can. I do of course get dressed and wear stout shoes because, and rightly so. Tesco's do have a ban on shoppers in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers as has previously been a regular sight in the Metropolis.
All of my immediate needs are therefore more than adequately serviced in my new environment.
What more does a man need?
Well, at 6.25am yesterday morning I set off on foot , a bit bleary eyed down the street with my tactical gear bag over my shoulder.
At 6.28am I pushed the button on the pedestrian crossing over the main approach road to the City Centre and 1 minute later joined the back of the queue at the Swimming Baths.
I was excited to be joining the ranks of the early risers at the Municipal Pool.
It is a beautiful building from 1905. High vaulted and skylight glazed above the azure waters (although backlit at that time on a winters morning). The layout is one of those that was commonplace in my early years with the changing cubicles on the actual pool side so that those unwilling to part with 20p for a locker can just leave the door open and keep an eye on their clothes and towels.
It was a bit of a scrap to get a place in one of the swim lanes and I assumed a slow pace in the wake of two large ladies who were actually surprisingly swift in gliding through the water whilst engaged in a range of conversational topics. They stopped at the end of each length as though to summarise their discussions and I could get past or at least for a short time.
Enthusiastic and stylish crawlers and full head immersion breast strokers in goggles ensured a good level of movement of the waters surface and in between trying to catch my breath I was regularly and resoundedly slapped in the face by turbulent chlorine infused waves. Each one completion of a length by me meant they passed me four times.
My route from deep to shallow end became more and more indirect and erratic as further swimmers joined in the adults only session.
I soon reached my target of 10 lengths, a deliberate test distance to see how lungs, arms, legs and very un-web like fingers would cope with a new form of exercise. I was genuinely exhausted as I hauled my body up the stainless steel ladder onto the poolside.
The others in the pool carried on towards their own personal goals and imagined glories.
I was back home by 6.58am tucking into two shredded wheat, a pint of tea and a spoonful of peanut butter scooped straight from the jar before any of the family were even stirring from their slumbers.
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
A Four Letter Word. Work
From time to time my company are invited to attend at School Careers Evenings and we are more than happy to do so. This usually involves our preparation of a short powerpoint presentation about the Surveying Profession, a collection of enlarged photographs of some of the more interesting properties we have looked at in recent years, some frightening photographs of bad workmanship, rampant fungus or hazardous arrangements that defy all the laws of construction, physics and gravity and a few leaflets hurriedly obtained from our Professional Institution outlining the broad range of actual work under the term of Surveying.
The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.
If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.
This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.
The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.
If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.
This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.
By way of actual research I have sourced the following list of forms of employment for Kingston Upon Hull from 1892. These come from a trade directory covering the main central city area which was at that time very densely populated with back to back terraces, numerous short off road terraces with a central footpath approach, larger town houses and the semi detached and detached villas of the better off. Some of the jobs are self explanatory but I have had to look up some of the terms which have been lost from public understanding over the ensuing century but were commonplace in the late Victorian period. The majority of the jobs are listed against male names although some will have been open to both men and women.
Sausage and skin dresser Bristle merchant Letter carrier
Brick burner Rag merchant Currier
Bird dealer Inventor & Patentee Seed crusher
Water Bailiff Mast Maker Wharfinger
Sail maker Lead grinder Dry salter
Waterman Cooper Cow keeper
Stamper G.P.O Canvasser N.E.R Rullyman
Waggonette Proprietor Stevedore Tinner
Brass finisher Smack owner Soot merchant
Lighterman Wardrobe dealer Oil Press Wrapper
Maker
Maker
Tar distiller Corn Factor Rate collector
Many of the jobs are specific to the maritime status of Hull as a trade and fishing port but are a very interesting insight into the life and times of our relatively near ancestors. The majority of the jobs have just died out although some do survive today in some guise or under a more technical description.
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo.
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.
Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course, no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.
(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic)
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo.
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.
Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course, no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.
(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic)
Monday, 18 November 2013
JFK'd
It is a conspiracy wrapped up in an irony.
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK.
I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in antique font Letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK this year and in fact in only a few days time, the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll or at the window of the State Book Depository, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising opportunity through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitome of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
DVD's being sold by private individuals never seem to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty refuse to part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end. Any film that reverts to " 3 Years Later" within a few moments of the initial action can be misunderstood if you happen to be late to your cinema seat, fetching a choc-ice or having spilt a Diet Coke down your front.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK.
Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
(reproduced from an earlier rant)
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK.
I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in antique font Letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK this year and in fact in only a few days time, the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll or at the window of the State Book Depository, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising opportunity through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitome of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
DVD's being sold by private individuals never seem to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty refuse to part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end. Any film that reverts to " 3 Years Later" within a few moments of the initial action can be misunderstood if you happen to be late to your cinema seat, fetching a choc-ice or having spilt a Diet Coke down your front.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK.
Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
(reproduced from an earlier rant)
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Never Mind the Ballast
For a few fleeting moments I felt like I had pulled off the greatest single purchase in consumer history.
The euphoria and adrenalin helped me to stoop forward and tug along the flat bed trolley. I could not otherwise have shifted it because it was loaded up with a tremendously dense and dead weight. The small wheels misbehaved as I exited the retail warehouse. My forward momentum by that stage propelled me through the security scanners and it was with no little relief that they did not erupt into a cacophony of wailing sirens. There would be no following large soled footfalls or a large firm hand on my shoulder asking me to return to the store. Not that I assure you I am at all familiar with the procedure to apprehend a ne'er do well shoplifter.
It was only a few minutes earlier that I had entered the large out of town DIY emporium. Messrs Block and Quayle have evidently done well for themselves although I suspect that the Hedge Fund that bought them out years ago soon packed them off to do market research on tooling in the Tiger Economies.
It was rare for me to know exactly what I was there to buy.
The usual scenario is to purchase a few small consumables, typically light bulbs, batteries, masking tape and an expensive pack of polished, individually crafted and waxed woodscrews but to emerge blinking into the harsh daylight of a sunday morning with much, much more. It has on occasion included another pasting table, another yard brush, house plants, one of those clever connectors from outside tap to hosepipe and spare bulbs for the Christmas Tree Lights (in August). It will, for me, always be an expensive excursion. Suffice to say my tool box is positively heaving with multiples all of the smaller items just listed.
I was after one specific category of product with a slight variation in format.
The lure of the lighting, kitchen, bathroom, decorating, garden and miscellaneous fixings aisles was shunned with a quick march along the full length of the walkway and into the outdoor part of the Builders Yard. It was here that my determination and single mindedness wavered, but then again that is nothing new when I am out of my comfort zone. It also occurs in bicycle shops, shoe shops and the lingerie departments of the major High Street Department Stores.
How difficult could it be to buy 5 bags of sharp sand and the same number of bags of ballast?
One whole side of the compound contained pallets and racking with at first glance identical thick polythene pacakaging and wording thereon. Only upon closer inspection were the descriptions of their contents different. Coarse, Fine, Mixed, pea, pebble, slate (grey and plum), pentland cobbles, scottish rocks, alpine mix, aggregate and others too technical to dwell on.
I whittled my choice down to about four specifications, then three and then the final two. I just went for it.
The bags were very, very heavy. It may have been a bit of a con if sold strictly on weight as the bags were sodden through from being out in all weathers. I struggled to lift the sharp sand off the larger pile. Conventional lifting by grabbing two corners, a bit like an old fashioned Coal Delivery Man, resulted in a complete loss of grip of the wet bags and they flopped back like a herring into the North Sea. Scooping up in the middle and draping over my arm was a better technique but resulted in much of the spongey content transferring onto my clothes. In any other environment I would be stared at as having an incontinence problem. The trolley which I realised I needed was sourced from its current user who was down another aisle. Under the combined weight of 10 bags of the sand and ballast it took a bit of effort to get it to roll. Other shoppers dived for cover or were unceremoniously clipped by the juggernaut if they dared to linger in the main thoroughfares.
Fortunately I had reached the checkout in a brief lull in activity in the store or else the rest of the punters had seen my extraordinarily haphazard progress and delayed their own exit.
Ten bags, I explained, five of each type. The purchase was tallied up with only two sweeps of the lazer. I prepared myself for the grand total. I asked the lady at the till to repeat the amount. Ten bags, about half a ton of material, enough to grace the landing pit at any long jump or triple jump Olympic Final, sufficient to have been ejected down the trouser legs of fledgling tunnellers from a POW Camp, plenty to make a Meerkat feel at home if one happened to be passing, more than enough on which to spread out a beach towel and dream. All for just £18.
You can understand my subsequent haste in leaving the store and that feeling of sheer pleasure in the thought of putting one over on a massive global conglomerate with world wide outlets for the first time ever. I might even be banned if they ever catch up with me.
The euphoria and adrenalin helped me to stoop forward and tug along the flat bed trolley. I could not otherwise have shifted it because it was loaded up with a tremendously dense and dead weight. The small wheels misbehaved as I exited the retail warehouse. My forward momentum by that stage propelled me through the security scanners and it was with no little relief that they did not erupt into a cacophony of wailing sirens. There would be no following large soled footfalls or a large firm hand on my shoulder asking me to return to the store. Not that I assure you I am at all familiar with the procedure to apprehend a ne'er do well shoplifter.
It was only a few minutes earlier that I had entered the large out of town DIY emporium. Messrs Block and Quayle have evidently done well for themselves although I suspect that the Hedge Fund that bought them out years ago soon packed them off to do market research on tooling in the Tiger Economies.
It was rare for me to know exactly what I was there to buy.
The usual scenario is to purchase a few small consumables, typically light bulbs, batteries, masking tape and an expensive pack of polished, individually crafted and waxed woodscrews but to emerge blinking into the harsh daylight of a sunday morning with much, much more. It has on occasion included another pasting table, another yard brush, house plants, one of those clever connectors from outside tap to hosepipe and spare bulbs for the Christmas Tree Lights (in August). It will, for me, always be an expensive excursion. Suffice to say my tool box is positively heaving with multiples all of the smaller items just listed.
I was after one specific category of product with a slight variation in format.
The lure of the lighting, kitchen, bathroom, decorating, garden and miscellaneous fixings aisles was shunned with a quick march along the full length of the walkway and into the outdoor part of the Builders Yard. It was here that my determination and single mindedness wavered, but then again that is nothing new when I am out of my comfort zone. It also occurs in bicycle shops, shoe shops and the lingerie departments of the major High Street Department Stores.
How difficult could it be to buy 5 bags of sharp sand and the same number of bags of ballast?
One whole side of the compound contained pallets and racking with at first glance identical thick polythene pacakaging and wording thereon. Only upon closer inspection were the descriptions of their contents different. Coarse, Fine, Mixed, pea, pebble, slate (grey and plum), pentland cobbles, scottish rocks, alpine mix, aggregate and others too technical to dwell on.
I whittled my choice down to about four specifications, then three and then the final two. I just went for it.
The bags were very, very heavy. It may have been a bit of a con if sold strictly on weight as the bags were sodden through from being out in all weathers. I struggled to lift the sharp sand off the larger pile. Conventional lifting by grabbing two corners, a bit like an old fashioned Coal Delivery Man, resulted in a complete loss of grip of the wet bags and they flopped back like a herring into the North Sea. Scooping up in the middle and draping over my arm was a better technique but resulted in much of the spongey content transferring onto my clothes. In any other environment I would be stared at as having an incontinence problem. The trolley which I realised I needed was sourced from its current user who was down another aisle. Under the combined weight of 10 bags of the sand and ballast it took a bit of effort to get it to roll. Other shoppers dived for cover or were unceremoniously clipped by the juggernaut if they dared to linger in the main thoroughfares.
Fortunately I had reached the checkout in a brief lull in activity in the store or else the rest of the punters had seen my extraordinarily haphazard progress and delayed their own exit.
Ten bags, I explained, five of each type. The purchase was tallied up with only two sweeps of the lazer. I prepared myself for the grand total. I asked the lady at the till to repeat the amount. Ten bags, about half a ton of material, enough to grace the landing pit at any long jump or triple jump Olympic Final, sufficient to have been ejected down the trouser legs of fledgling tunnellers from a POW Camp, plenty to make a Meerkat feel at home if one happened to be passing, more than enough on which to spread out a beach towel and dream. All for just £18.
You can understand my subsequent haste in leaving the store and that feeling of sheer pleasure in the thought of putting one over on a massive global conglomerate with world wide outlets for the first time ever. I might even be banned if they ever catch up with me.
Saturday, 16 November 2013
Heidi Glum
I have had two situations in one day of being challenged as to my identity and purpose.
You hear about horrific tales of identity theft with consequential losses in monies and no end of trouble in, when the deception is revealed, just trying to establish to the Authorities that you are who you say you are and not someone who just claimed to be who you are.
Mine was not a matter of any third party passing off as me. For a few moments in both situations of being asked "who are you and what are you doing?" I forgot everything. That does not give a very good impression to the interrogator and immediately sets the alarm bells, both figuratively speaking and actually, ringing to raise the alarm.
In the first of the embarrasing moments I was stood on the pavement outside my Mother's house of over 30 years.
I had lived there on and off for about 8 years out of the three plus decades and being the one of five offspring closest to the family seat I was a regular visitor as a dutiful son hopes to be.
Ahead of me, up the garden path and just working her way through the outer porch door was my eldest daughter. It was a legitimate and, Hannah assured me, permission granted entry using the spare key for the purposes of retrieving a few of her possessions left there for safekeeping during the summer of our upheaval in moving house.
A white Scotty dog was at my ankles and at the end of one of those extendable leads was a lady, perhaps in her mid to late 70's, appropriately dressed for a late winter afternoon walk on the windswept acres of the Town Common.
"Margaret is away, I believe" was the first testing and probing question. I felt like an old Eastern European Spy with my next few words in reply determining if I would be accepted as plausible or rounded up and shot.
"Yes", I mumbled " she has gone to see her daughter in West Yorkshire".
This wording in retrospect did not help in identifying myself as a family member.
I did not help the stand-off any bit by joking to Hannah, still on the doorstep and curious about my adversary, " just go for the gold".
Then the inevitable demand for crucial information
"who are you and what are you doing?".
My hesitation must have seemed like floundering but it was borne out of sheer shock.
"I am Peter, Margaret's son".
The lady replied "I haven't met you before, have I, but I have met all of the others".
"That's strange" I said, "I am the one who lives nearest. The others refer to me as the idiot son closest to home". This attempt at humour did not go down well. I felt like making an appeal to the dog because he I did recognise from the fantastic photograph taken two years prior on the Common of friends and acquaintances of my late Father, all with their faithful hounds.
I commented about this momentous celebration of the Man and his great life and this seemed to satisfy the curiosity, albeit based on good neighbourliness, of the lady. I even walked a few yards down the road with her but our conversation was forced and was going nowhere.
Within a few minutes my second challenge arose.
This time it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability. Their amalgamated form resembled a two headed mythical creature and this caused me to hesitate again when that inevitable double edged question reared up. I suppose that I was behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the "who are you and what are doing?".
I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat just around the corner from Margaret's House.
The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.
Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage belonging to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.
They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into what with copious amounts of tea and cake.
I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering. It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.
At least one of these vagueries seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a young man in a captive situation against a garage door.
They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key. It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.
I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.
The ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the flats.
I crawled into the darkened space to wait until my escape route was clear. By the Assistive Light on my phone I got out my driving licence just to verify that I was who I felt and thought I was after all.
You hear about horrific tales of identity theft with consequential losses in monies and no end of trouble in, when the deception is revealed, just trying to establish to the Authorities that you are who you say you are and not someone who just claimed to be who you are.
Mine was not a matter of any third party passing off as me. For a few moments in both situations of being asked "who are you and what are you doing?" I forgot everything. That does not give a very good impression to the interrogator and immediately sets the alarm bells, both figuratively speaking and actually, ringing to raise the alarm.
In the first of the embarrasing moments I was stood on the pavement outside my Mother's house of over 30 years.
I had lived there on and off for about 8 years out of the three plus decades and being the one of five offspring closest to the family seat I was a regular visitor as a dutiful son hopes to be.
Ahead of me, up the garden path and just working her way through the outer porch door was my eldest daughter. It was a legitimate and, Hannah assured me, permission granted entry using the spare key for the purposes of retrieving a few of her possessions left there for safekeeping during the summer of our upheaval in moving house.
A white Scotty dog was at my ankles and at the end of one of those extendable leads was a lady, perhaps in her mid to late 70's, appropriately dressed for a late winter afternoon walk on the windswept acres of the Town Common.
"Margaret is away, I believe" was the first testing and probing question. I felt like an old Eastern European Spy with my next few words in reply determining if I would be accepted as plausible or rounded up and shot.
"Yes", I mumbled " she has gone to see her daughter in West Yorkshire".
This wording in retrospect did not help in identifying myself as a family member.
I did not help the stand-off any bit by joking to Hannah, still on the doorstep and curious about my adversary, " just go for the gold".
Then the inevitable demand for crucial information
"who are you and what are you doing?".
My hesitation must have seemed like floundering but it was borne out of sheer shock.
"I am Peter, Margaret's son".
The lady replied "I haven't met you before, have I, but I have met all of the others".
"That's strange" I said, "I am the one who lives nearest. The others refer to me as the idiot son closest to home". This attempt at humour did not go down well. I felt like making an appeal to the dog because he I did recognise from the fantastic photograph taken two years prior on the Common of friends and acquaintances of my late Father, all with their faithful hounds.
I commented about this momentous celebration of the Man and his great life and this seemed to satisfy the curiosity, albeit based on good neighbourliness, of the lady. I even walked a few yards down the road with her but our conversation was forced and was going nowhere.
Within a few minutes my second challenge arose.
This time it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability. Their amalgamated form resembled a two headed mythical creature and this caused me to hesitate again when that inevitable double edged question reared up. I suppose that I was behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the "who are you and what are doing?".
I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat just around the corner from Margaret's House.
The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.
Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage belonging to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.
They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into what with copious amounts of tea and cake.
I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering. It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.
At least one of these vagueries seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a young man in a captive situation against a garage door.
They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key. It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.
I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.
The ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the flats.
I crawled into the darkened space to wait until my escape route was clear. By the Assistive Light on my phone I got out my driving licence just to verify that I was who I felt and thought I was after all.
Friday, 15 November 2013
Infamy in the Family Way
14th November 2013. In fact, yesterday.
Paraphrasing the famous rhetorical speech of Franklin D. Roosevelt it is "a day which will live in infamy". Of course that was on the 8th December 1941 and marking a momentous event in US and by implication, World History.
I am however referring to the discovery, horror upon horror ,that a family in a nearby town is already fully trimmed up for Christmas.
I was taken completely by surprise by the sight of the lounge decked out in all of its seasonal regalia and with the decorated and twinkling tree occupying a prominent position, or rather dominating one side of the room.
It had not been a case of a casual throwing up of the tree or a gradual assimilation into Santa's Grotto but a determined effort over the preceeding days to my visit to become fully established as an outpost of the North Pole.
Around the base of the 7 foot tall artificial tree were the family presents, nicely wrapped up in shiny foil , carefully tied off in ribbon and parcel type labels, swinging gently in the breeze generated by the opening of the front door to let me in.
The walls were festooned with paper chains, lovingly assembled by the children of the house, long tinsel twists and caricature figures of Father Christmas, Reindeer and Homer Simpson.
Whatever my feelings of shock and disbelief at the time this family were beyond criticism in terms of their forward planning and organisation.
Lets face it, the John Lewis TV advert was not yet a week old in the perception of the public. Iceland Frozen Foods had only just revealed their pigs in blankets and other specialist fare. Marks and Spencers were just setting out on their campaign with trance-like tripping references to Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz to offload their Christmas stock. Aldi and Lidl were still trying to shake off the suspicions of the British about their European origins with a sort of home grown Anglicised humour.
I did feel a bit sorry for the youngest children in the house. There were four of them, appearing to be under the age of 5 and on that day, a Thursday in term time, they were all at home wrapped up in blankets and lying around on the settee or carpet and with the youngest in a baby bouncer seat.
Amongst the fragrances of cinnamon and winter spice from the seasonal air freshener in the room was a faint but familiar odour reminiscent of my own children when under the weather, mewling and puking and with the succinctly termed bum-squirts. Poor loves. I would think that they were stressed out and confused by the arrival of the tree and all its accoutrements in their own home in mid November.
It is going to be a very long run in for the little mites, a sort of 12 Days plus 40 Days of Christmas. I would personally go a little insane in not having access to the special Radio or TV Times for another 3 weeks and being denied the sheer delight of putting a ring around selected and not to be missed movies. There are still another 15 days before the first Advent Calendar window can be prised open and a vague chocolate shaped devoured under the covers before breakfast. It will be another four weeks or so before the round of Playgroup and School Parties, assuming the occupants of that house recover sufficiently to return to their respective classes. It may be a few weeks before any of the neighbours catch up with their displays of lights and inflatable roof mounted characters, strangely including that Homer Simpson again.
I was a little bit enraged by this early start to Christmas.
This was borne out of my own strict policy of no tree and decorations before the second Saturday in December. Not one day before and not one day after.
I was possibly prepared to say something to who I fully expected to be errant and neglectful parents but the look of absolute calm and serenity on the faces of Mum and Dad convinced me of the absolute sense in their approach.
Everything was ready, wrapped, prepared and expected. They could relax in the run up to the Festival with no nasty surprises or last minute panic buying that in my experience just throws off any attempt at keeping a control on outgoings even after few months of scrimping and saving. They were ready to just enjoy it and as they say, "have a good one".
On the way back from this house of revelations I stopped off at the garden centre and placed an order for a large outdoor display of sledge, full reindeer compliment and a jolly rubberised Santa with complimentary lights and a guaranteed deliver date for the month of November. The Santa did have a striking resemblance to Homer Simpson.
Paraphrasing the famous rhetorical speech of Franklin D. Roosevelt it is "a day which will live in infamy". Of course that was on the 8th December 1941 and marking a momentous event in US and by implication, World History.
I am however referring to the discovery, horror upon horror ,that a family in a nearby town is already fully trimmed up for Christmas.
I was taken completely by surprise by the sight of the lounge decked out in all of its seasonal regalia and with the decorated and twinkling tree occupying a prominent position, or rather dominating one side of the room.
It had not been a case of a casual throwing up of the tree or a gradual assimilation into Santa's Grotto but a determined effort over the preceeding days to my visit to become fully established as an outpost of the North Pole.
Around the base of the 7 foot tall artificial tree were the family presents, nicely wrapped up in shiny foil , carefully tied off in ribbon and parcel type labels, swinging gently in the breeze generated by the opening of the front door to let me in.
The walls were festooned with paper chains, lovingly assembled by the children of the house, long tinsel twists and caricature figures of Father Christmas, Reindeer and Homer Simpson.
Whatever my feelings of shock and disbelief at the time this family were beyond criticism in terms of their forward planning and organisation.
Lets face it, the John Lewis TV advert was not yet a week old in the perception of the public. Iceland Frozen Foods had only just revealed their pigs in blankets and other specialist fare. Marks and Spencers were just setting out on their campaign with trance-like tripping references to Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz to offload their Christmas stock. Aldi and Lidl were still trying to shake off the suspicions of the British about their European origins with a sort of home grown Anglicised humour.
I did feel a bit sorry for the youngest children in the house. There were four of them, appearing to be under the age of 5 and on that day, a Thursday in term time, they were all at home wrapped up in blankets and lying around on the settee or carpet and with the youngest in a baby bouncer seat.
Amongst the fragrances of cinnamon and winter spice from the seasonal air freshener in the room was a faint but familiar odour reminiscent of my own children when under the weather, mewling and puking and with the succinctly termed bum-squirts. Poor loves. I would think that they were stressed out and confused by the arrival of the tree and all its accoutrements in their own home in mid November.
It is going to be a very long run in for the little mites, a sort of 12 Days plus 40 Days of Christmas. I would personally go a little insane in not having access to the special Radio or TV Times for another 3 weeks and being denied the sheer delight of putting a ring around selected and not to be missed movies. There are still another 15 days before the first Advent Calendar window can be prised open and a vague chocolate shaped devoured under the covers before breakfast. It will be another four weeks or so before the round of Playgroup and School Parties, assuming the occupants of that house recover sufficiently to return to their respective classes. It may be a few weeks before any of the neighbours catch up with their displays of lights and inflatable roof mounted characters, strangely including that Homer Simpson again.
I was a little bit enraged by this early start to Christmas.
This was borne out of my own strict policy of no tree and decorations before the second Saturday in December. Not one day before and not one day after.
I was possibly prepared to say something to who I fully expected to be errant and neglectful parents but the look of absolute calm and serenity on the faces of Mum and Dad convinced me of the absolute sense in their approach.
Everything was ready, wrapped, prepared and expected. They could relax in the run up to the Festival with no nasty surprises or last minute panic buying that in my experience just throws off any attempt at keeping a control on outgoings even after few months of scrimping and saving. They were ready to just enjoy it and as they say, "have a good one".
On the way back from this house of revelations I stopped off at the garden centre and placed an order for a large outdoor display of sledge, full reindeer compliment and a jolly rubberised Santa with complimentary lights and a guaranteed deliver date for the month of November. The Santa did have a striking resemblance to Homer Simpson.
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